The Bloodied Sword, the Precious Pearl and the Black Cross; Chronicles of the Royal House of Wessex – III.

Episode Three – Rebels and Outlaws

Scene Thirty; 1070-71 – The Legendary Outlaws of the Fens:

Many of the stories of Hereward the Outlaw that follow these events were written down several generations after his own day, by which time they had already followed a legendary turn of phrase. But the twelfth-century Gesta Herewardi contains a kernel of factual detail, and, interestingly, Orderic Vitalis, without mentioning Hereward by name, provided  additional material concerning the roles of Edwin and Morcar in the Fenland Rising following their submission to William in 1070.

Nevertheless, despite these disappointments, the rebels took refuge at Ely where they held out for several months against the newly appointed Norman lords, including William de Warenne in Castle Acre in Norfolk, William Malet of Eye, William de Goulafriére in Debenham and Richard Fitz Gilbert in Clare, all in Suffolk, aided by Abbot Turold. The outlaws continued to harry the Normans at every opportunity.

Like Hereward Asketil himself, many were of Danish descent, including Thorkell of Harringworth of Northants. The success of their widespread raiding and pillaging, and their more organised guerilla warfare, reassured many Englishmen that all was not yet lost. In retrospect, Hereward can perhaps best be seen, not as an isolated outlaw, but as a typical product of Cnut’s Anglo-Danish state, the remnants of which were now in open resistance to the new Norman state.

For a time, the King did little, leaving the task of containment to these barons, until the small bands were joined by Earl Morcar and his Northumbrian supporters. These included Bishop Aethelwine, the last Anglo-Saxon Bishop of Durham, appointed by Edward the Confessor and consecrated in 1056. In 1059, he had accompanied King Malcolm of Scotland to the court of King Edward, and he was initially loyal to William, submitting to him at York in 1068, following the submission of most of the northern thegns.

Aethelwine had also brought word to William from Malcolm that the Scottish king wished to live in peace with the new English king. William sent him back to Malcolm’s court with his terms, which were accepted. In 1069, when the new earl of Northumbria, Robert de Comyn, came north to begin governing, Aethelwine tried to warn the new earl about the new English army which was in the area, but the earl was burnt to death in the bishop’s house in Durham in January 1069. When William marched north in retaliation, Aethelwine fled and became an outlaw.

During the Harrying, Aethelwine had led the people of his bishopric to a temporary refuge on Lindisfarne, but by the Spring of 1070 he had returned to the mainland. He decided to resign his bishopric rather than wait to be expelled. He feared William’s wrath, but taking ship for exile, was frustrated by storms and ended up in Scotland, where he met Eadgar Aetheling, Maerlsweyn and their band of fellow exiles. News reached them of the stand being made at Ely, and joining thegn Siward Barn and several hundred other exiles, at some point in 1071 they sailed down the east coast, meeting Morcar and other refugees near Ely.  

The Earls Morcar and Edwin feared that, as part of William’s revenge for the risings of 1069, they would be imprisoned, so they had escaped from their house arrest at court and, for six months, hiding out in the woods and fields, evading capture until, hoping to find a ship to carry them to Flanders, they arrived at Ely, where they met with a few other nobles and their housecarls. Among the nobles were two more of Edwin and Morcar’s relatives, Godric of Corby and Tostig of Daventry. These men had come south, seeking to flee to the continent, except for Prince Eadgar and Maerlsweyn, the English sheriff of Lincolnshire and their supporters, who had sought refuge in Scotland.        

They had all met up near Wisbech in the Fens, and persuaded Hereward to allow them to spend the winter at Ely. Hereward himself had not been among those who had joined Eadgar Aetheling in the welcome extended to Earl Osbjern and the sons of Sweyn of Denmark, nor in their advance on York and cooperation with the Northumbrian rebels. But his presence in England is confirmed by the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle for 1070, dealing with the appointment of Turold of Malmesbury to Peterborough. The monks of Peterborough learnt that…

… because they had heard it said that the king had given the abbacy to a French abbot called Turold… their own men, namely Hereward and his band (genge), wished to plunder the monastery.

They were also aware that Turold had arrived at Stamford in Lincolnshire with a troop of Norman soldiers who were preparing to advance on Peterborough. Turold already had a reputation as someone who would view the abbey as a source of personal wealth both for himself and his associates. His enfoeffments accounted for nearly half of the abbey’s property. The monks therefore arranged for Hereward and his men to raid the monastery in order to stop Turold getting his hands on its treasured ornaments and vessels. By mid-1070, William had extended military service to bishops and abbots because he needed the church and its monasteries to pay for his army of occupation. Consequently, he appointed abbots who were prepared to raid the abbeys’ treasures for him.

So, late in the same year, the last notable remnants of English opposition to King William were now all gathered at one place, the almost impregnable fortress which was the Isle of Ely with its equally defensible fenland monastery. The rivers, meres and marshes surrounding the Isle made it a formidable obstacle, especially to an army whose strength lay in its use of cavalry. Any attempt to get onto the Isle, such as from Soham or Downham, were well known and could be easily defended. Hereward and his band had held out for some months against William’s local commanders.

Thirty-one; 1071-72, Ely – The Last Stand of the English Rebels: 

In 1071, William’s presence was required in Normandy to ensure his control over the duchy. King Malcolm was also a constant threat from Scotland and although the Danes had returned home, the magnates knew they could easily return. On his return from Normandy, William realised that the presence of a larger fighting force, led by the remainder of the Anglo-Danish thanes, including Hereward, would continue to be a magnet for the disinherited and disaffected.

Added to this, the English exiles in Flanders could organise a return at any point, and Ely could be reinforced via the Wash by the Danes. There were over eight thousand exiles on the continent, and with Flemish support, they could recruit mercenaries to recoup their strength. But the absence of a major figure in exile to organise an invasion would eventually enable William to defeat the rebels and overcome Ely. He ordered out naval and land levies to prevent a further Danish threat, and built a two-mile-long causeway onto the Isle. The Peterborough Anglo-Saxon Chronicle recorded that:

… all the outlaws surrendered to him, namely Bishop Aethelwine and Earl Morcar and all their except Hereward alone and all who wished to follow him; and he courageously led their escape.

This mention of Earl Morcar is the first since his submission at Warwick early in 1068 before the northern rebellions of 1069-70 in which they took no part. At some point during the winter of 1070-71 they stole away in secret from the king’s household and set about trying to raise rebellion once again. It soon became apparent, however, just how far their fortunes had sunk when no-one rallied to their cause. Their failure reduced them to the status of fugitives. The outlawed Mercian thane, Hereward, was one of the few men on whom the earls could count. Their flight to Ely was probably one of the key factors that persuaded William to return to England in 1071.

Sometime in the autumn of 1071, King William gathered together an army supported by a fleet and prepared to blockade the Isle of Ely. He could not lay siege to the whole of the island as if it were simply another castle or town, but he set guards on all known exits and, as Gaimar wrote,

all the passages through the woods were guarded and the marshes round about were vigilantly watched.

The besiegers came from across East Anglia and the East Midlands, including Lincolshire, Huntingdonshire, Cambridgeshire, Leicestershire, Warwicks and Northants. There were also soldiers from Flanders under the control of Ivor Taillebois. Norfolk and Suffolk were not involved directly, perhaps because William did not trust the Bretons who controlled large parts of these shires under Earl Ralph, son of Ralph the Staller. The contribution from these counties came again from William de Warenne of Castle Acre, Richard Fitz Gilbert of Clare and William Malet of Eye.

William’s second attempt to cross his hurriedly-constructed causeway to Aldreth met with disaster  when they overloaded the structure and it collapsed, jettisoning the leaders and their followers into the swampy waters where they drowned. Only one knight, Deda, managed to scramble onto firmer ground, because he was the first to cross. He was taken as prisoner to the English leaders, including Earls Morcar and Edwin, Tostig of Daventry and the Anglo-Danish noblemen Thorkill and Ordgar, and was shown the the resources of the isle and the garrison. In his description to the king of the scene in the monastery’s refectory, Deda pictured the monks and knights dining together in pairs with their shields and lances behind them on the walls and other armour readily accessible nearby. Then he was released and sent back to William.

William, who was holding a Council of War when the news of the catastrophe was reported, complained that he could not leave the pocket of resistance at Ely although he needed to move against the Danish army and then go to Normandy. Therefore, he was minded to offer peace terms to King Malcolm of Scotland, who was still offering support and succour to the outlaws. However, his councillors stressed that leaving these men undefeated would severely blow Norman prestige and encourage the English to mock the king. They also complained that many of their estates had been invaded by these outlaws and they succeeded in persuading William to make another attack, Ivo Taillebois being particularly insistent.

The king gathered reinforcements, renewing the blockade on the Isle and building a bridge at the end of the old causeway. The Normans built four round wooden towers from which they could use catapults and ballistae to bombard the peat defences of their opponents. Meanwhile, Hereward led his men covertly into the area, then threw off his disguise and signalled his men to attack, throwing the Normans into confusion by setting fire to the piles of wood  on which the towers stood and then the towers themselves. The whole structure rapidly went up in flames, which spread to the peaty swamp of reeds and grew fiercely over nearly a quarter of a mile, fanned by a strong wind.

The Norman soldiery, led by William Malet on horseback, rushed headlong along the pathways and tracks through the marshes. Malet, trapped between the roaring fire in front and Hereward’s men firing arrows and throwing javelins from behind him disappeared into burning swamps with his horse and was drowned, along with many of his men from the garrison at Eye castle.

Orderic Vitalis showed his bias on the situation at Ely by magnifying the reputation of Edwin and Morcar and showing how ill-used they were by the King. Orderic had excused their short-lived rebellion of 1068 as provoked by envious and greedy courtiers, and described the brothers as…

zealous in the service of God… remarkably handsome, nobly connected… and well-loved by the people.

Orderic believed that Edwin was killed after rather than before or during the attack on Ely. He also alleged that King William, ill-advisedly relying on evil counsellors, damaged his own reputation by treacherously surrounding Earl Morcar at Ely. He claimed that William sent crafty messengers proposing treacherous terms to Morcar that if he were to surrender he would be received in peace as a loyal friend, which Morcar considered would be preferable to continuing to hold out, protected only by the inaccessibility of the place which also prevented him from slippng away by boat along the surrounding rivers to the sea.

William had already posted large numbers of butsecarles to prevent such a manouevre. His blockade certainly trapped Morcar and may also have prevented Edwin’s departure. While Morcar stayed at Ely, Edwin was to go north to Scotland to get help from Eadgar, the Northumbrian exiles and King Malcolm. However he was betrayed by three of his own men and then murdered by a group of Normans who trapped him beside the fast-flowing, incoming tide from the Wash. His attackers cut off his head and took it to the king, who summarily executed them for killing a nobleman without his consent.

Morcar continued in his role as political leader of the defenders at Ely, but then, finally and perhaps foolishly, accepted William’s assurances of safe conduct  and reconciliation, and surrendered. Leading his men out peacefully to meet the King, the earl and his men agreed not to contest the king’s final, successful attack. William was assisted in coming onto the Isle while Hereward and his men were away foraging for supplies. The king then focused his efforts on the place where he knew most of the enemy were to be found. He brought up siege engines against Ely itself, and laboured daily to take it by storm.

The Norman force in the final attack consisted of a thousand French knights who now joined battle against three thousand pirates and greater numbers of the English militia from the Midlands as well as many of the common people of the Isle. William still had to take possession of Ely itself and deal with those he regarded as the ringleaders. His army entered the Isle but the march to Ely was not easy, requiring more riding and marching along the crooked fenpaths in order to ambush and enforce the surrender of the rest of the enemy.

Nonetheless, this was soon accomplished, especially as Morcar had already decided to trust the king and make his submission. However, some of the men surrendering were sentenced to imprisonment, and the others to loss of eyes, hands or feet, even if the mass of the common people were released unharmed. Hereward, with a few others, made his escape through the Fens, and, according to the Gesta Herewardi, went north towards the sea called Wide near Welle (the Wash) to the Isle of Stuntney (see the frontispiece picture above).

The outlaws were then pursued into Bruneswald, in the great woods of Northamptonshire, by the king’s men from nine Midland shires, who searched the woods near Bourne, led by Abbot Turold and Ivo Taillebois. Hereward laid an ambush for them, however, capturing both men, but Hereward decided to let them go in exchange for a modest ransom. The outlaws attacked Stamford, one of the five main towns of the Danelaw, but were repulsed by the citizens, who by then had turned against them due to their constant raiding. Hereward and his band then returned to Bruneswald and it was at this point that he became reconciled to the king.

Thurstan and his monks eventually did a deal with King William, suing for peace at Warwick, where the abbot received a charter guaranteeing that the abbey and its possessions would be restored freely and honourably after the struggle was over.

Thurstan drove a hard bargain, however, demanding that William could only be sure of obtaining entry onto the Isle if he first treated the monks well and guaranteed restoration of their lands and goods. The remaining local barons, William de Warenne and Richard Fitz Gilbert of Clare were the guarantors of the king’s promise. For his part, Thurstan agreed to ensure that the common folk, who depended on his guidance and support would cease their resistance. Orderic’s claim that the conflict between Ely and the King lasted for several years was supported by William’s decision to appropriate the Church lands at Ely that lay nearest to the Isle and divide them among his followers.

Morcar was arrested on the fall of Ely and thrown into gaol in the charge of Roger, the castellan of Beaufort in Normandy, where he was held for years until eventually released by William Rufus, only to be re-arrested on his return to England. So ended the House of Leofric, eventually brought down by those they had seemingly failed to protect, who could see no hope in continuing to resist the Norman takeover.

Thirty-two; 1075 – The Last Acts of English Resistance:

Earl Gospatrick also submitted, but the earl then sought the protection of King Malcolm, later becoming the Earl of Dunbar. Earl Waltheof submitted and was pardoned after the Great Rising of the North, made Earl of Northumbria and given Morcar’s lands in the north, but he then became involved in the Rising of the Earls in 1075 for which he was executed for treachery by beheading.

Given these events, there was little reason why any of the Anglo-Danish earls would have trusted William, except perhaps for Eadric the Wild who, submitting in 1070, was the most powerful thegn on the Welsh marches and proved his usefulness to the Conqueror in his campaign against the Scots. Neither is there any reason why William should have accepted such a man as the Lincolnshire outlaw, his apparent nemesis, into his service, and to give him back his lands would only have annoyed those Norman barons to whom they had been given.

By the time William I’s third son, Prince Henry, came to the English throne in 1100, the vast majority of the thegns who had survived the battles of 1066, had either submitted and kept some of their lands as collaborators, or had fled into exile in Scotland, Denmark or Flanders. The original intention of those who gathered at Welle and Ely with Morcar had been to spend the winter there and then go into exile, but William’s blockade prevented them from doing so. They had then decided on resistance, perhaps hoping that the Danes would indeed return, or the English exiles would return from Flanders with a force of eight thousand to drive the Normans out. Of those who went into exile after the fall of Ely, little or nothing was reported. Some, like Siward Barn, ended up serving in the Varangian Guard of the Byzantine Emperors after his release from gaol in the reign of William Rufus.

The general narratives of the Norman Conquest have tended to focus on the Battle of Hastings as the decisive event, but more recently, some historians have argued that contemporaries may not have seen it like that, and believe that it is wrong to dismiss the matter of Ely as it unfolded over the several years it took the Normans to gain control over England. Much of this has to do with the Hereward Myth and later legendary literature.There was a retrospective reference to Hereward the Exile from the reign of Henry II, but most of the material about him was recorded in later centuries.

Certainly, the early accounts reveal Hereward to be a military leader of remarkable ability, a guerilla fighter and a popular hero for many, like other outlaw figures in the following centuries. But he was not a major political figure, unlike Morcar or Edwin, or even Eadgar, who, we must remember, was still only in his early twenties when these events occured following the initial five years of the Conquest. Orderic Vitalis preserved much of the material about Ely and the Fenland outlaws at Crowland Abbey in around 1115, yet in his own records, he never mentioned Hereward by name. His narratives related mainly to events involving the Earls Edwin and Morcar. Orderic also rejected the idea that the original intention of those who gathered at Ely was to drive the Normans out of England. He wrote of it as an attempt to compel King William to offer acceptable terms to the outlaws, the monks and the people; an attempt that was ultimately a glorious failure, but one which would live long in the collective folk-memory of the English.            

Thirty-three; 1072 – The English Exiles at the Court of House Dunkeld; East Anglia, and the Conquest of Northumbria:

It is thought that Edwin was on a personal mission to Scotland when he was overtaken on the way to gain passage in a ship from the Wash to Northumbria or Scotland. Certainly, the majority of the rebels at Ely had arrived from Scotland, though many of them would have been English exiles who had first fled from Northumbria to join Eadgar there. He was still a refugee at the court of King Malcolm, remaining there until 1072, when William crossed the border to force Malcolm’s submission. Like King Aethelstan of Wessex before him, William invaded using both naval and land levies, blockading the Scottish east coast with his ships and personally leading an army across the Firth of Forth.

William had previously decided against attempting a conquest of Scotland to deal with the Aetheling. The Anglo-Saxon Chronicle commented that he found nothing there that they were any the better for. Malcolm came to Abernethy, near the Forth of Tay in Perthshire, swore to become William’s vassal and gave him hostages, including his eldest son, Duncan. Accepting the overlordship of the King of the English was no novelty, as Scottish kings over the previous two centuries had done the same without resulting friction. The terms of the agreement probably also included the exclusion of Eadgar, who took up residence in Flanders, with Count Robert.

In 1072, the devout Queen Margaret invited the Benedictines to establish a monastery at Dunfermline and established ferry crossings at Queensferry and North Berwick to help pilgrims journeying from south of the Firth of Forth to St Andrews. She also instigated the restoration of Iona Abbey, an acknowledgement of the ancient Celtic traditions of the Church in Scotland. For her own private use, a cave on the banks of Tower Burn in Dunfermline became a place of devotion and prayer.

The Scottish royal family, from the time of her arrival in Scotland some time in 1068, considered that Margaret was descended on her mother’s side from the Hungarian royal lines, and a more recent, American Mormon source states that Edward the Aetheling was married to Agatha, a kinswoman of Henry II, Holy Roman Emperor, who was related to King István. However, she was not István’s daughter, as some sources claimed. Her name, margarita in Latin, was derived from the Persian word for a pearl, and she was known as the precious pearl as a child in Hungary, becoming known as the pearl of Scotland as Malcolm’s queen. Her nickname was Meg in English.

Bishop Aethelwine of Durham and Siward Barn, the wealthy thegn, were among the Northumbrian rebels, initially based at Wearmouth, who had decided not to join Eadgar Aetheling and Sheriff Maerlsweyn in Scotland, but took refuge on the Isle of Ely in 1071 with Edwin and Morcar. They were accompanied by a fighting force of several hundred, raised in Scotland, who had landed on the Norfolk Coast, on the Wash. Siward Barn had been a king’s thegn, an Anglo-Danish noble, holding lands in Derbyshire, Nottinghamshire, Lincolnshire and four other shires that totalled over a hundred hides. But after the harrying of the North, he had lost all his lands (to Henry de Ferrers). Trapped by William’s men after the fall of Ely, he was imprisoned until 1087.  

Malcolm’s act of homage to William at Abernethy on Tayside was soon followed by further raids by him into Northumbria. Meanwhile, William had learnt that he could no longer count on the support of the Anglo-Danish nobility of Mercia and Northumbria to secure the Conquest in the North. As he moved south from Scotland, he took steps to provide greater security in Northumberland, north of the Tees. He built a new castle in Durham, adjacent to the cathedral, for the greater protection of both the bishop and the earl. He deprived Gospatrick of his title, while allowing him to keep his lands. However, the earl joined the rebels and went into exile in Flanders, with Eadgar.

He was replaced by Waltheof, who subsequently married Judith, the king’s niece. With connections to both the Anglo-Danish House of Bamburgh and the new Norman dynasty, he must have seemed like the ideal candidate to serve as the Earl of Northumbria, an Anglo-Norman magnate in the truest sense. However, in 1075 he became involved in an aristocratic conspiracy against the Norman king which ended in his execution.

In 1066, King William had appointed Ralph de Guader, an East Anglian nobleman of Breton origins, as his chief noble in the region. He was the high-born son of an Earl, thought to be Ralph the Staller, a noble at the time of Edward the Confessor. Ralph had fought at Hastings and was known for his bravery and strength of character. Then, in 1069, he routed a force of Norsemen that had invaded Norfolk and occupied Norwich, a triumph for which he was later created Earl of Norfolk and Suffolk. In 1075, Ralph married Emma, only daughter of William fitz Osbern, uniting two extremely large estates and important noble lines going back to the Saxon kings and the early dukes of Normandy.

Wary of creating over-mighty Anglo-Norman nobles, William did not give his approval to the match, but the wedding went ahead without it, and at the feast, Ralph, together with his new brother-in-law, Earl Roger of Hereford and Earl Waltheof of Northumberland, planned a revolt against the king. But this Revolt of the Earls, the last serious act of resistance against William I, was easily defeated, and Ralph and Emma left the castle in Norwich for his estates in Brittany. Waltheof was beheaded at Winchester the following year, having betrayed the conspiracy. Earl Roger was also deprived of his lands and earldom, but unlike Ralph he was sentenced to perpetual imprisonment.

Thirty-Four; 1072-80 – The Rivalry of Normandy and Anjou:

Meanwhile, on the continent, Normandy was threatened by the reviving political fortunes of both Anjou and the Kingdom of France. The new French king, Philip I, had emerged under the tutelage of his mother, Anna of Kyív, who gave him his Greek name, which was unusual in France at the time. He consciously pursued the anti-Norman policy developed by his father and in 1072 married the half-sister of Robert of Flanders, who had given refuge to Eadgar Aetheling. So, on all sides, Normandy was menaced by enemies. Duke William was still the most feared warrior in Europe, but he had to spend most of his time re-fighting old battles from Normandy, against younger adversaries, so that the government of England had to be entrusted to others. Archbishop Lanfranc exercised vice-regal powers, but he was naturally more concerned with reforming the English Church.

In 1072, construction began began on a new cathedral at Lincoln, designed, like Durham, to be as defensible as the nearby castle. During the same decade, new cathedrals were also started at Salisbury, Chichester, Rochester, St Albans and Winchester, the latter replacing the ancient minster which was demolished. These were grand buildings, expensively fashioned in stone which had to be shipped from Caen and completed in astonishing time. They emphasised the predominance and permanence of Norman hegemony. Lanfranc’s new cathedral at Canterbury, replacing the one that had burnt down ten years earlier, was also advanced enough to be dedicated in 1077. As part of the rebuilding, local Saxon saints, including St Dunstan, were purged from the commemorative calendar. Eadmer of Canterbury, the English historian and chronicler, commented that:

Sometimes, the archbishop had altered English customs for no reason other than to assert his own authority.

By 1077, relations between Anglo-Saxons and Normans were much better than they had been a decade earlier, not just in the view of Norman chroniclers, but also English ones. Orderic Vitalis recorded that:

within just a few years of the Conquest, English and Normans were living peacefully together in boroughs, towns and cities, and were inter-marrying with each other. You could see many villages or town markets filled with displays of French ware and merchandise and observe the English, who had previously seemed contemptible tot he French in their native dress completely transformed by French fashions.

It was at this time that Eadgar Aetheling decided that it was time for him to submit to William’s rule. In 1074, he had returned to Scotland, but shortly afterwards he accepted an offer from Philip I of France who was already at odds with William over Normandy and Maine. This consisted of a castle and lands ont he borders of the Dukedom from where Eadgar could launch raids on William’s homelands. With his retinue, he embarked for France, but a storm wrecked their ships on the English coast. Many of Eadgar’s men were hunted down by the Normans, but he managed to escape with the remainder of them back to Scotland by land. Following this latest disaster and narrow escape, Malcolm persuaded Eadgar to make peace with William and return to England as his vassal.

Also by this time, William Rufus and Robert Curthose had reached adulthood and were keen to accept responsibilities from their father. He asked his father to name him as his successor in Normandy and Maine, but William told him to wait for a more opportune moment. Frustrated by this, he became estranged from both his father and his brothers. While Odo was lording it over the English, in Normandy William struggled to bring his eldest son to heel. Soon after Christmas 1078, William moved against him and a bitter stand-off ensued, in which, after a three-week siege, both William and Rufus were injured. For most of 1079, the magnates of Normandy attempted to bring about a reconciliation, and in the early months of 1080, William yielded to this pressure, granting Robert the right of succession to Normandy. The end of this familial dispute meant that William could finally turn his attention back to his kingdom, and after four years away he finally returned to England in the second half of the year.

Thirty-Five; Durham, 1080 – Return of the King:

Meanwhile, on the other side of the Channel, there had been conflict and disagreement between landowners when the Norman baronry encountered the remaining tangled strands of Anglo-Danish lordship. The Normans, whether by commission or submission, misinterpreted the rights of their English predecessors to match their own feudal interests. They also, in many cases, simply grabbed whatever they could. While much land was given out by the king or his regents, and entered into legally, a considerable amount was acquired by less legitimate methods; extortion, intimidation, and violence. In certain regions of the country, for example the East Midlands and East Anglia, the Domesday Book shows no clear pattern of land distribution, but rather that the Norman settlement in these areas was something of a free-for-all.

Domesday also preserves the testimony of local jurors that certain Norman barons had simply helped themselves. The monks of Ely’s support for the Hereward rebellion earned them lasting royal displeasure. Many local Normans seemed to have assumed thereafter that the abbey’s estates were open to unofficial appropriation. The sheriff of Lincoln was the worst offender; such was the scale of his appropriations that the monks of the twelfth century there remembered him as a roving lion, a hungry wolf, a crafty fox, a filthy pig, a shameless dog. Yet in 1077, King William had written to all his chief tenants in England ordering them to return any church lands obtained by violence or intimidation. But protection for lay tenants from avaricious lords by abbots and sheriffs only lasted as long as the protectors themselves. When they died, those who replaced them were at liberty to hand out entrusted estates to Norman friends and relations.

The darker side of the so-called settlement, not merely confused and chaotic, but rapacious, violent and unjust, applied at the highest levels of the feudal pyramid. Odo of Bayeux, acting as William’s regent during his four-year absence in Normandy in the 1070s, was a great believer in self-help. He helped himself to many of the land rights in Kent held by the Saxon Archbishop of Canterbury, by force of arms.

In the autumn of 1080, when a riot broke out in Durham, Odo was equally brutal in his punishment of the Northumbrians by leading an army into the region and laying it to waste. According to Simeon of Durham, Odo murdered, maimed and extorted money from the guilty and innocent alike, before helping himself to some of the cathedral’s treasures.

The question of where the Anglo-Scottish border should be fixed remained a matter of continual dispute, higlighted by the imposition of the non-native régime in the south. When Malcolm took advantage of William’s absence in Normandy, invading England in 1079, Robert Curthose was sent back to England and to the north with an army to build a New Castle upon the Tyne and to help secure the frontier. However, Malcolm again pursued peace and this time he kept it for more than a decade. William’s decision to delegate responsibility for northern English and Scottish affairs may indicate that the King did not actually return to his kingdom until late in the year of 1080.

Thirty-Six: Christmas, 1080 – Gloucester…

In fact, William did not appear in public in England until spending Christmas at Gloucester, when he went hunting in the Forest of Dean. William ceremoniously wore his crown in the cathedral, as he did the following Whitsun at Winchester. Orderic Vitalis provided the King’s court at this moment. The chronicler described how the abbot of St Evreux crossed to England and attended the king at Winchester, who received him together with his magnates, all of whom made gifts to the Norman abbey. Their names were recorded in a charter; besides the king and his sons, Roger of Montgomery, Hugh of Chester, and William of Brittany (son of William fitz Osbern) were all present. The writer of the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle who described how the Conqueror kept great state in less benign terms:        

… He wore his crown three times a year, as often as he was in England; at Easter, at Winchester; at Whitsun at Westminster; at Christmas at Gloucester. On these occasions, all the the great men of England were assembled about him – archbishops, bishops, abbots, earls, thegns, and knights… he was so stern and relentless a man that no one dared do ought against his will. Earls who resisted his will, he held in bondage, bishops he deprived of their sees and abbots of their abbacies, while rebellious thegns he cast into prison.

Finally, the chronicler reports that William did not spare his own brother, Odo, but put him in prison. The Chronicle for 1082 simply tells us that in this year, the King arrested Bihop Odo. It has a startling effect on its readers, but it was not until half a century later that others wrote that he was plotting to usurp the throne, and others still that he was planning to become Pope. But at his trial, Odo was denounced primarily for his oppression of the English in a long speech from William himself, reported by Orderic. The king had arrested his brother personally, stating that he was not arresting a bishop, but an earl. After the trial, Odo was transported back across the Channel and imprisoned in the ducal castle at Rouen.

The Conqueror was soon hit by two more blows in his familial life in 1082-84. His wife, Matilda, died, and his eldest son, Robert Curthose, became alienated from his father once more, and went into exile. The King and Duke, must have felt increasingly isolated, as these he had now lost all three of the figures he had relied upon as regents. But they did not trigger any further crises in his dominions.

In 1085, however, William did have to deal with a renewed threat of an invasion of England from Denmark, a threat which seemed far more serious than previous incursions from Scandinavia since the invasion, defeat and death of Harald Hardrada in 1066. A new King Cnut sat on the Danish throne, and his fleets posed a far greater danger to William’s security than those he had led for his father in 1069 and 1075. Learning from these previous failures, Cnut prepared a fleet of more than a thousand ships for the invasion. He also had a key ally in Robert, Count of Flanders, whose daughter Cnut had married. According to William of Malmesbury, the Count had assembled his own fleet of six hundred ships, which added tot he overall invasion force. Naturally, as Malmesbury recorded, the King was very scared.

Nevertheless, William reacted quickly in the autumn of 1085, assembling the largest force of cavalry and infantry to set foot in England since the invading forces of 1066. John of Worcester wrote of many thousands of paid troops, foot soldiers and archers. The King’s Council decided that this defensive force should be dispersed throughout the country, billeted with abbots and other magnates. The land along the coastline was wasted so that the invaders would have nothing to live off, and coastal castles and defences were strengthened.

Christmas 1085, which William and his magnates once more celebrated at Gloucester, must have been a nervous one, with all those attending awaiting news of the sighting of the Danish-Flemish fleet. William revealed his own anxiety by dismissing the abbots of Crowland and Thorney, neighbouring monasteries in the Fens, because the monks had shown sympathy and support towards previous Danish invasions. The king replaced the Anglo-Danish abbots with two monks from Normandy. The Christmas court at Gloucester lasted five days and the Church council that followed a further three.

Thirty-Seven; 1086 – April-May 1086 – Winchester and Westminster:

The Anglo-Saxon Chronicle for 1086 reported that:

The King had much thought and deep discussion with his council about the country, how it was occupied and with what sort of people… he sent his men all over England, into every shire, and had them find out how many hundred hides there were in the shire or what land and cattle the king himself had in the country, or what dues he ought to have in twelve months from the shire. Also, he had a record made of how much land his archbishops had, and his bishops and abbots, and his earls… and how much everybody had who was occupying land in England… and how much money it was worth… So very narrowly did he have it investigated that there was no single hide nor yard of land… no one ox, or one pig was there left out and not put down in his record…

A hide was defined as an area such as could be ploughed by a single plough and a team of oxen in one season. Its size varied in different parts of the country, but probably ran from about forty to a hundred acres. In northern England, land was also measured in carucates and a tax called a carucage was levied on every hide or carucate of land at a rate of between 3s and 5s.

Despite the brutal expropriation of land in the early years of the Conquest, it is apparent from the manorial records in Domesday that most of the Norman magnates did not depend on royal patronage for their continuing tenure. Rather, they secured their tenure by keeping the peace on their lands, chiefly by respecting the pre-Conquest rights of their tenants, and managing their manors and estates diplomatically, especially in their relations with neighbouring magnates. There were also many cases of sub-tenanting and other flexible arrangements where the management of freemen was concerned.

In the case of the Golafre family, who were given lands in Suffolk early in the Conquest, these arrangements were due to their desire to maintain their lands in Normandy under Duke Robert. They were also determined to participate in crusades; Guillaume de Goulafriére, thirty years after standing at William’s right hand at Hastings, went to fight in the First Crusade, which left Normandy in 1096. He ceded his estates in Suffolk and in southern England to his son, Roger. The main branches of the held lands in East Anglia, especially in Suffolk and Essex, between 1086 and 1273. There are also references to the family name, deriving from their lands in Normandy, or variants of it, in local court records throughout the twelfth and thirteenth centuries.

In Suffolk, in pre-Conquest times, a tradition of fierce independence had been established. By the time of the Survey, the population of Suffolk was 20,491, which made it the most densely populated county in England with the possible exception of Middlesex. It was a shire of free farmers and small-holders. According to Domesday, there were 7,460 freemen in Suffolk and only about nine hundred serfs. The proportion of independent smallholders to peasants was quite different in Norfolk and Suffolk from that of any other shire.

Although the average freemen could only claim a little land, usually much smaller than a caracute, he could call himself his own man, something which meant a great deal to East Anglians. The land holdings were concentrated into compact blocks edged by market sor sometimes hedges. They might also have grazing rights on nearby heath and woodland. Every autumn they slaughtered their beasts and preserved their meat with salt from the saltpans on the Wash or in the Stour estuary. Most of them achieved self-sufficiency and were left with a surplus for market.

After the Conquest, Robert Malet had two small manors in the village of Aspall. He was one of the king’s chief magnates, the son of William Malet, a chief tenant to King William, who had accompanied the Conqueror from Normandy and was named as being present at Hastings. He had been given land in England by Edward the Confessor, and had an English wife. On William’s command, William had taken care of Harold’s body after the battle. Robert had inherited his father’s large estates in Suffolk following William’s death at Ely in 1072.

The eclipse of the English aristocracy was almost total. The three Anglo-Danish earls who witnessed the coronation of William at Christmas 1066 were all long gone by 1086, some assassinated, like Edwin, executed, like Waltheof, or languishing in gaol, like Morcar. Also gone were the lesser English nobles who were present at the Queen’s coronation. Among the witnesses of Salisbury in 1086, there was not a single English or Danish name. This was also true of Domesday’s ten thousand tenants-in-chief, of which a mere thirteen were English and only four had lands worth more than a hundred pounds. The king’s thanes, the ninety or so lords who may have each owned more than forty hides of land, were also gone. Even at the manorial level, the Anglo-Danish names were very much in the minority. England’s middling thanes, numbering four to five thousand, had been swept clean away.

Domesday therefore revealed cataclysmic change to the country’s ruling class, with Normans replacing native lords in almost every village and hamlet. By 1086, half the land of England was held by just two hundred Norman barons, who were many times more wealthy than their English predecessors. A quarter of the land was held by just ten magnates, including Odo of Bayeux, Robert Curthose, Roger of Montgomery, Richard Fitz Gilbert and Hugh of Chester. Yet, obscenely rich as these men were, their wealth was insignificant in comparison with that of the three English earls of the Confessor’s reign. At the start of that reign, Godwin of Wessex, Leofric of Mercia and Siward of Northumbria, taken together, and together with their families, had been equal in riches to the King himself.

By 1086, there were only two earls left in England, Roger of Montgomery and Hugh of Chester, both Norman Marcher lords. Even their combined wealth and power  did not nearly approximate to that of their Saxon predecessors. After the Conquest, no coalition of magnates, nomatter how broad, could match the resources of the King, who had twice as much demesne as the top ten magnates put together.

While the Commissioners had been assembling their Domesday data, King William had been travelling around the southern part of his kingdom, what was once Wessex. At Easter, 5th April in 1086, he wore his crown at Winchester. By Whitsun, 24th May, when he was at Westminster for the knighting of his youngest son, Henry, he ordered all his magnates, spiritual and secular, to meet him on 1st August at Salisbury.

Thirty-eight – 1st August, 1086; Salisbury (Old Sarum) – Presentation of The Domesday Survey:

At that time, the ancient cathedral was north of the present city and cathedral at Old Sarum. The new cathedral, with its impressive spire was built by the early thirteenth century near the confluence of three rivers, and a settlement grew up around it, which received a city charter in 1227 as New Sarum, an official name which it kept until 2009. Until the eleventh century it was known by its Welsh inhabitants as Caer Caradog and in Latin as Sorbiodunum. Following the Saxon incursions of the sixth century until the eleventh century, it was known by its Old English name as Searobyrig. Preferring settlements in the valley below, such as Wilton, the Saxons had largely ignored Old Sarum until the Viking raids led King Alfred to restore its fortifications in the late ninth century. The Normans constructed a motte-and-bailey castle there in 1070, which was directly held by William and his Norman successors, and its castellan was also the sheriff of Wiltshire. Herman, the Bishop of Salisbury, began the construction of the first ’new’ cathedral, but this was not completed until 1092, only to be wrecked in a storm only five days later. Herman’s successor, Osmund, who had served as William’s Lord Chancellor, was responsible for the compilation of the Domesday Book which was presented to William at Old Sarum on 1st August 1086. Given its symbolic, strategic and religious significance, it was obviously a deliberate choice for the location of the major event of that day. 

This was to be an assembly for the whole kingdom, the culmination of the Domesday process. The book names around a thousand individuals who held their lands directly from the king, his tenants-in-chief. Most, if not all of them, would have attended. Domesday also records about another eight thousand landowners at the next stage down, the sub-tenants of the king. These would have added another number well into four figures, possibly even reaching five.

The royal assembly at Salisbury was set to make the king even more powerful. William had summoned England’s landowning élites to participate in the climactic moment of the Domesday process, intimately connected with the true purpose of the book. When the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle recorded that those present all became the King’s Men by swearing oaths; it described an act of homage, of personal submission to a lord in return for their individual rights to hold particular lands subject to the king, by his sole permission.

While much of the land of England had been given out by royal charter, much had also been obtained by intimidation, encroachment and violence. Few of the Normans could have produced title to all of the estates they possessed at the beginning of the Domesday inquiries. But once complete, the Survey provided precisely that written evidence. These documents were effectively royal charters, giving the confirmation and security of title the barons needed to guarantee their personal appropriations.

It was the nature of the Conquest itself that meant that William was able to create a new system from scratch, because at the outset all lands were forfeit to the Crown at the time of his accession. He was therefore able to establish a new aristocracy bound by new terms of service, rights and duties of inheritance and marriage. Shortly before the ceremony on 1st August, news must have reached him that Cnut IV was dead. He had died on 10th July, murdered in church by his own rebellious nobles. His sudden death meant that the threat of a Danish invasion was finally lifted. There was no longer any challenge to the Conqueror’s hegemony over England, either from within or without.

William was, by this stage in his late fifties, having launched the initial invasion at the age of thirty-eight. By contemporary standards he was now old, and had also grown obese. Back in his capital, Rouen, it soon became clear that he was dying. On his death bed, he attempted to appease God by releasing all the prisoners in his custody, a list which included Earl Morcar, Siward Barn and even Harold’s brother, Earl Wolfnoth, held hostage since 1051. Eventually, Odo was also set free. During his last days, William also let his final wishes about the succession be known. He confirmed his eldest son as his heir in Normandy, while entrusting England to God alone, though expressing his hope that William Rufus should become King of England, God willing. Shortly before his death, William sent Rufus to England, armed with a letter to Archbishop Lanfranc recommending that Rufus be crowned by him in succession.

Orderic Vitalis accepted the Norman argument that the invasion and conquest of England had been justified by Harold’s perjury, but as an Englishman he could not accept the way that the Conqueror had mercilessly crushed the opposition to his rule. He saw the Harrying of the North, in particular, as a terrible stain on William’s legacy. Orderic also drew a distinction between the behaviour of the Conqueror and that of his soldiers:

They arrogantly abused their authority and mercilessly slaughtered the noble people, … noble maidens were exposed to the insults of low-born soldiers and lamented their dishonouring by the scum of the earth. Ignorant parasites, made almost mad with pride, they were astonished that such a great had come to them, and imagined that they were a law unto themselves. Oh fools and sinners, why did they not ponder contritely in their hearts that they had not by their own strength, but by the will of almighty God, and had subdued a people that was greater and more wealthy than they were, with a longer history.

There were similar verdicts from elsewhere in Europe. In Bavaria, the apparent birthplace of Agatha, the wife of Edward the Exile, and mother of the returning Wessex exiles, a chronicler thought that William had miserably attacked and conquered England, sending its bishops into exile and its nobles to their deaths. By this time, Agatha herself had returned to the continent at some point after 1070 (the date of Simeon of Durham’s last reference to her), probably to Bavaria, where she died. Another German, writing in 1080, lambasted Pope Gregory VII over his relationships with certain rulers such as William, whom he described as tyrants.

The notion that nothing changed after 1066 owes much to the rewriting of history by Norman chroniclers. It was precisely what William wanted future generations to believe, such was his desire to be regarded as Edward the Confessor’s legitimate successor and England’s rightful king. Harold’s brief reign and Eadgar Aetheling’s even briefer one were omitted from the Norman chronicles. Domesday presented a picture of quiet continuity and concealed massive tenurial upheaval. The Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, summing up the Conqueror’s reign, came closest to recognising the great gulf between Norman propaganda and the actual events of the period 1066-1086. It complained that:

The louder the talk of law and justice, the greater the injustices they committed.

What Domesday demonstrated beyond any question was how totally the Conquest had replaced one ruling élite with another. By 1086, the English had been totally eradicated from the higher eschelons of society. The transformation had almost certainly been William’s original intention. His hope had been to rule a mixed Anglo-Norman kingdom, much as Cnut had ruled an Anglo-Danish one. The English knew they had been conquered in 1016, but in 1066 they refused to accept this as the logical or necessary outcome of the Battle of Hastings. In subsequent stages therefore, the Norman Conquest became far more radical than its Danish predecessor. Henry of Huntingdon commented that:

In King William’s twenty-first year, there was scarcely a noble of English descent, but all had been reduced to servitude and lamentation.

But the English and the Normans were two quite different peoples. William of Malmesbury, in a famous passage, described the Battle of Hastings as a fatal day for England, a disaster which had resulted in the country exchanging old masters for new. He then went ont o contrast the natures of the two peoples:

The English were abandoned to gluttony and lechery, lax in their Christianity and addicted to wassail. They lived out their lives in small, mean houses, prefering to load their tattoed skin with gold bracelets, eating until they were sick and drinking until they spewed.

The Normans were well-dressed to a fault, particular about their food and more obviously religious. A crafty, warlike people, they built great, proud buildings in which they lived a life of moderate expense, although narrow in its focus and infected with moral hindsight…

Some of the Normans went home after their initial Conquest, satisfied with the fruits of their pay and plunder, but many others, fixed on acquiring and holding land, stayed to create a new colonial society. They settled across England, from east to west, and from south to north, tearing up the old tenurial patterns in the process, reorganising their estates as manors, and erecting castles to serve as administrive centres.

The numbers of free men owning and working their own land fell throughout the kingdom. On the other hand, however, by the 1130s, slavery was gone from England, and some contemporaries attributed this to the Conquest. Along with their belief that slavery was wrong in Christian terms, the Normans introduced the notion that it was better to show mercy to their opponents after they had surrendered. The English had been practising political murder right up to the eve of the Conquest, as the strange case of the death of Edward the Exile demonstrated. Also, with the sole exception of Earl Waltheof, no Englishman was executed as a result of the conquest. Very quickly thereafter, the practice disappeared and did not reappear until the death of Becket in the time of Henry II. The last judicial execution, on royal orders, in Norman England, took place in 1095, and after that there followed two and a half centuries of chivalric restraint.

It is certainly true that the Normans brought with them their zealous commitment to the reform of the Church. The boom in the building of parish churches in England had begun long before the coming of the Normans, yet there is little doubt that they accelerated these developments. In addition, they built many new monasteries. In 1066, there were around sixty in England, but by 1135 that number had more than quadrupled to as many as three hundred. The number of monks and nuns increased by a similar amount. In the North, just a few years after the harrying, monasteries and their lands were restored and others refounded at Selby, Jarrow, Whitby, Monkwearmouth, Durham and York. But, as across the continent as a whole, most of these developments would have taken place without the Conquest, as they did in Scotland, under the patronage of the Queen, Margaret of Wessex and her son, King David I. Indeed, before the Conquest, a great wave of monastic reform had already spread throughout Europe from the abbey at Cluny.       

The economies of these monasteries were mainly based on sheep farming, but they also farmed coastal marshlands and woodlands; the key was that they should be on land that was not wanted by secular tenants and therefore unlikely to form part of a network of feudal obligations. They did not, therefore, form part of the land-grab of the Norman barons, and most of them remained relatively poor throughout the twelfth century. In any case, the first generations of conquerors referred to spend their surplus wealth to patronise monastic houses at home in Normandy, where they intended to be interred.

For the ordinary English at the time, however, the Norman takeover seemed an unmitigated disaster, a melancholy havoc, as William of Malmesbury put it. They had seen their artistic treasures being looted and taken as spoils to Normandy and the bones and relics of their saints being hidden from view, tossed away, or burnt. They saw the demolition of churches and great cathedrals like Winchester, which had stood for centuries and, in some cases since the first arrival of Christianity in England. Nevertheless, when the giant new Norman cathedral at Winchester, begun in 1079, was completed in 1093, the bones of St Swithyn were reinstated with great honour, and when, during the same year, another new cathedral was begun at Durham, it was very different from anything that had gone before, its pillars decorated with the linear patterns that were so characteristic of old English art. This was the best example of Anglo-Norman artistic fusion.

However, the remaining English-speaking clerics also noticed the sudden disappearance of English as a written language. After it ceased to be used in royal offices after 1070, it was also soon abandoned in usage in monastic scriptora around the country, to be replaced by Latin or Norman French. Only the E version of the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle survived into the twelfth century, ending in 1154. After the Conquest, there were no new vernacular prayer books, so that an ancient tradition that was intended to raise the standard of religious literacy and oracy among the laity was dying before their eyes, and a vital bridge between the clergy and the people was broken until the Reformation.

The coming of the conquerors had brought with it acts of vandalism that not even the Danes had visited on Anglo-Saxon culture. All this came on top of the slaughter and deliberate wholesale starvation of the native northern population. As the agents of this genocide, the Normans appeared to the native English to be anything but civilised. For the survivors, there could be only one explanation for their suffering; the English had sinned and were being severely chastised by their creator. Most of the chroniclers seemed to be agreed on this point. This self-flagellation was reminiscent of the Venerable Bede’s view of the Britons, whom he believed had been replaced by the Anglo-Saxons as God’s chosen people. Just as in Bede’s day the almighty had used the pagan Vikings as his instrument of punishment, now it was their Christian descendants, the Normans, who had been chosen for that role.

The Conqueror’s hopes for the English succession were fulfilled in 1087 when William Rufus ascended to the throne. But his fears about the threats posed by other members of his family also proved to be well-founded. Robert Curthose, already installed as Duke of Normandy on his father’s wishes, also plotted to replace Rufus on the English throne. The plot failed, but the struggle between the two elder sons of the Conqueror continued for many years. Their younger brother, Henry, soon added a third element to the sorry saga of betrayal and double-crossing, and in May 1087 their uncle, the King of Scots added a fourth dimension.

Malcolm Canmore marched south again to besiege the New Castle built by Robert Curthose. This was an attempt by the Scottish king to advance his frontier from the Tweed to the Tees. The perceived threat was enough to bring the new Norman king, William Rufus, back from his native estates in Normandy, where he had once again been fighting with his brother. In September, learning of Rufus’s approaching army, Malcolm beat a tactical retreat, though he was prepared to fight if necessary. In a peace brokered by Eadgar Aetheling and Curthose, Malcolm again acknowledged the overlordship of the English king. 

Robert had struck up a remarkable friendship with Eadgar since his submission to William in 1075. Orderic wrote that they were virtually foster brothers, since they were almost the same age. But this closeness between the Duke of Normandy and the last old English claimant caused both Rufus and Henry, to regard the Aetheling with greater caution. Despite William’s pardoning of Eadgar and his readmission to the English court, when Rufus became King of England after his father’s death, he confiscated the Aetheling’s English lands, so that Eadgar was once more forced to take refuge with his brother-in-law in Scotland.

When Rufus arrived in England in 1087, accompanied by the newly released Morcar and Wolfnoth, his first act upon landing was to have both men reincarcerated, demonstrating that he was not looking for reconciliation with the remnant of the English nobility.

(to be continued… )

The Bloodied Sword, the Precious Pearl and the Black Cross; Chronicles of the Royal House of Wessex – II.

Episode Two: Conquest, Flight and Resistance, 1066-70

Margaret of Wessex and her mother, Agatha, arrive in Scotland (the Forth), after being shipwrecked off Orkney in circa 1068, following their ‘escape’ from William’s court.
Scene Twenty; 1066 – The Norman Invasion:

After Hardrada’s defeat at Stamford Bridge, Harold was holding a celebratory feast at York, when news arrived of the Norman landing on the beach at Pevensey, 270 miles away.  Harold’s army made the journey in under a fortnight, while Harold, on horseback accompanied by his guard of mounted knights, galloped ahead and paused in London for six days. The infantry bypassed London and headed directly to Pevensey in advance of the cavalry.

The Norman invasion of England was essentially different from the incursions of the Danes, Angles and Saxons before them. It was more like the Roman invasions, especially that of Claudius in AD 43, in that the invaders established themselves through a careful strategy, a well-organised expedition and a decisive battle. Once William had taken London and claimed the Crown, William then had to fight hard to retain and subdue his new kingdom and its territories. By the time of his death in 1087, the English, both Dane and Saxon, had been subdued and  under Norman rule. Perhaps it was because of dramatic developments that followed, that the slender nature of the victory on that day in October 1066 tends to be overlooked. 

Harold’s force at Hastings was classically Anglo-Danish in composition, comprising housecarls, professional men-at-arms, a permanent royal bodyguard founded by Cnut, an élite among the soldiers of Europe and those of the Saxon fyrds who had been able to answer the king’s summons. The housecarls were a mobile force that usually rode to the field of battle before dismounting to fight on foot. Although essentially infantry, therefore, they were well-equipped to challenge the apparent superiority of the mounted knight. At Hastings, it took over eight hours for the Norman knights to overcome the English defence. The housecarls’ most distinctive weapon was the long-handled, double-bladed war axe which was capable of bringing down both horse and rider with a single blow. Others would have been armed with javelins and swords, and all were armoured with knee-length tunics of mail, the hauberk, a conical helmet with nasal bar and a circular or kite-shaped shield.

Beyond fifty yards, the Danish short bow, the chosen weapon of Norman knights, was virtually ineffective against these defences and provided the housecarls could maintain a solid formation they were a potent deterrent to cavalry. The mounted Bretons fled when faced by the housecarls at Hastings, and only the weight of numbers appears to have overcome the surviving housecarls as darkness fell. That the horsemen could compete at all with heavy infantry was due to the introduction of the stirrup to Europe in the eighth century. But to the Normans it was never axiomatic that heavy cavalry should always fight mounted. Therefore, Hastings cannot be taken as demonstrating the innate superiority of either cavalry over infantry or the pre-conquest Norman military system over the Anglo-Danish.

William’s European army of about seven thousand fighting men was comprised of Normans, Bretons, Frenchmen from other provinces, Flemings, Italians and Sicilians. The uncertainties of the coming campaign dictated the need for a safe, large anchorage such as that at Hastings. He therefore moved his ships and troops along the coast to the port, ordered the construction of new defences, and proceeded to lay waste tot he surrounding countryside. It was vital for William’s plans that Harold should attack at the earliest opportunity. His strategy was based on a single conclusive victory in battle, and therefore involved destructive provocation and pillaging from as soon as he had arrived on the south coast, making Harold come to him, so his offer to English king to let him keep the earldom of Wessex was a ploy, as it had been fifty years earlier when made by Cnut to Eadmund Ironside.

Twenty-one; Senlac Hill, October – November 1066:

Harold hastened to give battle, therefore, since he heard that his lands near the Norman camp were being laid waste. He also hoped to catch William unawares, but the night-time attack William had been expecting never came. Instead, Harold’s army gradually reformed at an ancient landmark called the Grey Apple Tree on a long ridge of open land named Senlac. It was there that the Norman army chose to attack in plain sight on the morning of 14th October. Harold was therefore forced to give battle before all his forces had been amassed and arrayed.

His army of approximately 7,500 men was composed of two thousand housecarls, deployed on foot to stiffen the fyrd, each one of them charged with holding their position. As long as they did so, they would be very difficult to dislodge. Having seized the hilltop, the English arrayed themselves in their favoured formation, dismounting and forming a shield wall. Harold took his place in the centre of the line, planting the white dragon standard of Wessex on the summit of the hill. It was ultimately the death of Harold, earl of Wessex, which brought about the fall of that standard and the defeat of the English army.

Harold may have been hit by an arrow, possibly in the eye as the Bayeux tapestry seems to show and every English schoolboy now seems to know, but the many contemporary written accounts which are used to support this conclusion were Norman in origin and tried to play down the brutality of the final assault on Harold’s guard. William Malet, a pre-Conquest Anglo-Norman, witnessed this and reported it to Edith (Swan-neck), Harold’s first wife, after the battle. She had to identify Harold’s body, since it had been so badly maimed and mutilated that only someone who knew it intimately could do so, by certain marks.

The portrayal of Harold being killed by an injury to his eye is both legendary and mythological, a deliberate reference to Harold’s treachery in the Norman narrative. As already referenced, the common punishment for traitors in early medieval Europe was blinding, so that this legendary element, added for the tapestry, was therefore heavily symbolic. For many Saxons, in addition his Norman detractors like William of Poitiers, Harold was an untrustworthy king. In reality, the final phase of the battle came late in the evening when the Norman knights, under high-angle cover of fire from their newly re-equipped archers, broke through, by sheer weight of numbers, the position which had been held for eight hours, now severely reduced. When William observed Harold and his brothers being cut down by the swords of his knights, he ordered his mounted guard to ride to Harold’s position to deliver the coup de gráce. Those who recorded his slaying also describe him fighting to the last, wielding his sword. No doubt he had sustained many wounds, but it is difficult to envisage that he could have continued this kind of hand-to-hand combat with an arrow in his eye!

The defenders on the ridge were overwhelmed and although a body of housecarls rallied to fight a rearguard action at a feature behind the ridge named Malfosse, the battle was lost and the fyrd left the field, having witnessed the slaying of their king, and were pursued until long after nightfall by the Normans.     

On the eve of the battle, William of Poitiers had recorded his description of Harold as a man soiled with lasciviousness, a cruel murderer, and an enemy of God and the Just. These words may help to explain the brutal nature of Harold’s death. Copying from this account, the Anglo-Norman scribe, Orderic Vitalis, changed the description of the Saxon king to a brave and valiant man, strong and handsome, pleasant in speech and a good friend to his followers. However, Orderic does not pass judgement on whether Harold was willing to break his oaths and murder those, like Edward the Exile, who stood in his way.

After witnessing Harold’s killing, but before the bloody conclusion of the battle, Morcar and Edwin left the field for London, presumably to secure Harold’s successor, Eadgar Aetheling. Harold had kept Eadgar away from the field. On reaching Westminster, they immediately sent their sister, Harold’s Saxon wife Ealdgyth and now widowed queen, out of harm’s way to Chester. With Harold dead, the two earls now promised to fight for Eadgar, who was elected by the Witangamot and proclaimed King by Stigand, Archbishop of Canterbury, supported by Ealdred, Archbishop of York.

Meanwhile, on the battlefield, Harold’s mother, Gytha, appeared among the carnage to plead for the return of her son’s body, which had been taken to Waltham Abbey to be identified by Edith Swan-neck, his Danish first wife. But Gytha’s request was refused by an angry William, who argued that it would be inappropriate for Harold to be interred while so many others were left unburied, having lost their lives because of him. It seems likely that the body was removed to Waltham some days later when William had left Hastings.

William was waiting there to see if there would be a formal surrender. But by proclaiming Eadgar king, the English signalled that they may have lost a close-fought battle but they had not yet given up the war to maintain their independence. Edwin and Morcar still thought that they could rally their earldoms, Wessex and East Anglia, around the Aetheling, and continue the resistance to the attempted Conquest. When no surrender came after a fortnight, the Duke of Normandy proceeded to ravage the south-east, including Romney, Dover (for a week) and Canterbury, punishing the people for not accepting him as king by victory in battle. Then, when he heard of the election of Eadgar, he ordered a siege of the city of London.

The Normans torched all the houses on the south bank of the Thames. However, they failed to cross the river to capture the city and so William led his troops along the Thames westwards, eventually crossing the river at Wallingford. The English chroniclers tell us that, on the way, William harried that part of England through which he advanced. John of Worcester wrote that the Normans laid waste to Kent, Sussex, Hampshire, Middlesex and Hertfordshire.

Following Harold’s death at Hastings, Edwin and Morcar had concurred in the election of Eadgar but, disappointed of their hope of a second battle with William under his banner, soon left the city with their remaining forces and returned tot he north, believing that the Conqueror would not advance so far. They had proposed that the Witan should elect one of them king, but failed to take effective steps to stem the Norman invasion and therefore left themselves no alternative but to submit to Duke William. 

Twenty-Two; Dec. 1066 – The Berkhamsted Submission:

Wallingford was the first crossing up river from London Bridge which could safely be used by an invading army still in the thousands. There, Stigand became the first Saxon magnate to submit to William and to renounce his earlier proclamation of Eadgar as successor to Harold. By then, Ealdred had, in any case, already emerged as the spiritual leader of the English resistance throughout the country. But as William continued to harry the home counties, and as winter set in, Eadgar showed no desire to continue to resist William at the expense of the English population. In order, no doubt, to end the retribution, Eadgar was eventually persuaded to submit and pay homage to William at Berkhamsted in early December 1066, and to give up his claim to the crown.

The settlement was recorded as Burbium in the Domesday Book, and was probably chosen by William as a meeting place because it was already a burgh before the Conquest, with a large fortified enclosure suitable for the defence of his army and their maintenance within a sizeable encampment. No doubt he added some wooden buildings for administration, but he would not have had time to build a large motte and bailey castle within it by the time of the submission. In return for his submission, William agreed to treat Eadgar with respect and to allow him to continue to live at court with his family.

The northern earls, Edwin and Morcar, were also present with him, and made their submissions, which William accepted, receiving gifts and hostages from them, leading to their reinstatement to their titles and earldoms. Edwin and Morcar were then given leave to return to their lands. Even so, they must have felt humiliated; William of Malmesbury described them, whether unfairly or astutely, as two brothers of great ambition. Greater humiliation was to follow however, as William made vague promises to Edwin of a new role in the new state and a marriage to one of his daughters. Neither of these promises ever materialised.

The leading clerics and officers of the City of London then stepped forward. William was handed the Crown by Archbishop Ealdred, who would also be present to crown him at Westminster Abbey that Christmas.

Twenty-three; The Coronation, Westminster, 25th Dec. 1066:

William was now de facto king, having defeated Harold in battle and received the homage of Eadgar, the northern earls and other leading magnates, both spiritual and temporal. He had also promised to rule as a gracious lord. Eadgar’s short reign, which had begun with his proclamation on 15th October, was now effectively over without a crowning. However, as England was an elective monarchy at this time, it was his election by the Witan which added to his birthright and made him king until he died or abdicated in favour of William, which he had done at Berkhamsted.

This principle was tested by the monks of Peterborough who, after the death of their Abbot at Hastings, had sent his nominated successor to Eadgar for confirmation, following the custom and practice of the English church. This further annoyed William, who saw it as confering legitimacy on Eadgar as rightful king, especially as he had gladly consented to the monks’ request. William misunderstood the roles of election, proclamation and coronation, however. For the English, coronation was simply confirmation. Of itself, it conferred God’s blessing, but it did not create a king, unlike in continental ceremonies of the time.

For the Normans, kingship was conferred by God in the act of coronation. For them, since Eadgar had not been consecrated and crowned, he could not be regarded as a king. This left William’s status in a state of constitutional hiatus, so both the capitulating English magnates and his accompanying Norman barons urged him to take the crown quickly, hence the proximity of Eadgar’s submission and William’s coronation. His barons were more concerned about having to wait to receive their lands and honours in return for their fealty. As a result, William was set to be crowned on Christmas Day.

Even then, the newly crowned king hesitated.  At this point, only the southeastern part of the kingdom was truly subdued, despite the aristocratic submissions from Mercia and Northumberland. Also, his wife and future queen was still in Normandy, and he naturally wished for her to be crowned alongside him as Queen Consort. On the first point, however, he was eventually persuaded that once he had begun to rule with full legitimacy, any actual or potential rebels could be quickly made to submit. The Archbishops and Bishops were no doubt relieved, if saddened, by the deposition of Eadgar and his replacement by a foreign ruler. But Eadgar himself was present at the ceremony, as were Earls Morcar and Edwin. Even Archbishop Ealdred eventually gave up the cause of Royal Wessex and was among those who crowned William I at the Abbey.

The audience comprised both Normans and English, but the majority of London’s citizens must have remained at home. No doubt those who did attend were relieved to help put an end to the bloodshed, as even those who were not present at the battle had witnessed the steady stream of walking wounded who found refuge in the city in the days which followed it. Some mounted cavalry remained outside the abbey, as a precaution against ambush. The ceremony followed a conventional form, adhering to long-standing English traditions. The service was conducted by Ealdred, Archbishop of York, rather than Stigand. William swore to govern the people well and justly, and to establish and maintain the law, totally forbidding rapine and unjust judgements.

But the Normans had harried everywhere they went, and continued to do so, as if they were still at war. The coronation itself was almost a disaster as Norman soldiers outside the Abbey, hearing shouts of acclamation for the new king in both English and French, mistook them for the start of an uprising and responded by setting fire to the nearby houses, causing the church to fill with smoke and many of those attending to flee in panic. Contemporaries observed that this was not an auspicious beginning for the newly crowned king.

William responded by continuing to point out that he, as the lawful successor to the Confessor, would guarantee the rights of his new subjects. However, in the immediate years after 1066, there was a keen sweep of the upper echelons of Anglo-Danish society in England: the leading Anglo-Saxon thanes had either been killed at Hastings, had compromised with the conqueror, or were in exile in Flanders or further afield. Both the lay aristocracy and the upper levels of the Church saw a considerable change of personnel, beginning with the replacement of Stigand by Lanfranc as Archbishop of Canterbury.

Just before William left for Normandy, he decided to move his household to Berkhamsted as soon as the castle was completed. Edwin and Morcar visited him there on returning from their earldoms. They were keen to recover some of the lands they had had confiscated as a result of their initial support for Eadgar. William treated them with honour, but fined them heavily in exchange for returning their lands. He also commanded the monks of Bury St Edmunds to produce a ledger of the lands of all those among the fallen Saxons at Hastings so that he could confiscate their lands.

Soon after, he travelled to Pevensey where he had commanded a large number of high-ranking Englishmen to meet him, including Eadgar, Morcar and Edwin. They were charged to sail with him to Normandy as his hostages, though they were treated as members of his retinue while in Normandy. Before he set sail, William had committed the government of England to Odo and William fitz Osbern, based respectively at Dover and Winchester. When he returned, William kept Edwin and Morcar as hostages at his court at Westminster.

Twenty-Four; Exeter, 1067-68 – The Norman Yoke:

After the short period of peace which followed William’s coronation and his departure for St Valery, there was renewed Anglo-Danish resistance and brutal retaliation by Norman barons, now unrestrained by William in Normandy, including the seizure of Saxon estates, and it was not long before full-scale rebellions broke out. Although the Norman chroniclers asserted that the two men dealt justly with their fellow Christian subjects, Orderic Vitalis again replaced what he saw as their propagandised comments with a passage which made no bones as to what the Saxon subjects suffered at the hands of their new Norman masters:

Meanwhile, the English were groaning under the Norman Yoke and suffering oppressions from the proud lords who ignored the King’s injunctions; the petty lords who guarded the castles oppressed all native inhabitants of high and low degree and heaped shameful burdens on them. …

For Bishop Odo and William Fitz Osbern, the King’s Vice-Jurants were so swollen with pride that they would not deign to hear the reasonable plea of the English or give them impartial judgement. When their men-at-arms were guilty of plunder and rape, they protected them by force, and wreaked their wrath all the more violently on those who complained of the cruel wrongs they suffered.        

Moreover, the Norman expropriation of Anglo-Danish estates, frequently violent, was considered by the thanes to be a breach of William’s solemn promise at Berkhamsted as well as those he had made at his coronation. William had received news of an insurrection while still in Normandy. This was centred on Exeter, but was part of a more general conspiracy which had, as its core, the remnant of the Godwin family, coordinated by Gytha, the mother of Harold Godwinson and his three brothers, all of whom had been killed either at Stamford Bridge or at Hastings. His sons by his first wife, Edith Swan-neck, who, together with Gytha, had fled to Exeter.

Soon after arriving back in London, William mustered his troops and marched west through Wessex, Godwin territory, to the city. He besieged it, but when the Godwin faction left, it was surrendered by its citizens. But the Conqueror did not keep to the terms they had agreed, and sacked the city. Raids by Harold’s sons from the north Wessex (Somerset) coast and into the Bristol Channel were defeated, and William led his army on into Cornwall, putting down every disturbance that came to his attention, and then putting command of the far west in the hands of a Breton follower. He then disbanded his Anglo-Norman army and returned to Winchester in time to celebrate Easter.

Twenty-Five: 1067-9, York, Durham – Northern Risings; The Flight to Scotland:

It was probably on their return to England from Normandy in 1067 that Eadgar broke from William and fled to Northumbria, probably by ship and with his family. With the remainder of the Godwin clan in exile, their lands were now forfeit, and the Conqueror had more lands with which to reward his loyal followers. One of these, a long-time friend, Roger de Montgomery, was a principal beneficiary. He had been co-regent with William’s wife Matilda in Normandy, and now returned to England with William, being first charged with the keep of the castles of Chichester and Arundel. He was then made Earl of Shrewsbury when Shropshire was carved out of Edwin’s Mercian lands to create one of the new marcher lordships.

Another of the new king’s friends, William de Warenne, became the castellan of Lewes, so that with all the quickest routes to Normandy guarded, his chief tenants on the south coast could also keep an eye out for any further trouble brewing in what had only recently been the Godwin heartland further west.

The Norman king then turned his attentions to the North, after receiving a visit from Gospatrick of Bamburgh, who came south in the hope of securing the Earldom of Northumbria he had held before the initial conquest of the south. Despite having murdered William’s preferred candidate, William agreed to sell him the earldom for what Simeon of Durham declared to be a great sum.

For Morcar, the grant of the northern half of his earldom to Gospatrick must have come as a severe blow to his prestige, but in Yorkshire too, he may have exercised little power. After their defeat at Fulford, Harold had handed control of the shire to Maerlsweyn, the sheriff of Lincolnshire, and he was still in charge there two years later, in 1068. The earldom as a title had always been an overlordship in Saxon times, divided into two regions under the control of two lesser lords.

In 1068, the harsh Norman régime had led to further spontaneous native uprisings in the North, especially among the supporters of Eadgar Aetheling, who was now in Scotland with his family at the court of King Malcolm. According to William of Poitiers, William still counted the Aetheling among his dearest friends, on account of his kinship to Edward the Confessor and had tried to compensate him for the loss of the crown with gifts of land. However, it seems probable that Eadgar had not appreciated William taking him as a hostage to Normandy and that his resolve to support those in rebellion was strengthened by his mother and sisters having been freed from the same danger of being held hostage while at court in London.

They had taken ship from the Thames, obstensibly intending to return to Hungary via Hamburg, but more likely to the Humber and then, separately from Eadgar, to Scotland, but on the second stage of their journey they were blown off course and shipwrecked on Orkney at what later became known as St Margaret’s Hope. They subsequently dropped anchor in the Firth of Forth. It was claimed that King Andrew’s illegitimate son, George, who had accompanied the Wessex exiles to England and protected them during the previous ten years, played a major role in saving the three women from the shipwreck, for which he was later rewarded with lands on which to settle.

There they met and sought sanctuary with the King of Scotland, Malcolm III, whom Margaret had met ten years previously at King Edward’s court and who now escorted them to his court at Dunfermline. Having arrived in Scotland, they could no longer be held, effectively, as hostages by William in the wake of Eadgar revoking his allegiance to him and going over to the rebels. By joining them, he gave them a legitimate cause and figurehead. Orderic reported that they prepared to defend themselves in woods, marshes and cities. Also, The Anglo-Saxon Chronicle recorded that the king was informed that in the North, the people had gathered together and intended to make a stance against him, if he came north. William’s response to the rebellion was resolute. He did go north, intending to recapture York and to subdue the rebels. Along the route through Mercia and south Yorkshire, he allowed his men to harry wherever they went as a warning of what York might expect. As soon as he had planted his first new castle at Warwick, Edwin and Morcar, effectively the leaders of the rebellion, surrendered. When Nottingham fell, and another new castle arose, the citizens of York dispatched hostages together with the keys to the city gates. William arrived there soon afterwards and planted a third new castle, known as Clifford’s Tower.

At this point, the remaining rebels in Northumbria also gave up the fight. Some, like the Bishop of Durham, approached the king and sought his pardon. Others, including Maerlsweyn, Gospatrick and Eadgar Aetheling, sought refuge in Scotland. King Malcolm had supported the rebels from the start, and was preparing to send forces to their aid, but when he saw how quickly the rising had collapsed and envoys from William arrived demanding his submission, he sent back representatives to swear fealty and obedience on his behalf. William then left York, and built further castles on his way back to London, at Lincoln, Huntingdon and Cambridge.

But William remained anxious about the security of northern England, and with good reason. Although King Malcolm had personally submitted to William’s overlordship, he had not yet surrendered any of the English rebels at his court. Maerlsweyn, Gospatrick and Eadgar remained at large.

At the beginning of the New Year of 1069, therefore, the Norman king decided to tighten his grip on the North by appointing another new earl, this time a complete outsider. Robert Cumyn was probably from the Flemish town of Comyn, and came to England with a band of Flemish mercenaries, numbering between five hundred and nine hundred men. His remit was to govern the region to the north of the Tyne.

He allowed his men to ravage the countryside by looting and killing, which they carried on when they entered the city of Durham. At first light, the Northumbrians rushed through all the gates, killing the earl’s companions. The Flemish put up some resistance at the bishop’s house where Cumyn was quartered, but the insurgents simply burnt down the building and continued cutting down the rest of his Flemings. The massacre at Durham on 31st January acted as a trigger for a new general rising. A short time later, the governor of the new castle at York was slaughtered with many of his men. The Northumbrians gained confidence in resisting the Normans, whom they saw as oppressors of their friends and allies.

The leaders of the resistance returned from their exile north of the Forth. They joined forces with the rebels and led them in an attack on York, where the Norman sheriff and his men were still holding out. He managed to get a message out to William, who had recently returned from a second visit to Normandy. The Conqueror arrived at the city with a swiftness which surprised the Northumbrians, and shocked them with an overwhelming display of arms. Orderic reported that:

Many were taken captive, and more were killed, and others were put to flight.

The whole city was ravaged and Yorkminster was made an object of scorn by the Norman soldiery. The leaders of the rebellion managed to escape from the city, but Eadgar returned to Scotland alone this time. William gave the custody of the city to William fitz Osbern before himself returning to Winchester for Easter on 13th April.

Feeling increasingly secure, William sent messages to his wife, inviting her to join him at court. She came immediately, with her full retinue and a few weeks later, at Whitsun, she was crowned at Westminster. The witness list included Ealdred and Stigand, Leofric of Exeter and Odo of Bayeux, Roger of Montgomery and William fitz Osbern, Edwin and Morcar. However, behind the scenes, there was mounting anger at the ongoing redistribution of land. Edwin and Morcar were especially upset about their lost lands and as well as their enforced visit to Normandy the previous year. They offended William by leaving court immediately following the ceremony and once more returning to their estates to lead the local resistance which formed around them. However, their opposition collapsed at the first sign of favour from the king, and they were welcomed back to court. But despite their repeated acts of submission, they remained shunned and disaffected throughout the entire course of the Conquest.

The Anglo-Saxon Chronicle (E version) summed up the experience of the six months of 1068 since William’s return and the resentment of the earls and thanes in a single sentence:

When he came back, he gave away every man’s land.

Orderic Vitalis also identified the loss of patrimonies of the main cause of discontent from 1068 onwards. Even those whom the King had tried to appease were losing patience with him. The brothers Edwin and Morcar may have harboured resentment over their compulsory tour of Normandy as the king’s honoured guests but what must have rankled more was not just the loss of lands and wealth, but the steady erosion of their authority in England that went with it. Much of Morcar’s earldom had been granted to Normans, leading to the Great Northern Rising of 1069 and the devastation of Yorkshire the following winter.

Edwin may have been even more disillusioned with William’s rule than his brother, given the gulf between what he had been promised in return for his submission in 1066 and what he had actually received by the end of 1068. Orderic, himself a Mercian, reported:

When William had made peace with Edwin, he had granted him authority over his brother and almost a third of England, and had promised to give him his daughter in marriage.   

This may not have been a promise William intended to keep, but it was taken seriously by Edwin, and for him the proposed marriage was not simply a transactional matter. He had been courting the lady in question for the past two years, and Orderic commented that William now…

withheld the maiden from the noble youth, who had greatly desired her and had long waited for her.

Apart from the apparent heartbreak this caused him, Edwin also had his authority undermined. Along the border between England and Wales, the Norman king established Marcher lordships to control the borderlands. These were to be independent fiefdoms in the charge of William’s most trusted chief tenants, based on the three towns of Chester, Shrewsbury and Hereford.

The earldom of Hereford included Worcester, which had been a major concern for Edwin as a cathedral city, a major centre of the English Church, previously held by Ealdred before he became Archbishop of York. As for Shrewsbury, the powerbase of the new north Mercian earldom, it had always, through Saxon times, been the county town of Shropshire, a constituent part of the Kingdom of Mercia until the conquest of Cnut fifty years earlier when Eadmund Ironside had received King Offa’s bloodied sword from his brother Aethelstan. Now Shropshire was suddenly taken away from Edwin and given by William to a newly arrived Frenchman, Roger de Montgomery. In doing this, the Conqueror had driven a symbolic wedge between himself and the greatest surviving English earl.

Later in 1068, the brothers withdrew from court once more, returned to their earldoms and rebelled against William, attempting this time to raise a major rebellion in Mercia. Orderic described the cataclysmic nature of their action:

Edwin and Morcar rose in rebellion, and many others with them.

One of these involved in the rising was not even a true subject of the new Norman king, but a king in his own right. King Bleddyn of Wales was among the first magnates to come out in support of Edwin, no doubt enraged by the land-grabbing Norman barons who had established themselves, with William’s approval, along his borders. They were supported by many thousands of  both English and Welsh; the clergy, monks and the poor were strongly on their side, and messages were sent to every part of the kingdom to stir up resistance.

Morcar’s activity may be inferred from the prominent role in the rebellion by York. The most significant supporter of the two earls was Eadgar Aetheling, who was now completely alienated from William, having left his court together with his family to join the Northumbrian rebels at the court of King Malcolm. He was again the figurehead for a fresh rebellion, having released himself and his family from William’s vice-like grip, and was especially upheld by the Bernician district under the control of Gospatrick. In addition, despite their recent divisions over William’s slicing up of Northumbria, Morcar received the support of Gospatrick, Maerlsweyn, Archbishop Ealdred of York (who nevertheless tried to calm the citizens of York) and the Bishop of Durham.

But both Morcar and Edwin were not inclined to risk too much; they advanced to Warwick and there made another submission to William, were pardoned and kept at court with an appearance of favour. On their defection, the rebellion came to nothing. As far as we know, the two brothers had played no part in the risings of 1068-70, either in the Midlands or the North after the Warwick submission. However, the two brothers had received the King’s forgiveness in 1068 in outward appearance only, and, in reality, they were prisoners at court.

Twenty-Six – Wearmouth, 1069-70; The Danish Invasion and the Harrying of the North.

Having left her island hide-away in the Bristol Channel, Gytha, after a short stay in Flanders, had sailed to Denmark in the summer of 1069 in the hope of attracting Danish support for the Godwin cause. Almost from the day after William’s coronation, Anglo-Danish thanes had been sending messages across the North Sea to solicit aid from the Danish king, Sweyn Estrikssohn. Up until this point, Sweyn had shown little enthusiasm for adventures along the English East coast, but since the Norman victory at Hastings, he had begun to display a keener interest and wished, in particular, to avenge the deaths of the Danish troops he had sent to Harold Godwinson’s aid.

But by 1069, the factor influencing him was doubtless the obvious unpopularity of Norman rule, especially in the North and the Danelaw, where there were still many familial ties to Scandinavia. In addition, a major rebellion flared up in Northumbria led by Earl Waltheof and Prince Eadgar, who had returned to northern England and joined with the other rebel leaders in Northumbria.

The English envoys now had little difficulty in persuading Sweyn that, if he intervened or invaded, he would be met by a huge groundswell of Anglo-Danish support among the English population. So, in the summer of 1069, Sweyn began to assemble a huge invasion force. Orderic stated that…

…he strained all the resources of his kingdom, as well as amassing troops from neighbouring regions that were friendly towards him; Poland, Fresia and Saxony all helped.   

It was late in the summer when the Danish fleet finally sailed. It arrived on the Northumbrian coast at some point between 15th August and 8th September. With the arrival of Sweyn’s army, King Malcolm decided to take his army into Cumbria and across the Pennines via Teesdale before occupying Wearmouth. There Malcolm met Eadgar, who was invited to return to Scotland with him, but initially he declined the offer, prefering to remain in Northumberland until later in the year, when he then rejoined his family at Malcolm’s court.

In the meantime, the Danes raided their way up the eastern coasts of England until they reached the Humber estuary, where they were met by Eadgar, Gospatrick and Maerlsweyn. How exactly the aspirations of the three English magnates were going to be reconciled with those of the Danish king is unclear in the chronicles, but Sweyn returned to Denmark and was not there in person to take part in what was supposed to be his own invasion, so there seemed no urgent need for a solution to this issue. The English rebel leaders were overjoyed; it seemed to them that the them that the days of Norman rule in England were numbered. Archbishop Ealdred, however, was so distressed to hear of another Danish invasion that he took to his bed and died on 11th September. He was said to have died of a broken heart due to what may have seemed to him to be the impending defeat of the English cause in the North.

Eadgar and the other Northumbrian rebels joined the Danish army from the fleet, and there was a wave of fresh uprisings in various parts of England. News of the arrival of the Danish fleet in the Humber stirred the rebels in Wessex and Mercia into action. William was hunting in the Forest of Dean when he heard the news of the arrival of the Danish fleet. He sent messages to York, warning his men to be prepared, but they answered that they could hold out for a year or more.

York’s Norman garrison seem to have become even more anxious, and on 19th September, in an act of desperation at the approach of the Danish force, they began setting fire to the houses adjacent to the castle, fearing that their timbers could be used to bridge the defensive ditch. Predictably, the blaze ran out of control and soon the whole city was engulfed in flames, including the Minster.

Two days later, with the fire still burning, the Anglo-Danish army arrived. The Norman garrison sallied out to engage them, but was quickly overwhelmed. John of Worcester reported that more than three thousand Normans were killed, and only a few, including the sheriff of York and his family, were spared. The Danes and Northumbrian rebel forces then went on to take control of the earldom as a whole.

When William received the news  three days later, he mobilised an army and marched on York, only to find that the Danes had returned to their ships and crossed to the other side of the Humber, where they were camping on the Isle of Axeholm in Lincolnshire, among the marshes, with no intention of meeting the Conqueror in open battle.

The king set about flushing his enemies out from their hiding places, but news arrived of rebellions in other parts of the kingdom, including in Somerset and Exeter (again). Shrewsbury was subjected to a combined attack from the Welsh, the local population and the men of Chester. This was led by Eadric the Wild and other untamable Englishmen. All William’s enemies were seizing the chance to shake off his lordship, his yoke. William sent Fitz Osbern and others to suppress this revolt in West Mercia. But the rebels set fire to Shrewsbury and scattered, only to reassemble once the Normans had moved on to Exeter.

The Conqueror himself  then went to deal with the Mercian rebels, eventually defeating a large force at Stafford. Moving across the Midlands to Lincolnshire, he then turned his attentions back to York, where, in mid-November, the Danes had returned.

But William found that the bridge across the River Aire at Pontefract had been broken by the Anglo-Danish insurgents, blocking the way to York and giving the town its name (meaning broken bridge in Latin). There he was confronted by a river he couldn’t cross, without bridges he could use and a current that was too fast to ford. He was delayed there for three weeks until his scouts discovered a ford further up-river which he was able to cross, using a ballista bombardment to cover his advance and causing the Danes to retreat.

Late in the year, William fought his way into Northumbria, but it was not until December that William’s army was able to reoccupy York, only to find that the Danes had, once again, returned to their fleet in the Humber, where William could not get at it. William offered the Danish commander a large sum of money, and gave permission for his men to forage along the coasts, on the condition that he would leave, without fighting, at the end of the winter. The Danish leader accepted, and having bought off his main opponent, William left York and divided his army into smaller contingents. Eadgar’s small seaborne raid into Lindsey (Lincolnshire) ended in disaster and he escaped with only a handful of supporters to rejoin the main Anglo-Danish forces.

William’s response was to turn to terror tactics once more. Orderic explained that the Norman contingents spread out over a hundred miles of moorland and forest territory, slaying many men and destroying the homes and hiding places of others. William also commanded that all crops, herds, chattels and food of every kind should be brought together and burned, so that no future Anglo-Danish army would be able to sustain itself by raiding across Northumbria. William’s scorched earth policy was brutally effective, as he spent the winter of 1069-70 laying waste all before him, until all resistance was ended.

The resulting famine was reported by Orderic to have caused the starvation of a hundred thousand Northumbrians. The Harrying of the North as it became known, put paid to the immediate threat of a popular and widespread Anglo-Danish uprising. Orderic, albeit born five years later, concluded:

My narrative has frequently had occasion to praise William, but for this act, which condemned the guilty and innocent alike to die by slow starvation, I cannot commend him. For when I think of helpless children, young men in the prime of life and hoary greybeards perishing alike of hunger, I am so moved to pity that I would rather lament the grief and sufferings of the wretched people than make a vain attempt to flatter the perpetrator of such infamy. Moreover, I declare that, assuredly, such brutal slaughter cannot remain unpunished.                 

As 1069 drew to a close, and with the countryside all around him still smouldering, William left his army in camp and went to York for Christmas. But York Minster, according to the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, was completely… burnt down.

Soon after Christmas, William learned of the location of some of the rebel leaders and set out to confront them. Eadgar and his small band of followers had taken refuge in a marshy area north of the Humber estuary, perhaps Holderness. William moved against them and put them to flight. He then pursued them across North Yorkshire and caught some of them at the Tees, where Gospatrick swore fealty. But Maerlsweyn and Eadgar fled through Northumbria, back into Scotland. The Norman army followed them, spreading all over the moorland and forested area between the Tees and the Tyne, but failed to find them.

Twenty-Seven: Queen Margaret at King Malcolm’s Court, 1070.

Eadgar’s family was now settled in Scotland and, after a period of courting, Margaret became Malcolm’s Queen Consort in 1070. According to the contemporary evidence of Simeon of Durham, she civilised her adoptive country as well as Malcolm himself. When Malcolm married Margaret, he agreed to support Eadgar in his attempt to regain the English throne for the House of Wessex. According to Simeon, Agatha (Margaret and Eadgar’s mother) left Scotland at some point soon after 1070, probably returning to Bavaria by ship via Hamburg or Bremen. Before leaving, she gave her Black Cross (a section is shown below) to her daughter Margaret as an inheritance.

The name Margaret, margarita in Latin, was derived from the Greek word for a pearl, which is why Margaret became known as the precious pearl in Hungary and later the pearl of Scotland. The ultimate origin is believed to be Persian for child of light, based upon a myth about how is pearls were formed by dewdrops and moonbeams. The name first appeared in Scotland in the late eleventh century, having penetrated into central-eastern Europe through the veneration of St Margaret of Antioch, a third-century martyr. The name also became popular in medieval England and was shortened to Madge and Meg, while in Scotland the pet forms Maisie and Maggie also became common and Greta became popular in German and Swedish.

Of the three children of Edward the Exile, Margaret is the best remembered in history and tradition. Her importance lies not only in the fact that it  was she who began the religious and administrative reforms of Scotland during the reign of her husband, Malcolm III, but that through her gentle influence, she ennobled the still austere morals and customs of the kingdom. That is why contemporary chroniclers claimed that she civilised Scotland.

Turgot, Bishop of St Andrews, wrote an obituary of Margaret, Queen of Scotland, which he addressed to Matilda, Queen of the English, wife of Henry I and Margaret’s daughter, who was christened Eadyth but crowned as Matilda, who had commanded him to narrate… the particulars of the life of her mother so that she could have it continually before her eyes. When Margaret died, Eadyth was at Wilton Abbey, and though her father visited her there, Turgot’s record of her life suggests that she had not seen much of her mother during her years in England:

although you were but little familiar with her face, you might at least have a perfect acquaintance with her virtues… But far be it from my grey hairs to mingle falsehood with the virtues of such a woman as she was, in unfolding which I profess… that I add nothing to the  truth.

Having known the late Queen of Scotland since her arrival in Scotland as a young princess (aged twenty-one) following the Conquest of England and the deposition of her brother, Turgot added:

… whilst Margaret was yet in the first flower of youth, she began to lead a very strict life, to love God above all things, to employ herself in the study of Divine writings, and therein with joy to exercise her mind. Her understanding was keen to comprehend any matter, whatever it might be; to this was joined a great tenacity of memory, enabling her to store it up, along with a graceful flow of language to express it. …

… even amidst the distractions of lawsuits, amidst the countless cares of state,… she used to ask profound questions from the learned men who were sitting near her. But just as no one among them possessed a deeper intellect than herself, so none had the power of clearer expression. Thus it often happened that these doctors went from her much wiser men than when they came. …

Her support for her husband and influence on him, according to the bishop, was significant:

… This prudent queen directed all such things as it was fitting for her to regulate; the laws of the realm were administered by her counsel; by her care the influence of religion was extended, and the people rejoiced in the prosperity of their affairs. … nothing was more enduring than her patience, graver than her advice, or more pleasant than her conversation. …

… When she spoke, her conversation was seasoned with the salt of wisdom …
… in regard to King Malcolm, by the help of God she made him most attentive to the works of justice, mercy, almsgiving, and other virtues; … she instructed him by her exhortation and example how to pray… There was in him a sort of dread of offending one whose life was so vulnerable. … nay, more, he readily obeyed her wishes and prudent counsels in all things. … Hence it was that, although he could not read, he would turn over and examine books which she used either for her devotions or her study. … She also arranged that persons of a higher position should be appointed for the king’s service … to accompany him in state whenever he walked or rode abroad. … wherever they came, none of them was suffered to take anything from anyone, nor did they dare to oppress or injure country people or the poor.

At the same time, Margaret was aware that it was part of her duty as Queen to maintain a certain degree of kingly dignity and decorum at the royal palace, but without creating a show of worldly splendour:

Further, she introduced so much state into the royal palace, that not only was it brightened by the many colours of the apparel worn in it, but the whole dwelling blazed with gold and silver… in her exalted dignity she was always watchful to preserve humility. It was easy for her to repress all vain glory… since her soul never forgot how transitory is this frail life.   

She was also very careful about the upbringing of her children:

… She took all heed that they should be well brought up, and especially that they should be trained in virtue. …

Turgot, Bishop of St Andrews, Obituary of Margaret, Queen of Scotland: Edited by William Forbes-Leith (3rd  edn., 1896).

Twenty-Eight: Easter, Spring 1070 – Mercia and Wessex 

Towards the end of January 1070, William decided to end the hunt for the Northern rebel leaders and returned to York. There he spent some time rebuilding the city before setting off to deal with the remaining rebels in Mercia. Their siege of Shrewsbury was raised, and more new castles were built at Chester and Stafford. By March, after more than two years of fighting, the general revolt had been defeated. But although a few rebels such as Gospatrick had submitted and had their estates restored, many more had been killed or were in exile, which had also produced a new round of confiscations. Those who lost their lands at this point probably included Eadgar and certainly his fellow exile, Maerlsweyn, whose estates were transferred directly to a Norman baron.

At Easter 1070, William had himself crowned for a second time, at Winchester, in a ceremony which was designed to provide an emphatic statement of the Conqueror’s legitimacy in the ancient capital of Wessex. A papal legation of two cardinals and a bishop solemnly recrowned William. They also renewed the penitential ordinances that had first been issued after the Battle of Hastings so that they could cover the spilling of blood that had followed during the previous three years of  quelling rebellions.

More importantly, they visited the various diocese to correct and reform the lax state, as they found it from their Roman view, of the English Church. This began with the deposition of Stigand, who had already been excommunicated for simony, holding two posts at the same time, Winchester and Canterbury.

Even before the risings, William had given his brother, Odo of Bayeux, the earldom of Kent and a castle at Dover, from which to defend the Channel, while in the Anglo-Welsh marches he created the earldom of Hereford, giving its stewardship to William Fitz Osbern, who also held Norwich for him in case of another Danish attack. William also created new earldom of Chester and Shrewsbury to protect against further rebellions like that led by Eadric the Wild, supported by the Welsh between 1067 and 1070, and to secure the border with Gwynedd, through the building and garrisoning of a new castle at Rhuddlan.

William’s followers thought it necessary to impress the conquered natives with their military might. They therefore erected castles throughout England; these were simple constructions at first, and from their wooden towers they sallied out to subdue the peasantry, though in Suffolk, for example, the Normans had little trouble from them; the freemen and serfs alike resigned themselves without a struggle to the exchange of a Danish thane for a Norman baron. The English knew how strong the new fortresses were since they had been pressed into building them themselves, under the watchful eyes of Norman overseers.

The Conqueror gave Richard Fitz Gilbert control over 170 castles in Essex and Suffolk, and the tenant-in-chief  built his own castle at Clare on the conjunction of the Stour and Chilton. He reused the massive hundred-foot-high Saxon earthwork, surmounting it with two baileys, each fenced and moated. Another moat and curtain wall encircled the base of the motte making it a supremely strong, defensive fortification.

Twenty-Nine; The Attack on Peterborough, Summer 1070:

At the end of May 1070, despite the deal struck between William and the leader of Sweyn’s invasion force, Osbjorn, the Danish fleet had not sailed home. Their plan all along had been to establish and maintain a permanent base in northeast England from which Sweyn could lead an outright conquest. Sweyn had finally arrived, joining his brother at the mouth of the Humber. His reception was rapturous, and although the English leaders had fled Northumbria at the beginning of 1070, the local people came out in support of the Danish king, assuming that he would now go on to defeat the Normans in battle. But Sweyn appears to have remained close to the Humber, while Osbjern and a force of Danish housecarls immediately moved south into East Anglia, attacking first Peterborough and then Ely. Here, too, there was, reportedly, a great surge of goodwill among the people of the Fenlands, and considerable optimism. The Anglo-Saxon Chronicle (E) commented:

Englishmen from all over the Fenlands came to meet them, thinking that they were going to conquer the whole land.

Meanwhile, during and after the northern rebellions, the northern thanes (those from north of the Thames) continued to resist the Norman land-grab. They were led in the East by Hereward Asketilson, an Anglo-Danish thane once outlawed and exiled by King Edward, who now rose in open rebellion. Hereward was desribed as a man of gentle or noble birth who was one of the leading men of the Fen district and a vir strenuissmus, a most active and energetic man, an action man, one with a fearsome back-story. He had returned to England from Flanders in 1068 to find that his father, Asketil, and grandfather, Toki (a merchant of Lincoln), had died in fighting, in addition to his brother, Toli.

Those left in charge when William returned to Normandy in 1067 had done nothing to control their men. Hereward’s estates had been seized, so he decided to join those Englishmen whom the Normans called the wildmen of the woods, who were resisting the continuing conquest.

By the time Hereward returned to the Fens, the rebels had taken refuge in the woods, marshes and river valleys. He first visited his uncle, Brand the Monk, who had succeeded Leofric as Abbot of Peterborough. Brand had angered William in the autumn of 1066 by going to Eadgar for recognition as Abbot because William had not yet been crowned king. William had fined him forty gold marks, a considerable, debilitating sum. Hereward had held some of his lands as a steward of Peterborough, and now renewed his promise to protect the abbey, but he also found out that all of his lands, and the lands of his father and grandfather, in more than seven shires, had been appropriated by the Normans.

Hereward was alleged to have driven out the Norman occupants of one of his manors, slaying several of them. He may well have returned from the continent to his inheritance, his patrimony, and discovering that it had been confiscated, slew the occupants and moved quickly against the Norman king, to whom he had not yet sworn allegiance.

This probably took place in 1067, after William had returned to Normandy, leaving his brother, Odo of Bayeux and William FitzOsbern to govern the realm for most of that year and the next. Neither of them did much to restrain the barons and the Norman soldiery. At first, there was little resistance in the southern shires, which were still reeling from the trail of terror William had left from Hampshire to Hertfordshire. Orderic Vitalis reported that this was a period of constant plotting and of rumours of plots among native Anglo-Danish leaders.

Basing himself in the rebel hideout in the Fens and given help by the Abbot of Ely, Thurstan, Hereward began harassing the Normans, killing and robbing them. William himself was forced to offer him a truce after he almost caught and killed one of the leading barons, William de Warenne, who was later made Earl of Surrey. He had already been appointed Sheriff of Lincolnshire and was one of the Norman lords who had shared out Hereward’s lands. Hereward then returned to Flanders to collect his wife, Turfrida, the attractive Flemish daughter of the Castellan of St Omer, and to recruit some of the mercenaries soldiers who had fought with him in Scaldermariland.

While in Flanders, Abbot Thurstan sent Hereward a message telling him that his uncle, Brand, Abbot of Peterborough, was dead and that the sons of Sweyn Estridssohn, had arrived in the Fens with a raiding army and might be persuaded to support a rising against the Normans. He was also told that William had appointed a Norman, Turold of Malmesbury, previously of Fécamp in Normandy, as Abbot of Peterborough, and that he was on his way to the abbey with an army to defeat the rebels. Hereward pulled his army together hurriedly and returned to England. He held a meeting with the Danes and talked them into helping him upset William’s plan  by seizing the wealth and treasures of the abbey to prevent them falling into Norman hands.

Gathering together his combined forces of English, Danish and Flemish mercenaries, he then advanced to Peterborough, crossing the fens in large, flat-bottomed boats. At first they were resisted by the townsfolk, but then they set fire to the South gate of the abbey. Once inside, they collected all the movable precious objects they could lay their hands on. But then the Danes hung on to the greater part of the plunder and refused to help in further resistance to the Normans.

At some point after the attack on Peterborough on 2nd June 1070, William offered terms, which the Danish king accepted. His fleet sailed around the east coast, probably to collect his housecarls from East Anglia. They then put into the Thames estuary for two nights before sailing back to Denmark. By mid-summer, Sweyn and his troops were gone, leaving the English resistance on its own again. The Danes at Peterborough were ordered by King Sweyn to return to Denmark. He had done a deal with William in return for a large bribe, so the English rebels were left to face William’s wrath alone.

Sweyn must have quickly realised that even the great fleet he had sent with its army on board were inadequate to mount a full-scale conquest of the whole kingdom of England. With the benefit of hindsight, his subsequent decision to send Osbjern into East Anglia looks less like the start of a major military campaign, and more like a conventional Viking incursion or raid intended to recoup the costs involved in building the fleet and assembling the invasion force. However, even this more modest objective was also lost, as on their journey home, the Danes ran into a storm and most of their ships were wrecked, together with many men and much treasure. This was a disastrous turn of events for the Anglo-Danish resistance to the Norman power-grab.

(to be continued…)

The Bloodied Sword, the Precious Pearl and the Black Cross; Chronicles of the Royal House of Wessex – I.

Episode One

Above: Hungarians at Kyív a painting by Pál Vágó (1853-1928). It is extremely difficult to maintain, based on archaeological relics that have been unearthed in territories now forming part of Ukraine, that these objects are unmistakably the relics of the ancient Hungarians, or Magyars. It is probable, though, that as a result of research on such finds, that many more artifacts lie hidden in the Etelköz, the region settled by the ancient Hungarians before the final stage of their migration to the Carpathian Basin in the ninth century. The early eleventh-century spires of Kyív can be seen in the background, and in the foreground to the right, a young woman appears to be being traded as a slave with Hungarian traders.

Introduction – The Turn of the First Millennium
Raiders and Traders; Feudal Lords and the Unfree:

For generations on end, large areas of northern and central Europe were devastated by marauding raiders, Northmen and Magyars, and for centuries much larger areas were repeatedly thrown into turmoil by the private wars of feudal barons. At the same time, the bulk of the peasantry lived in a state of irksome dependence on their lords, ecclesiastical or lay. Many of them were serfs, slaves bonded to their landed masters, who carried their bondage in their blood and transmitted it from generation to generation. They belonged at birth to the patrimony of a lord, a uniquely degrading condition. …

During the mid-ninth century, the Magyars began their westward migration alongside other groups. Among them were a few herdsmen, while the majority were nomadic warriors engaged in raiding and trading, often dealing in slaves, gold, and silver acquired through plunder. Through this movement, they came into contact with the Rus, the Vikings, and the Turkic-Bulgar tribes residing along the Lower Danube.

One of these ethnic groups was the On-Ogour, which translates as “Ten Arrows” or “Ten Tribes” from the Turkic. This name refers to the ten Magyar tribes that had settled in the former territory of the Bulgar-Turkic alliance since the seventh century. Most of the future conquerors of the Carpathian Basin originated from the lands between the Dniester and Dnieper rivers, known in Hungarian as Etelköz, situated in the eastern foothills of the Carpathian mountains. They were therefore well-acquainted with the shores of the Black Sea, extending down to Byzantium, the Balkan Peninsula, the Carpathian Basin, and all of Central Europe to the west of the Danube. For many of them, a passion for warfare and wandering became a significant part of their identity. They began to move west, together with other groups, from the mid-ninth century. A few of them were herdsmen and the rest were nomadic warriors, raiding and trading in slaves, gold and silver taken as plunder. This is how they came into contact with the Rus, the Vikings and the Turkic-Bulgar tribes on the Lower Danube.

But most of the future ‘conquerors’ of the Carpathian Basin were found in the lands between the Dniester and Dnieper rivers, known in Hungarian as the Etelköz, in the east-facing foreground of the Carpathian mountains. They were therefore familiar with the shores of the Black Sea down to Byzantium, the Balkan peninsula, the Carpathian Basin and all of Central Europe to the west of the Danube. For the freer among them, warring and wandering also became a passion.  

In Eastern Europe, Hungarian trade connections with the Vikings began to develop along the Vistula River in the early tenth century, coinciding with the settlement of the Magyar tribes west of the Carpathians. However, by the end of the tenth century and the beginning of the new millennium, continuous raiding had made it nearly impossible for them to sustain their traditional way of life. This situation began to improve in the middle of the eleventh century, as regions gradually became more peaceful, allowing for population growth and the development of commerce. In Eastern Europe, Hungarian trading connections with Vikings also developed along the Vistula from the beginning of the tenth century, when the Magyar tribes were settling west of the Carpathians. But by the end of the tenth century and the beginning of the new millennium, the continual raiding was making their traditional way of life almost impossible to sustain. This state of affairs only began to change when, from the middle of the eleventh century onwards, first one region and then another became sufficiently peaceful for population to increase and commerce to develop.

Byzantium, Saxonia and the Kyívan Rus:

This was partly the result of the emergence of ruling dynasties in established territories like Byzantium, Saxonia and those of the Kyívan Rus. The reign of Kyívan Prince Askold, c. 860-882, was first mentioned in Byzantine sources at that time. Henry I, ‘The Fowler’, was the first of a Saxon dynasty, and his son, Otto I, grandson and great-grandson forged an empire that stretched from the Baltic to the Mediterranean. Otto I came to the throne in 936, made himself King of Italy in 951 and was crowned Holy Roman Emperor by Pope John XVI in 961.

Henry instituted strong systems of government and made clever use of ecclesiastical resources and built bishoprics and monasteries. The royal women, relatives of the reigning king, played a conspicuous role in politics during this period, sometimes acting as regents. Otto II married a Byzantine princess, Theophanu, and asserted his title of Emperor in competition to that of the Byzantines. Their son, Otto III, developed the imperial concept further before his premature death in 1002. It was left to his cousin, Henry II, to consolidate the practical governance of the kingdom, especially in Germany itself, and to forge a strong polity for his successors. Good relations were continued with the Western Frankish kingdom, as well as the newly independent Kingdom of Burgundy.

Dynastic Inter-marriage in the Xth-XIIth Centuries:

It is striking how marriage alliances in the tenth centuries created links of varying strength between the kingdoms of England, Burgundy, Germany, Bohemia, Russia, Bulgaria, and Byzantium. For example, eighteen queens, princesses and princes left Hungary to marry abroad during the reigns of the kings of the Árpád dynasty from the mid-tenth to the mid-twelfth century. A further twelve Hungarian queens were from places of origin outside Hungary, from as far west as Rheinfelden, south as Raska, east as Byzantium and north as Gniezno. This demonstrates how international many of the royal courts of Europe were in the early medieval period.

In addition, the tenth century was marked by the marauding peoples of the previous centuries, the Vikings in the north and the Magyars in the east, forming settled kingdoms themselves. In England, too, the Danelaw became almost a state within a state, as did Normandy, and in Poland the Piast rulers, especially Mieszko (963-992) extended their rule to the east, while in the south Krakow occupied a vital strategic position on the Vistula. By the second half of the tenth century, the significant expansion of the Kyívan Rus and their conversion to Christianity in 987 meant that their interests were increasingly pursued to the south and west. Later that same year, an expedition against the Bulgars on the lower Danube resulted in further, albeit temporary gains. After the Samanids succumbed to the Turks in 998, the Bulgar on the Volga also developed rapidly as trading partners, and the Volga Bulgars were supplied in turn by the Rus, who continued to trade actively with Constantinople and the Islamic regions.

Trade played a significant part in the growing importance of the Rus. The Samanid rulers of Transoxiana, the region and Persian civilization of lower central Asia, had become very rich as a result of the discovery of silver in Afghanistan. They minted vast quantities of coinage and their merchants traded across eastern Europe. There they came into contact with the Rus, who were also active traders along the Volga and as far as Constantinople.

The rapid expansion of the Kyívan Rus had much to do with trade and wealth, but cultural links also formed in the wake of these mercantile connections, which were crucially important in religious and political developments as Rus interests continued to expand westwards.

At the same time, the eastward expansion of the German empire continued apace into the eleventh century. The establishment of church centres at Magdeburg (968) and Bamberg (1007) was a fundamental component of governmental and administrative consolidation. Political relations between the princes of Poland, Bohemia, Moravia and Hungary were played out in the context of the conversion of the rulers and ruling dynasties. This was especially the case with the House of Árpád in Hungary.

The formal conversion of Volodymyr and the Rus to Greek Orthodoxy after 987, the baptism of his people in 988, and his marriage to the Byzantine princess Anna, provided the essential link for Kyív’s future development. This process came to a formal conclusion with the first legal code, Ruska Pravda, in 1015-16. But the Kyívan state was dissolved after the death of Volodymyr I as he was succeeded by sons who each ruled separate principalities based on Novgorod, Polotsk and Chernihiv, in addition to Kyív.

The Era of István and Yaroslav the Wise:

The main problem for both the Rus and the Magyars at this point was that posed by a Turkic people attacking from the east, the Pechenegs. From 1017-37, the construction of St Sophia Cathedral and the Golden Gate took place in Kyív, at its completion commemorating the victory of Yaroslav the Wise over the pagan, nomadic Pechenegs. Its golden dome could be seen from all the hills surrounding Kyív. A painting by Pál Vágó (1853-1928) depicted “Hungarians in front of Kyív” in the early eleventh century, trading with Kyívan merchants on one of these hills, under a watchtower (see frontispiece). There appears to be buying and selling of military dress and armour, church ornaments, and slaves.

There also appear to be dark-skinned Kabers among the Hungarians, originally from the Khazar Empire, serving in the army as subject auxiliaries. Among them were Muslims and Jews, as well as a small minority of Christians. A few of them were herdsmen, but the rest were unruly nomadic warriors, raiding and trading in slaves, gold and silver taken as plunder. This is probably how they came into contact with the Rus traders and also with small bands of Vikings. Warring and wandering became dual passions for them. They were fond of home in winter, of the splendidly decorated yurt and the women they were accustomed to, who raised their heirs faithfully, while enjoying the embraces of the new slave women they had gained in battle.

The Hungarian state was being formed between disintegrating eastern and reintegrating western empires. Byzantium was experiencing centuries-long decline while the western experience was one of technical developments, growth of feudal societies and new forms of weaponry and ways of waging war. But all these developments were being challenged by avaricious Arabs, both Saracens and Moors, from the south and east while Vikings continued to raid from the north. Europe reacted slowly, with minor successor states continuing to squabble over the collapsed parts of the Roman Empire.                           

The still half-nomadic Hungarians could no longer content themselves with rich meadows, well-stocked streams and fertile ploughlands. There had to be a clear division of labour if they were to survive in their new homelands. Their agriculturalists could not participate in raiding parties; most of these campaigns began in the spring, the time of greatest agricultural activity, and rarely ended before the harvest. The marauders therefore constituted only one fifth of the population. On both sides of the Carpathians, a leading class was emerging whose power was based on strong military retinues in addition to material wealth. These retinues never knew a time of peace.

The agriculture of hoeing and ploughing and horticulture, together with the still rather nomadic animal husbandry, were more than adequate to meet the needs of the entire population. But the leading classes’ aspirations for power and wealth required money and the large military retinues had to content themselves with their small portions from the surplus yields of their new homelands.

The Taming of the Marauders – Augsburg, 955:

From the middle of the tenth century onwards, the rulers and aspiring rulers of Europe realised that the dynamics of incursions could no longer be supported. In Central Europe, this meant a recognition that by the constant weakening of each other’s populations and economies through raiding, all the marauding Magyars were doing was ruining themselves. Militarily, they recognised that the warfare of the Hungarian light cavalrymen was easy to see through and vulnerable, that this voracious people wedged in Central Europe could be tamed by counter-attacking their dispersed forces separately, not in isolated settlements but with united forces.

Contrary to the contentions of western European chroniclers, it was not primarily the defeat inflicted by Otto I at Augsburg in 955 that staggered the Hungarians. The victors exaggerated this news because of their intoxication with the war fever at home. It was the Hungarians’ defeat at Riade in 933 that had led to Géza, István and Andrew I transforming Hungary into a civilised Western European Catholic country.

Even as the remnants of the army headed homeward from Augsburg, internal relations in the homelands were changing. The wiser leaders of the Hungarian tribal confederations had already woken up, like their adversaries, to the fact that the restless, full-bloodied Hungarians had to be settled among the peoples within the more secure borders of Christian Europe.

By the beginning of the new millennium, the Kyívan Rus had firmer frontiers, further west, with both Poland and Hungary. Also, to the west of Hungary at this time, the upper marshes along the Danube, under Hungarian control, stretched into the Vienna Basin, even beyond Vienna itself. But news about the Hungarians withdrawing to their new borders after Augsburg had filled the raid-affected regions with a strong feeling of relief, if not exactly exultation.

The Christianisation of Central Europe and Hungary:

The Baptism of the Kyívan Rus by Prince Volodomyr Sviatolslavych in 998

Across Europe, Christianisation, particularly in its western Catholic form, served to unify states. In the organisation of worldly dominion, the integrating role of ethnic groups grew. For the Hungarians, it was precisely because the House of Árpád, holding the greatest power, recognised and accepted the direction of these changes, that the country was able to put the age of raiding behind it and move into a more peaceful period in the eleventh century.

In Constantinople and Kyív, efforts were made to foster good relations with the Hungarians when Géza and István began laying the foundations of the Christian state. Géza became a Christian, but only half-heartedly, keeping many pagan customs. However, he chose Gisela, the sister of the Holy Roman Emperor and a princess of Bavaria, as a bride for his son, which was an obvious political choice, setting a Christian course for the country. She was born in Niedermunster near Regensburg and became Grand Princess of the Hungarians in 997 before being crowned as István’s Queen Consort in 1000, remaining so until he died in 1038. Throughout his reign, she was a strong supporter of his Christianisation of Hungary.

Yet the balance of power in Europe did not always benefit the pacified Hungarians as the century progressed. In the age of the marauding Magyars, those nobles who wanted to increase their power in the neighbouring regions called on the Hungarian auxilliary forces’ assistance; then a balance of power prevailed for a period in the ill-defined East European territories on the rim of the Carpathian Basin; in the middle of the eleventh century efforts to make vassals of the Christianised and settled Hungarians occurred ever more frequently.

Efforts were also made to open the western frontiers of the Hungarian territories. In 1012, St Colman took the Danube road on his pilgrimage to Palestine from Ireland and was killed by Austrian peasants mistaking him for a spy. But his decision to take the route along the Danube in itself testifies that, by the early years of the eleventh century, a new attitude was developing towards Hungary from the western Christian nations, with both pilgrims and traders being able to approach István’s crown lands without fear. Nevertheless, it was not until the time of the First Crusade in 1096 that pilgrims from the British Isles made their way across Hungary in significant numbers. By then, it was the sojourning hordes that posed the threat to regional security.       

Despite the growing sense of a more settled life, many Hungarians continued to lead a semi-nomadic life. The leading classes among the Hungarians still kept their dual lodgings, changing dwelling places in winter and summer. In keeping with the custom of the people of the Steppes, they also maintained the marshlands of the Carpathian Basin as uninhabited zones of land. At the same time, the Rus created states in the core areas of the Vikings, including Aldeigjuberg (Staraya Ladoga) and Holmgard (Novgorod) in the north, in addition to Kyív.

Following the death of Volodomyr I in 1015, his sons ruled separate principalities based on Polotsk and Chernigov, including Kyív. The Kyívan principalities were reunited by Yaroslav the Wise (1019-54) who also ruled Chernihiv. According to Adam of Bremen, he had three daughters: Anna, who married Henry I of France; Anastasia (b. c. 1020), who married Andrew I of Hungary (c. 1038), and Agafija, who married the King of Norway.

Danes, Franks and Germans:

From the late ninth century, Francia was also attacked by Magyars from the east and Saracens from the south. In 987, the Capetians established a new dynasty of ‘West Francia’. At the same time, the German Empire began to emerge between the Rhine and the Danube. Emma of Normandy’s daughter by Cnut, Gunhilda, married into the German Emperor’s family.   

Because of the way that the formation and survival of European states often depended on the personal authority of a single strong leader, large areas could be joined together in one lifetime. This was especially the case, in the West, with the rise of the Northern European empire of the Danes. In England, even after Alfred the Great’s settlement with the Danes in 878, the Christian faithful could not feel secure for many years, and the East Anglian diocese, for example, was not recreated until 956. Although the Anglo-Saxon and Danish populations slowly cohered into a predominantly Christian community, their troubles were far from over.

In 981, fresh Viking raids began, and a decade later, in 991, ninety-three boat-loads of Norsemen landed in Suffolk. They burned Ipswich to the ground and then marched to Maldon in Essex where they met the English in the most momentous battle of the Anglo-Saxon period, at least before 1016. Their victory at Maldon inspired the Danes to attempt the permanent occupation of England, and the Anglo-Saxons, disheartened by their defeat, made the first payments of tribute that became known as Danegeld.

The Danish king, Sweyn Forkbeard, made his initial raids in 1002-1007 and 1009-1012. Part of his motivation may at first have been revenge for the St. Brice’s Day Massacre of 1002, when the native Danish earls were massacred on the orders of King Aethelred, the ‘Unready’ or more accurately ‘ill-advised’. Another way was to get more Danegeld, since their raiding had become a royal enterprise, directed by Sweyn and his son Cnut.

Sweyn then personally led a major incursion into England in 1013. This time, it was the turn of Thetford to be ruthlessly destroyed. However, before they could ravage further, they were confronted by Earldorman Ulfcytel with the East Anglian fyrd. After a bloody battle, the Danes withdrew but returned later for a final encounter. Thorkell the Tall marched across Suffolk to meet Ulfcytel’s force near Thetford, where the English stood little chance against Thorkell’s disciplined army, though both sides suffered heavy losses in the battle. During the following months, the whole of East Anglia was devastated, so that even the invaders were unable to find food.

Demoralised and ill-led, the Anglo-Saxon armies rapidly succumbed to the invaders and Sweyn was therefore able to conquer southern England almost unopposed as the English royal family sought refuge in Normandy. Aethelred returned to England when Sweyn died at Gainsborough (Lincolnshire) in February 1014, but Sweyn’s son, Cnut was proclaimed king by the people of the Danelaw and he continued the struggle while divisions among the Anglo-Saxons handicapped their resistance. However, Aethelred succeeded in forcing Cnut out of England.

Scenes from the Chronicles – Part One: England and Hungary:
Scene One: 1014 – Offa’s Sword, Tamworth

Eadmund (Ironside) was in his twenty-first year when he met with his elder brother Aethelstan at Tamworth in June 1014. The fortified burgh was the capital of Mercia, founded by King Offa who built a royal palace, a timber and thatch construction, at the end of the eighth century. In 913, Aethelflaed, Lady of the Mercians, made Tamworth her capital and refortified the town against Viking attacks. Aethelfled led a successful military campaign against the Danes, driving them back to their stronghold at Derby, which she then captured before dying at Tamworth in June 918.

Following King Aethelstan’s death in 939, Tamworth was again plundered and devastated by Vikings. It was soon recovered and rebuilt by Aethelstan’s successors, but it never regained its pre-eminence as a Royal centre. In the early tenth century, the new shires of Warwickshire and Staffordshire were created and Tamworth was divided between them, the county boundary running down the town centre streets. In Eadmund’s day, there was a burgh, a Saxon fort there.

Eadmund was born in about 993, the youngest son of Aethelred the Unready and his first wife, Aelgifu of York. Aethelstan, his brother, was mortally wounded in battle against the Danes in June 1014, making Eadmund heir apparent. By 1016, he and his wife Ealdgyth had two children, Eadmund the Aetheling and Edward the Exile.

There were other key contributors to the chaos which had developed under Aethelred’s rule. Eadric Streona, ‘The Grabber’ was Aethelred’s chief ‘bad counsellor’ who had risen to a position of power by 1008 by having his rivals dispossessed, mutilated or murdered. As a result, the English aristocracy was riven by feuds, unable to act as a counter-balance to Eadric in advising the King, so that he remained ‘ill-advised’ and therefore ‘unready’ to resist a full-scale invasion from Denmark.

England was then conquered by Sweyn Forkbeard, the last pagan King of Denmark (986-1014) and King of Norway from 999. Sweyn briefly ruled England after Aethelred was driven into exile. He became King of the English in 1013, but died in February 1014 at his base in Gainsborough (Lincolnshire).

Cnut was then proclaimed King of England by people of the Danelaw, but Aethelred returned from exile. Eadmund, who remained at Tamworth, rebelled against his father, whom he felt was not willing to fight hard enough to drive out Sweyn’s son, Cnut. Eadmund succeeded in this, but Cnut returned to Denmark only to assemble another invasion force with which to reconquer England.

So, Eadmund was not expected to become King, but by June 1014 his two elder brothers had died, making him heir apparent. Aethelstan, Aethelred’s eldest son, and heir, was mortally wounded at Thetford, where the second son had fallen in the battle. Before he died at the beginning of June, Aethelstan gave his brother the ‘bloodied sword’ which had belonged to Offa, King of Mercia, and urged him to continue the struggle against the invading Danes.

Offa had famously fought his way to power in the eighth century with his ‘bloodied sword’. His brother’s implication was obvious: Edward must continue to resist Cnut’s attempted usurpation with every last drop of his blood. Aethelstan and Eadmund had a close relationship; they probably felt threatened by Emma’s ambitions for her two sons by Aethelred, Edward and Alfred, fearing that they might be passed over in their favour as his successors. But there was no immediate danger of this, since both boys were safe in Normandy, and were unlikely to be brought back to England by their parents until at least the fighting was finished.

Still grieving for Aethelstan, Eadmund divided his time between the court at Westminster, Tamworth and Worcester, where he paid clandestine visits to a lady of noble birth, Ealdgyth, who was, however, already married.

Scene Two: 1016, Worcester

Ealdred was Bishop of Worcester until 1060, when he became Archbishop of York. The Chronicles he wrote became the basis for the relation of events by the monk, Florence of Worcester, up to 1117.

Despite their eighteen-month campaign together against the Danes during which Eadmund had managed to keep his father away from London and the influence of Eadric Streona, the distrust between Eadmund and Aethelred grew when, early in 1016, the King failed to appear at the muster of the fyrds at Worcester. Eadmund suspected an act of treachery or, worse still, sabotage by Streona, but he could prove nothing. The army was again leaderless, and dispersed in anger and confusion. Eadmund returned to Tamworth to raise his own army, travelling with care via London to collect levies.

Earl Uhtred of Northumbria, meanwhile, took his independent action against Eadric of Mercia, ravaging his Mercian territories. Clearly, Eadmund thought, Uhtred had his own spies at court who were aware of Streona’s latest trickery. Eadmund was Eadric’s brother-in-law, and therefore had to act circumspectly where the Earl was concerned, but he did nothing to stop Uhtred. When Cnut occupied Northumbria, however, Uhtred submitted to him and Cnut, true to his reputation, promptly had the Earl dispatched by an axe.

The native Danes’ powerbase was among the nobles of the East Midlands, especially in the ‘Five Boroughs’ in the Danelaw. The nobles there were angered by the killing of Uhtred, whom they had viewed as one of their own, given his mixed Saxon and Danish heritage.

So Eadmund took advantage of both this mood among the thegns, and Cnut’s distraction in the North, by appealing to them for support against the invaders in the raising of an Anglo-Danish army which would muster at Tamworth, a short journey from the boroughs. The response was better than Eadmund had expected, with the people of the five boroughs submitting to him. With this change in fortunes and forces, some of Cnut’s Anglo-Danish supporters lost by Aethelred’s weak leadership, including Earl Eadric of Mercia, changed their allegiance to Eadmund.

With Eadric Streona now apparently on his side, people who had sided with the Danes were punished, and some were killed. Two brothers, Morcar and Sigeferth were among them, and Aethelred had Sigeferth’s widow, Ealdgyth, imprisoned at Malmesbury. She had already attracted the close attentions of Eadmund and without his father’s permission, in the late summer of 1015, he took Ealdgyth from the priory at Malmesbury and, with the aid of a local monk, married her: She was a member of one of the strongest families in the Midlands, so Aethelred was unlikely to object. Neither did he. In the early Spring of 1016 she gave birth to twins, Eadmund (the eldest) and Edward. Ironside was energised by these births, which eased his nervousness about the succession, while also adding to his sense of responsibility for his family and the country when his father died.

That event was not long in coming. On 23rd April, Aethelred collapsed suddenly while defending London with Eadmund, and died. He was buried hurriedly, but with the honour befitting a king of England, within the city walls at Old St Paul’s. Suddenly succeeding to the throne, Eadmund wasted no time in setting up his military base and family home nearby.

Eadmund’s first campaign as king was therefore directed at restoring the kingdom’s allegiance to its old Anglo-Saxon dynasty, the House of Wessex. After the failure of his siege of London, Cnut followed Eadmund westwards into Wessex, and indecisive battles were fought at Penselwood in Dorset and Sherston in Wiltshire. Turning to the offensive, Eadmund then relieved London, parried a Danish raid into Mercia and drove Cnut onto the Isle of Sheppey, winning three out of his first five battles, without losing one. These battles, or rather skirmishes, were why he became known by the epithet ‘Ironside’, though it may also have had something to do with the symbolism of Offa’s sword, which was used at his coronation at Westminster. Certainly, he was fighting with renewed self-confidence, inspired by the birth of his two sons.

Scene Three – October 1016, Ashingdon, Essex:

However, though he had won a series of battles, Eadmund ultimately lost the war between himself and Cnut, which ended in victory for Cnut at the Battle of Assandun (Ashingdon) on 18th October.

Embarking on another raid, Cnut sailed from Sheppey and anchored in the River Crouch near Burnham in Essex. Eadmund moved to raise levies who could prevent the Danes, now loaded down with booty, from returning to their ships. In the words of the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle,

… he pursued them and overtook them from Essex at the hill which is called Ashingdown, and they stoutly joined battle there.

Eadmund had mustered a large army there with contingents from Wessex, East Anglia and Mercia, and although his ill-trained levies could not match the Danes man for man, his superiority in numbers offered the chance of a decisive victory.

As Eadmund’s army made camp at Ashingdon Hill on the evening of 17th October, the enemy was in full view just over a mile and a half away. Cnut had little choice but to fight. To avoid battle and escape by land he would have had to abandon both the spoils of his latest raid and his fleet. With an undefeated enemy so close at hand, it would have been foolhardy to have attempted embarkation when his army would be hard put to defend itself.

Instead, he assembled his force on a hill at Canewdon which stood between Eadmund and the Danish fleet, where a low ridge connected the hill from which the armies faced each other. At the Danish end of the ridge, a slight rise of about a thousand yards in front of Canewdon offered Cnut the opportunity to advance without losing the advantage of higher ground.

Eadmund deployed his army in three divisions: the Wessex contingent under his command, the Mercians under Eadric Streona, and the East Anglians led by Ulfcytel. Eadric, now in favour once again, was stationed on the right flank, with Eadmund in the centre and Ulfcytel on the left. Eadmund began the battle by charging up the hill at Ashingdon towards the Danes. The English left, due to the nature of the ground, advanced far more quickly than the right and a rapidly increasing gap opened between the flanks.

As Edmund and Ulfcytel clashed with the Danish line, at least a third of the English strength remained uncommitted, for Eadric had halted his division well to the rear, already planning another act of treachery. The Danish left, finding no troops to their front, turned inwards to envelop the unprotected English, who nevertheless continued the unequal struggle until late in the afternoon when Eadmund was eventually able to escape with the survivors of his army.

But the English were defeated and Ulfcytel, the majority of Eadmund’s troops and a large proportion of the English nobility were killed. Eadmund retreated to Deerhurst on the Severn where shortly after the battle he and Cnut met to agree on the partition of England along the old boundary of the Danelaw. Despite his victory in battle, Cnut recognised that Eadmund had already earned a reputation as a skilful and courageous military leader, worthy of continuing to rule the Kingdom of Wessex. There is an early thirteenth century depiction of the two men (shown below) in the manuscript Historia Major by Matthew Paris, fighting a duel on horseback at Deerhurst.

So, the kingdom was divided in two between the two men, but Eadmund died ‘of his wounds’ in November, though there were many suspicions and rumours about the ultimate cause of his death. Again, Eadric Streona’s whereabouts and motivations would bear investigation, were there enough surviving evidence. From there, Eadmund retired to Winchester, while Cnut occupied London.

Adam of Bremen, the trusted European chronicler, wrote, shortly after the Norman Conquest, that Eadmund had been poisoned, and some twelfth century folklore writers stated that he was stabbed or shot with a crossbow while sitting in his garderobe. Whether and how Eadric and/or his men gained access to Eadmund’s private quarters is a matter of speculation, but John of Worcester also recorded that Eadric later advised Cnut to send Eadmund’s sons out of the country, to Scandinavia, to be put out of the way, i.e. murdered, so he may well have harboured similar intentions towards Eadmund himself.

In any event, Cnut took over the Kingdom of Wessex, and with it control of the whole Kingdom of England, which he annexed to his Scandinavian empire, though he agreed to rule England as a Christian king.

Four – Winchester Minster, 1017:

Aethelred’s death had enabled his queen, Emma, to marry Cnut. However, he also kept his first wife, Aelgifu of Northampton, who was kept in the south with an estate in Exeter, in conflict with Church teaching. He was later (1031) depicted in Christian iconography with Aelgifu presenting a cross to the new Minster at Winchester (pictured above). Cnut became conciliatory towards his conquered subjects, publicly paying tribute to Eadmund Ironside during a visit to his tomb at Glastonbury. He was himself laid to rest at Winchester.

To begin with, Cnut rewarded his Scandinavian supporters with ‘earldoms’, a Danish term, but one which came increasingly to depend on the Saxon noblemen, or thegns, at court. The political inheritance for Cnut and his successors was a kingdom dominated by two earls, Godwin of Wessex and Leofric of Mercia.

Eadmund Ironside’s death had left behind his Queen, Ealdgyth and two sons. At first, Cnut had confirmed Eadric Streona as the entitled Earl of Mercia, and he urged Cnut to have the heirs of Wessex put out of the way. John of Worcester recorded that, more specifically, he told Cnut…

… to kill the little aethelings, Edward and Eadmund, sons of King Eadmund.

But Cnut had ‘no desire’ to sully his name with the blood of children. They were only a few months old. John of Worcester continued…

… but because it would seem as a great disgrace to him if they perished in England, when a short time had passed, he sent them to the King of Sweden to be killed.

So Cnut dispatched the boys to Sweden, to King Olaf Sköttkonung, apparently with a written instruction that the boys should meet their end there. Gaimar blamed Emma for the princes’ exile, claiming that she urged Cnut to send the infants away because they were the true heirs and their presence in England might therefore cause unrest. Emma claimed that they were a threat to Cnut, but in reality she was simply concerned to secure the succession of her children by Aethelred.

According to Gaimar, the two princes were immediately sent abroad on the advice of their widowed mother, Queen Ealdgyth. But this must have been done with the full knowledge of both Cnut and Eadric Streona, who continued in his role as chief counsellor to the king. On Ealdgyth’s instructions, they were taken, instead, to a powerful thane in Denmark called Walgar (Valgarus), a housecarl or warrior, who had known the King of Hungary for some time.

Five1017, Gamla Stan to Gardimbre; Escape to Denmark, Sweden and Kyív:

Walgar was charged with protecting the boys, so he escorted the infants to the court of the devout Christian king of Sweden, whose capital was at Gamla Stan (‘The Old Town’ in Swedish), newly founded by Olaf, which was both a secure citadel on an island, situated on an inlet of Lake Malaren, an important trading centre near the Baltic. According to Gaimar’s account, Olaf was revolted by Cnut’s intended infanticide. Besides, the royal grandfather of the boys, Aethelred, had been Olaf’s close friend and ally. John recorded:

He, although there was a treaty between them, would in no wise comply with these entreaties, but sent them to the king of Hungary …to be reared and kept alive.

Fearing that Cnut would send assassins to the Swedish court, especially since he was already seizing neighbouring parts of Sweden in 1017-18, Walgar followed the Swedish king’s advice, taking them to the border lands between the Rus, Poland and the Hungarian crown lands. They then travelled for five days until they reached the city of Gardimbre (Gardariki was the term used for the lands of the Kyívan Rus) where they were met by King István and Queen Gizela. Yaroslav the Wise (Iaroslav Mudri) was the Grand Prince of Kyív from 1016 to 1018 and then again from 1019 to his death in 1054. The two monarchs were obviously on good terms at this time.

A divided succession had, at first, characterised the Kyívan principalities and territories in the east. But, in 1019, they had been reunited under Yaroslav in a period of political expansion and influence for Kyív as well as one of intensive cultural interaction.

Six – 1018; Royal Refuge at Esztergom, Hungary:

István and Gizela took the princes on to their court at Esztergom, where they were raised in relative safety by the royal couple for the next ten years. We know that the Hungarian king and queen received them cordially and educated them with deep affection. Towards the end of this period, Eadmund died, but his brother survived and Gizela made him her protégé, preparing him for the time when he might return to England to claim its crown following Cnut’s death.

In England, meanwhile, Cnut had had Streona executed in his purge of 1017, and Leofric became Earl of Mercia, the second most powerful man in the Kingdom. He was succeeded by his son, Aelfgar, whose son, Eadwine, became the last Earl, after the Norman invasion. By the 1020s, the Godwins had gained almost total control over southern England, south of the Thames. Cnut therefore took over a well-formed and fully operational kingdom of England in 1017 and made it the centre of his North Sea empire by extending his rule first over Denmark itself (following the death of his elder brother in 1018), then over Norway, after the expulsion of Olaf Haraldsson in 1028.

Seven – Gardoriki (lands of the Kyívan Rus) – 1028:

King Olaf fled to Sweden and laterly, to Kyív, as Cnut also seized more parts of Sweden, perhaps partly in revenge for the Swedish King’s decision to send the princes to Hungary. It may be that the Wessex prince or princes (depending on when Eadmund died) were removed to Kyív following Olaf’s flight there in 1028, when the boys reached the age of twelve, an age when they could inherit and marry. István again sent the prince(s) to Gadoriki, the lands of the royal court of the Kyívan ‘Rus’, where they could be protected and continue their education with Yaroslav the Wise, while Cnut was now ruling most of Scandinavia. The Grand Duke’s wife, Ingegard, became their guardian in this period while they were living in Hungarian ‘crown lands’ on the Carpathian frontier, perhaps in Zemplén county.

At that time there was no clear border between the Kyívan Rus and Hungarian sub-Carpathia, and the region where the national territories touched was not so well-defined as to exclude the possibility of both contemporary and more recent chroniclers confusing their physical and political data. The daughter of Yaroslav, born in about 1020, later became Andrew’s wife after he fled to Kyiv in 1038 with his brother, Levente, having been sent there to escape from the reprisals against their father’s supporters. Eadmund had died by this point (we hear nothing of him except that he died young), but Edward married Agatha, a relative of the German Emperor and Gizela’s close companion and confidant.

Eight – c. 1030; Zemplén, Esztergom and Pilismárot:

The Magyars and other raiders were also in the slave trade, especially along the Danube and the Black Sea coast, and up the Dnieper to Kyiv and beyond. Alternatively, the route northwards through Zemplén County may have been the way followed by raiders and traders on horseback. The Principality of Hungary had metamorphosed into a Christian kingdom upon the coronation of the first king, István (Stephen) I at Esztergom around the turn of the millennium.

Zemplén county was founded as a county of the Kingdom of Hungary in the eleventh century. It shared borders with Poland (Krakow), Galicia, and the Hungarian counties; Sáros, Abaúj-Torna, Borsod, Szabolcs and Ung. The rivers Laborc and Bodrog flowed through the county, tributaries of the Tisza. This may well have been the area in which Edward the Aetheling was hidden away from Cnut’s spies and assassins, most likely at the Zemplín Castle (Zempléni vár), the county capital from the eleventh century.  

Istvan’s wife, Gizela (b. c. 985, m. 996), a daughter of Henry Duke of Burgundy and a German imperial princess, was a pawn in a complex diplomatic game, but one which played an important role in stabilising Hungary’s position in Europe. István had fought against his pagan brother, Koppány, with Bavarian help in the form of German knights. In return, the Catholic Church received powerful support from Stephen through the creation of a strong Catholic kingdom in central Europe.

Esztergom was the royal capital of the Árpád dynasty, which served not only as the royal residence but also as the centre of the Hungarian state, religion and economy. István himself had been born at Esztergom, which enjoyed a privileged position among the royal residences, and played a central role in military and agricultural affairs, taxation and the minting of coins. The city had primacy among royal cities, with its central role in economic and military affairs. The various tithes and taxes gathered by the county governor had to be handed over there every year.

In the place of the Basilica stood the private chapel of Prince Géza, István’s father. Géza had married Sarolta there; she had already converted to Byzantine Christianity. Géza had also erected a protective castle on the hill. The city remained an important centre for the Árpád dynasty from the founding of the Hungarian state to the thirteenth century.

The Castle was joined to the royal residence at the top of the hill and the archbishop’s palace. The population of the settlement, called Viziváros, protected by its great walls, was ethnically mixed. There were Latin peoples from Italy, German and Jewish traders, craftsmen and minstrels, as well as male and female court servants. It may also have been at this point that Andrew’s pagan marriage to a woman from Pilismárot, a village along the Danube Bend from Esztergom, took place.

It may have been that she had been sold into chattel slavery when he first met her, from which she would have been released on marrying the prince. This form of slavery was still widespread throughout Europe in the early decades of the eleventh century, especially since the Vikings were the foremost slave-traders both in Cnut’s empire and along the Vistula to Krakow and the Kyívan lands. It was still prevalent in the crown lands of István in the early decades of the eleventh century, despite the Christianisation of Hungary. This may help to explain why Andrew was so determined to stamp out paganism during his reign.

Nine – 1032, St Edmundsbury (Bury St Edmund’s); Cnut’s Empire and AngloDanish Kingdom:

The years 1028-31 formed the high-tide mark of the Viking achievement and of Danish migrant integration into the British Isles and Scandinavia. Cnut always regarded England as the most important part of his empire. He maintained Anglo-Saxon laws and preserved the power of local Saxon thegns as well as giving it to Danish earls. Since it was necessary for him to leave England for long periods, he divided the kingdom into four ‘earldoms’ based on the old kingdoms of East Anglia, Wessex, Mercia and Northumbria.

Unfortunately, however, this revived the old jealousies and rivalries of the Anglo-Saxon age. Such divisions weakened the country and made it easy prey to enemies once Cnut’s strong arm was withdrawn. It was during the troubled times of the Danish occupation that feudal society developed in England, as it had done in Europe in the wake of the Norse attacks on the Carolingian empire in the previous century.

Towards the end of his reign, Cnut had gained a reputation as a wise king who knew that if he wished the English to settle in peace under his rule, he must respect their feelings. According to one recent historian,

one of the ways in which he demonstrated a new, loving regard for his subjects was in the lavish generosity he bestowed upon the shrine of St Edmund…

The saint’s remains were restored to the town now known as St Edmund’s Burgh (St Edmundsbury), and the King now contributed liberally to the building of a new church. More than that, he founded a new community of Benedictine monks to guard the shrine. In 1032, the new church was consecrated and Cnut himself came and made demonstrative reparation for the sins of his father. He offered his crown on the altar and received it back in token that his rule had the blessing and support of the saint. He also bestowed money and lands on the abbey, making it the richest in England, and giving it jurisdiction over virtually the whole of western Suffolk. By the time of Domesday, the abbey owned extensive estates in six counties. 

When Cnut died in 1035, Harthacnut inherited his kingdoms, but as he ruled from Denmark, his half-brother, Harold ‘Harefoot’ was nominated as Regent in England, despite opposition from both Emma and Godwin, Earl of Wessex. Emma was still exiled with her sons, when Harefoot became Regent. Godwin seized control of Alfred while he was en route to visit Emma at Winchester, then placing him at the mercy of Harold Harefoot in London: the Regent’s followers blinded Alfred with a savagery which caused his death. In the words of the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle,

… no more horrible deed was done in this land since the Danes came.

Alfred was abandoned by the Regent’s men at Ely, where he was found by the monks wandering blind in the marshes. He was taken into the abbey where he died shortly afterwards. The betrayal of him by Godwin permanently embittered relations between the Godwinsons and Alfred’s brother, even after he became King Edward the Confessor.

When Harold Harefoot died in 1040 and was briefly succeeded by Harthacnut, Emma returned to England with Edward, and when Harthacnut died standing at his drink in 1042, the Witan invited Edward to become king. The powerful group of Anglo-Danish earls, led by Godwin and Leofric, saw to it that Edward was recalled to England in the closing months of Harthacnut’s reign. This was taken to indicate a desire to return to the Alfredian line of kings, since not only was Edward the son of Aethelred II, of the royal house of Cerdic, but (through his mother Emma) he was descended from Rollo, the founder of Normandy. That made him acceptable to the formidable Anglo-Danish warrior-statesmen at court.

For the quarter century before Edward becoming king, England was no longer at the edge of the world, but part of Cnut’s North Sea Empire. His English kingdom was dominated by the two rival earls, Godwin of Wessex, representing the new nobles of the Anglo-Danish régime, and Leofric of Mercia, representing the entrenched political interests north of the Thames. The Anglo-Saxons sat at the edge of a period of violent confrontation and forced engagement with the rest of Europe.

In the 1030s, Anglo-Danish society was also more divided between ‘freemen’ and bonded peasants or ‘serfs’ than English society had been before Cnut’s conquest. Freemen gave up their land to the powerful thegns, or earls (yarls) as they were now known, in return for protection. The earls restored the land but demanded labour services in exchange.       

Ten – c. 1035-1038, Kyív – Exiles at Yaroslav’s Court:

Georgius (György), the ‘illegitimate’ son of Andrew, was probably born sometime in the mid-1030s, to the woman from Pilsmarót. By then, Georgius’s mother may have been a servant in the royal residence who married Andrew and went with him to Kyív, where she became a lady-in-waiting to Anastasia, Yaroslav’s daughter. The marriage was probably made under pagan rites and was subsequently ‘put aside’ when Andrew became a Christian and married Anastasia. Georgius later became a Kyívan Rus noble and protector to Edward and his family, fighting alongside him in Hungary and accompanying the Wessex family on their journeys to England and Scotland.

Andrew and his brothers were the sons of Vazúl, Stephen’s half-brother, whom the King had blinded for treachery, and his concubine from the Tátony clan. According to the historian Gyula Kristó, Andrew was the second among Vazul’s three sons. He also wrote that Andrew was born around 1015. Vazul was blinded during the reign of his cousin. The king ordered Vazul’s mutilation after the death, in 1031, of Emeric (Imre), his only son surviving infancy. The contemporary author of the Annals of Altaich wrote that the king himself ordered the mutilation in an attempt to ensure a peaceful succession to his own sister’s son, Peter Orseolo.

According to the Hungarian chronicles, King Stephen wanted to save the young princes’ lives from their enemies in the royal court and counselled them with all speed to depart from Hungary. After enduring many hardships, Andrew and Levente established themselves in the court of Yaroslav the Wise, Grand Prince of Kyív (1019–1054) in the late 1030s. This must also have been the about time when Eadmund and Edward arrived at court with Georgius and his mother, travelling from Pilismarót via Zemplén. The grand prince gave his daughter Anastasia in marriage to Andrew (probably in c. 1038). Kristó writes that Andrew, who had up to that time remained pagan, was also baptized on this occasion. It was at this time that Andrew, Georgius and Edward, all by this time in their mid-twenties, fought against the pagan Pechenegs with Yaroslav before returning to Hungary in 1046.

Harald Sigurdsson, (also born c. 1015), half-brother of King Olaf II of Norway, spent several years at the court of King Yaroslav, after fleeing from Norway while still in his teens in the 1030s. He would likely, therefore, have also been a fellow exile of Edward the Exile and Andrew of Hungary. He then travelled to Byzantium, rendering service to successive emperors from Constantinople to Sicily and Bulgaria, before returning to Norway in the mid-1040s, where he earned the epithet ‘Hardrada’ (hard ruler), by ruling with a rod of iron.

Eleven – 1038-46, Fehérvár/ Réka:

Andrew (András) had been born about the same year as Edward, 1015-16, and Edward may have fought with him against the Pechenegs. At some point in the 1030s, they were brought together in Kyív by Andrew and Levente’s exile, as sons of Vazúl. István died in 1038, and András and Levente returned to Hungary in 1046 at the invitation of the Hungarian nobles. Edward had probably returned to the royal court and married Agatha before István died in 1038, when the king was considering naming him as his heir, and, according to the Hungarian sources, he settled down with Agatha on the estates granted to them by István before his death, at Mecseknádásd in the southern county of Baranya.

This was in the Mecsek hills close to the cathedral city of Pécs, an area which became known as the terra Britannorum. It was probably considered remote enough within Hungary from Esztergom to provide a safe home for Edward and Agatha to raise a family, out of the reach of Cnut’s Danish successors before the Exile’s uncle, Edward the Confessor, returned the House of Wessex to the throne in 1042. Due to his kinship with the new English king, in 1043, Edward (the Exile) was elevated…

… to a position of sole responsibility where England’s crown or domestic alliances were concerned…  

This shows that Edward was likely to have been in contact with the Confessor’s court long before Bishop Ealred’s visit some twelve years later. Margaret is said to have been born at Réka Castle, near the village of Mecseknádásd in 1045/6, and her sister Krisztina was probably also born there, but Eadgar may have been born (c 1051) at the Royal Court in Szekesfehérvár, to which the Royal couple returned in 1046, to aid Andrew I in gaining control of Hungary and in consolidating the Catholic Church. Edward is likely to have accompanied him on his journey from Kyív to Székesfehérvár, together with Georgius. He also fought with Andrew’s army against the pagan rebels.

Szekesfehérvár, or simply Fehérvár, was the white city in central Hungary, which Andrew and Anastasia made their home in 1046, so much so that one of Andrew’s epithets was fehér (‘the white’). It was founded by Grand Prince Géza in 972 as the original royal residence and capital of Hungary under the rule of the Árpád dynasty, and it still held a central role in the Middle Ages, with significant trade routes to the Balkans and Italy, as well as to Buda and Vienna. It was also connected by a military road to the east. In addition, it was an important place of sojourn for pilgrims en route to the Holy Land.

For many people across Central-Eastern Europe, the colour white had a mystical association with both power and purity. Linguists point out that many capital cities contain the word white, without any topographical or geological reason. For instance, the ancient name of Belgrade was Castro Blanca, or Nandorfehérvár in Hungarian. Ethnographers say that migrating peoples from the east identified the colour with cleanliness, holiness, luxury and power. The migrating Magyar tribes were said to have sacrificed a white horse on entering the Carpathian Basin. So the association of white with the Hungarian royal city is obvious in its name, Fehérvár; The White Burgh.

Its location in the Dunántul (west of the Danube), surrounded by marsh land with limestone ruins of Roman buildings, had been chosen as a location for the princely residence they decided to call the Feherű Vár. This name survives from Latin charters of the early eleventh century. It can also be found on the chasuble prepared for the Fehérvár basilica and on the coronation mantle. In addition, it is mentioned in the Deed of Foundation of Tihány Abbey of 1055, the earliest surviving relic in the Hungarian language.

The Latin name of the residence in Latin was Alba Regio, When King Orseolo of Venice put the coronation city at the disposal of the Holy Roman Emperor, Frederick II, in 1045, the German garrison named it Stulweissenburg. The royal palace was situated on dry land surrounded and protected by immense marshlands. Water from the Sárvíz and Gaja rivers created a system of lakes which guarded the four hilly islands.

The environment resembled the Etelköz, the legendary land between the Dniester and the Dnieper, inhabited by the Hungarians before they were forced to migrate further westward. The Royal Palace was also at a crossroads of trade and military routes. Prince Géza built a fortified dwelling place at this crossroads, and a quadripartite church. He protected the city with a ring of smaller settlements and settled the fearsome Pechenegs to help protect the territory on the sandier side of the Sárvíz river.

The castle was already standing by the time István and Gizela were crowned at the turn of the millennium. In the first half of the eleventh century, it was surrounded by a stone wall. During the period of the Árpád dynasty, there were five altars (side chapels) in the church. The classification of the dynastic family and state church differed from the other early episcopal churches in that the Bishop of Székesfehérvár was not subordinate to the authority of the Archbishop of Esztergom. Above all, he performed the state ceremonial duties and was the custodian of the crown, the orb, the double cross, István’s cross, the sword and the rest of the royal regalia.

The consecration of the royal basilica did not take place with the death of István, but seven years later at the funeral of his son and heir, Prince Imre. As its founder, István was buried in a stone coffin in the nave. The city’s outer settlements were strengthened in the twelfth century, when settlers from Northern France, perhaps Normans, settled in the virtually uninhabited area.

Twelve, 1045-6 – Gizela’s Black Cross and Abaújvár:

The German Emperor Henry II was King István’s brother-in-law, being brother to Gisela, Princess of Bavaria and István’s Queen Consort. Her retinue of knights and priests had helped István to establish Hungary as a strong, Catholic state and to defend it against his power-hungry pagan relatives, the Pechenegs, before he died in 1038. Gizela had a young Bavarian noblewoman as her trusted companion and confidante, Agatha, possibly her niece, the daughter of Bruno, Bishop of Augsburg. Edward met and married Agatha following his return from Kyív in 1038. After István’s funeral, the couple left the Hungarian Court for the lands in southern Hungary (Baranya) given to them on their marriage by the King. This formed the basis of the statement in English records that the exiled prince exercised power and patronage over his Hungarian tenants.

Gisela’s mother was the wife of Henry of Burgundy and sister of the Holy Roman Emperor, Henry II, who was also Agatha’s uncle. She died in 1007 and her daughter donated a black burial cross, called the Giselakreuz, which she had made for her mother’s grave. On the cross, at Jesus’ feet, are two kneeling figures. One is Gisela herself and the other is her mother, who was also named Gisela, dressed in a nun’s habit. The cross bears a strong resemblance to the description of the one that Queen Gizela gave to Agatha when she left Hungary for Passau in 1045. Gisela lived out the rest of her life in the nearby nunnery of Niedernburg, where she died in 1063, aged about seventy.

A section of Gisela’s cross showing her and her mother at Jesus’ feet, the inscription to ‘Gisila’ and the precious black stones below.

The crosses were made of gold, but set with dark stones. Such stones were rare in Europe at that time, and reminiscent of the imperial grandeur of the Carolingian Emperors, who popularised their use. So it is probable that Gisella’s cross had its origins in Bavaria. Agatha bore three children with Edward: Margaret (born c. 1045/6), Christina and Eadgar (b. 1051). Their first two children were born at Réka Castle, near Mecseknádásd, and spent their early childhood there before returning to court at Szekesfehérvár, sometime before the birth of her brother there. 

Having become an Orthodox Christian in Kyív in c. 1038, to marry Anastasia, András returned from exile in Kyív to Szekesfehérvár and became a devout Catholic, giving him his other epithet, the Catholic. After István’s immediate successor, son of his sister and the Doge of Venice, Peter Orseolo (1038-41 and 1044-46), had traded Hungary’s independence for the German Emperor’s help in restoring him to the throne, the feudal lords of Hungary had turned to András and his brother Levente, in exile in Kyív, to re-establish order.

In 1046, the dukes agreed to send envoys to András and Levente in Kyív to persuade them to return to Hungary. Fearing some treacherous ambush, the two brothers only set out after their agents in Hungary, including Georgius and Edward, confirmed that the Hungarians were ripe for an uprising against Peter. In 1041, the opposition to him had ejected Peter and made Samuel Aba king. By the time the two brothers decided to return, after a further five years, a further revolt had broken out in Hungary, which Aba could only put down by mercilessly murdering fifty lords. Peter returned to reclaim the throne with the help of Henry III, the Holy Roman Emperor, ruling for a further two years. But the territories neighbouring Hungary were dominated by pagans who captured many clergymen and mercilessly slaughtered them. They wanted to make vassals of the Christianised and settled Hungarians.

Andrew met the pagans at Abaújvár, near the current Slovak border in Northeast Hungary. The castle there was the main place of residence for the Aba family, the second most important royal house of Hungary and one of the most important Hungarian families of the time. The first known written record on Abaújvár dates back to the events of 1046, but presumably an earth castle stood there much earlier; the new stone castle was built by Samuel Aba before he became, briefly, King of Hungary. An Illuminated Chronicle narrated, perhaps with some bias, how the pagans urged the dukes…

to allow the whole people to live according to the rites of the pagans, to kill the bishops and the clergy, to destroy the churches, to throw off the Christian faith and to worship idols.

Samuel Aba fell in one of the battles for the throne, perhaps killed by a treacherous assassin, but András caught Peter attempting to flee the country, deposed him and had him blinded. Aided by Edward and others from his Kyívan retinue, András then put down the pagan rebellion and he and the descendants of Vazúl were restored to the throne, ruling Christian Hungary for a quarter of a millennium.

Thirteen; 1051-1054 – Westminster; the struggle to succeed King Edward:

Meanwhile, in England, the childless Edward the Confessor, educated in Normandy and a Francophone, revealed his wish to be succeeded by his mother’s great-nephew when the latter visited Edward’s court in 1051. Edward had spent most of his boyhood among priests while in exile in Normandy, and was more fitted to being a monk than a monarch.

Nevertheless, Edward did become king and began a largely peaceful reign which lasted for nearly twenty-five years, despite the continual threat of a Scandinavian invasion and the internecine power struggle between the earldoms of England, which had become the power bases of the rival dynasties of the Godwin of Wessex, Siward of Northumbria and Aelfgar of Mercia.

In 1053, Earl Godwin and his sons, Leofwine and Harold, launched an incursion into England, which King Edward was powerless to resist. As a result, royal authority was undermined, the Norman connection was temporarily severed and the House of Godwin was restored in an almost unassailable position. But the other Anglo-Danish earls, jealous of the power of the Godwin family, refused to make a united front with them against the Normans. Nevertheless, according to the pro-Godwin Life of King Edward, written in 1065-70, the Godwins’ return to London was greeted with deep joy both at court and within the whole country.

The Godwins then became so powerful that Edward began to look for alternative heirs as ‘compromise candidates’ to both Harold Godwinson, who was about thirty in 1053, and William of Normandy. In the same year, Earl Godwin died suddenly of a seizure at Court. He had emerged as the most powerful earl and his authority was such that even his exile in 1051-52, and the King’s hostility could do little to diminish it. As king, he paid little attention to affairs of state and devoted himself instead to prayer and worship and the concerns of the Church.

But Edward could not afford to ignore the matter of the succession, especially as he was childless. Educated in Normandy and a Francophile, he preferred to be succeeded by his mother’s great-nephew whom he had got to know well during his time in Normandy. But he also knew that William’s claim to be England’s king was dubious even in contemporary terms. Certainly, William’s great aunt Emma had been the wife of King Aethelred, and Edward himself had given William a more recent claim by naming him as his successor during William’s visit to the English Court in 1051, albeit privately. But, a direct claim through the male line was much stronger for his courtiers and his country.

However, as yet apparently unknown to (most of) the Court, there was a claimant with a direct male bloodline to the throne; Edward Aetheling, son of Ironside and grandson of Aethelred, who was in exile at the court of András I, the King of Hungary. By 1054, opposition to William’s succession was formidable, especially from the anti-Norman faction at court, led by the Earldom of Wessex, which Harold himself now led. At this point, too, rumours began to spread, from the continent, of the survival of the direct line of the Wessex royal family in Hungary. They soon reached Edward’s ears and those of that faction at the English court that wanted neither William nor Harold to succeed to the throne. These courtiers began to show an interest in the exiled Prince Edward of Wessex as an alternative heir to the English throne.

Fourteen; 1053-58 – Köln, Tihany and Tiszavárkony:

Ealdred, Bishop of Worcester was the leader of this faction, the partisans of Wessex, and he was now commissioned by the Confessor to locate the Exile and his family and to invite them to return to England to meet his uncle. Ealdred also had his mission, to become the first English churchman to travel on pilgrimage through Hungary to the Holy Land. He was to deliver a letter to the Hungarian court, requesting the return of the Wessex family, before progressing on his pilgrimage. In the event, four years after leaving England, he finally arrived in Jerusalem in 1058.

But the first part of his mission was to deliver a letter to the imperial court of Henry III at Cologne, requesting his help in locating the prince and requesting that he negotiate with the king of Hungary, András I, for his return. Meanwhile, the German emperor had delayed his response to Edward’s request and kept Ealdred waiting for more than a year. Dealing with widespread unrest in his German empire, Henry III then fell ill and died while suppressing a Slav uprising in northeast Germany in October 1056, aged just forty. He was succeeded by his son, Henry IV, who was only six when he came to the German throne. In these circumstances, it’s perhaps not surprising that the imperial officers could not help the English king in his search for the lost English prince.

At Székesfehérvár, meanwhile, Anastasia of Kyív had given birth to two sons, Salomon (‘Solomon’) (1053) and Dávid (c. 1055). Margaret, then aged ten or eleven, helped to care for the two young boys, especially Dávid, whom she grew so fond of that she later named her youngest son after him. But the Hungarian royal family suffered a disaster when András had a stroke, which paralyzed him; fearful for his mortality, András attempted to make Solomon’s succession more secure, even against the rights of his brother, Béla, who had his strong claim to the succession according to the traditional principle of agnatic seniority.

However, the brothers’ relationship did not deteriorate immediately after Solomon’s birth, partly because he had given Béla his dukedom covering a third of the kingdom. In the deed of the foundation of the Tihány Abbey, a Benedictine monastery established in 1055 by András, Duke Béla was listed among the lords witnessing the consecration. This charter, although primarily written in Latin, contains the earliest extant text written in Hungarian; Feheruaru rea meneh hodu utu rea (“on the military road which leads to Fehérvár”), also demonstrating the strategic importance of Szekesfehérvár as a royal city and citadel at that time.

In an attempt to strengthen his son’s claim to the throne, Andrew pressed on with his plan and had the four-year-old Solomon crowned in the one-year-long period beginning in the autumn of 1057. Certain English forms and ceremonies were observed at the coronation, suggesting that the Wessex family were witnesses, or at least guests of honour. It is also possible that Bishop Ealdred, on mission to find the Wessex family, had arrived at Szekesfehérvár and attended the coronation ceremony, perhaps participating in it before resuming his pilgrimage to the Holy Land.

For the same purpose, András also arranged the betrothal of his son to Judith, a daughter of the late Emperor Henry III, and sister of the new German monarch, Henry IV (r. 1056–1105), in September 1058. Thereafter, according to an episode narrated by most Hungarian chronicles, the king invited Duke Béla to a meeting at Tiszavárkony, a castle on the River Tisza. At their meeting, Andrew seemingly offered his brother to freely choose between a crown and a sword, which were the symbols of the kingdom and the dukedom, respectively. 

At what became known, dramatically, as the Várkony Scene, Duke Béla chose the sword, since he had previously been reliably informed by his partisans at Andrew’s court that he would be murdered on the king’s order if he opted for the crown. Béla then rode quickly back into exile in Poland, where he raised an army and returned to Hungary at the head of it. He defeated his brother, who died of his battle wounds (said to be caused by being crushed under wagons) soon afterwards. Andrew was buried at the Abbey at Tihány, which he had recently founded. During the civil war that followed, Queen Anastasia took refuge with her two sons in Austria.

Fifteen; Spring, 1058; Flanders and Westminster – Return of the Exile:

Whether Edward the Exile was still in Hungary and present at the Várkony Scene is impossible to discover. But given the turmoil in Hungary, the Wessex family may not have regretted leaving the country when they did, in 1058, even though this meant ‘returning’ to a country none of them knew, except by report, and the reports were not entirely encouraging, since they too were of dynastic disputes.

Although King Edward the Confessor, then in his late fifties, had been on the throne since 1042, the power behind the English throne in 1058 was Earl Harold Godwinson, of whom the exiled family could have heard very little before they arrived in England. Like the Wessex family, King Edward had spent most of his childhood and early manhood in exile, in his case in Normandy, succeeding to the English crown in what was then considered to be middle age, at forty.

Everything known at the English court about the Wessex exiles in 1057-58 came from the pen of Ealdred, Bishop of Worcester, who had visited four or five years earlier the court of the German Emperor in Köln on King Edward’s ‘business’. By that time, civil war had broken out in Hungary, so the spring of 1058 would have been an opportune time for Edward and his family to leave Hungary for England.

No details of their cross-continental journey or their arrival in England are recorded in the Hungarian or English chronicles. However, from the Scottish annals, we know that the Wessex family were accompanied to London by a retinue of Hungarian nobles, led by Andrew I’s illegitimate son, Georgius, who, together with others among them, later settled in Scotland. They probably travelled overland via Austria and Bavaria to the imperial palace in Cologne, and thence via Aachen to Flanders. This royal Hungarian guard must have provided strong protection, not just from attacks on the journey, but from foul play at the English court.

It was not surprising that Edward the Confessor had sought solace and counsel among the men he had grown up among in Normandy, but he had no great plan to ‘Normanise’ England or prepare the way for an invasion or occupation under his nephew. He had, however, been educated in Normandy and admired the Normans as a people, famed for their religious zeal as well as for their skills in warfare. Their enthusiasm for the Church was shown by the number of churches they built in their homeland, and their military strength by the castles they erected. The Norman abbots and bishops were among the best educated in Europe. Edward therefore desired to keep a significant number of Frenchmen at his court while remaining committed to the Wessex succession.

After almost three years, the Emperor Henry had refused the Confessor’s request for his help in locating the Exile, and Ealdred had continued his quest unaided. This was a time of tension between the German Empire and the Hungarian monarchy, when the latter was seen as being in rebellion against imperial rule. Nevertheless, the Confessor’s letter recalling the Exile and his family to England was finally delivered by Ealdred in 1057, and the Wessex family arrived from Flanders in the Spring of 1058.

The family reached England independently, though there was a suggestion that Harold went to Flanders, ostensibly under King Edward’s orders to meet them and bring them safely to London. But Harold seems to have had other plans when he met them. Six days after arriving in London, on 19th April, Edward of Wessex died mysteriously before his audience with the Confessor could take place. The Worcester (D) version of the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle reported that we do not know how he was prevented from seeing his uncle in those six days, but there were suspicions that he had been murdered (perhaps poisoned) on the orders of Harold.

Someone wished to prevent this meeting, and suspicion fell on Harold, either acting in his interest, or as an agent of William of Normandy. Before the family arrived in England, Harold had gone to the continent on a mysterious mission, prompting speculation about the purpose of his journey and whether it was somehow connected to the arrival of the Wessex family. After travelling half way across Europe, Edward was buried in Old St Paul’s churchyard.

Sixteen – Rhuddlan, 1063; Mercia and Wales:

The Danish Conquest had destroyed respect at court for the Wessex inheritance and had created new, powerful Ango-Danish aristocratic dynasties, like the House of Godwin. Harold was determined not to allow either William or the Exile to block his path to power. Aelfgar, Earl of Mercia, had been declared an outlaw in March 1054 and twice exiled in the 1050s, the second time in 1058. On both occasions, he sought and was given the support of Gruffudd ap Llewelyn, who had defeated the levies of Hereford in October 1055.

By then, the four Godwin brothers controlled every part of England. In Northumbria, when Siward died, his son Waltheof was passed over as his successor in favour of Tostig. This threatened the equilibrium of the country. Aelfgar died in 1062, but his sons did not immediately succeed him, thus weakening the resistance to the Godwinsons. Ealdred was appointed Archbishop of York in 1063, the only remaining powerful representative of the Mercian interest. The Godwinsons decided to deal with Gruffudd ap Llewelyn in 1063 in a combined operation by Harold and Tostig, involving an unannounced attack on Rhuddlan. Gruffudd was killed in the attack and Wales was subdued.

Also in 1063, Edward the Confessor recognised Eadgar, aged twelve, as his Aetheling. He was supported by many Saxon bishops and thanes, but opposed by the Godwinsons, who persuaded the Witangamot, the Council of elders, that Eadgar was not old enough and not educated enough to be considered as king as yet. By this time, the Godwinsons controlled three of the four earldoms of England, so they therefore controlled the temporal lords in the Witan.

Seventeen; 1064, Rouen – Harold The Oathbreaker:

In 1064, King Edward sent Harold to Normandy to persuade William to withdraw his claim to the English throne. But Harold and his retinue were shipwrecked off the coast and when he was rescued and brought to Rouen by William’s men, the Duke would not agree to the request. Harold may have replaced his father as the power behind Edward’s throne, but William had been holding one of Harold’s brothers, Wolfnoth, and another relative, Hakon, hostage since Edward had first promised the throne to him in 1051. To gain their release, Harold agreed to support William’s claim.

William went further, however, and made Harold swear an oath on sacred relics to uphold the Duke’s claim. However, this part of the story seems to have been a later embellishment by a pro-Godwin chronicler seeking to justify Harold’s behaviour at this point and then later, in breaking his oath. A better-placed contemporary chronicler, Eadmar of Canterbury, made no mention of Edward’s promise or of the idea that the hostages were kept to keep Edward and Harold to their promise to uphold William’s claim. Whatever the basis of the story of Harold the oath-breaker, at the time Harold must have realized that he was in a dangerous position, in which he had to agree to what William wanted, under duress and in direct contradiction to his interests.

Eighteen, 1054-65; Northern England, Wales and Scotland:

Just as in other parts of Europe, by the mid-eleventh century, the nations and regions (or earldoms) of Britain were becoming increasingly inter-related in a variety of ways, especially in dynastic terms. It’s possible that Malcolm Canmore was already acquainted with the Wessex royal family at the Court of Edward the Confessor, having escaped from his father Duncan’s usurper, Macbeth. It’s also possible that Malcolm was at the court of Thorfinn Sigurdsson, Earl of Orkney and Macbeth’s nemesis. The usurper had ruled Scotland for seventeen years, from 1040 to 1057, until the House of Dunkeld was restored under Malcolm in 1058.

In 1054 Earl Siward of Northumbria had invaded Scotland with Malcolm, who had been in exile at Edward’s court, deposing Macbeth and installing Malcolm in succession to his father, as rightful king in 1058. Siward died in 1055 and was succeeded as Earl of Northumbria by Gospatrick. In 1061, Malcolm reclaimed Cumbria from Northumberland, resulting in continuing conflict between the two kingdoms over who ruled in these border territories.

Orderic Vitalis, the chronicler, claimed that Malcolm had already become betrothed to Margaret when he visited Edward’s court in 1059, a year after his coronation and after her arrival there. He had previously been married to Ingibjorg, the widow of Thorfinn Sigurdsson, and had his first two sons with her. Ingibjorg died before Malcolm’s marriage to Margaret.

In 1063/4 Tostig had two of Gospatrick’s men murdered, and then the Earl himself. Tostig then became the new earl, but the Northumbrians viewed him as a southern imposter and his arrogant behaviour led to the successful rebellion led by Morcar, who was acclaimed as the new earl.

In 1065, Harold was hunting in South Wales when he was attacked by the Welsh, wanting revenge for the attack on Gruffudd by him and his brother Tostig of 1063. In addition, the displacement of Morcar as the Earl of Northumbria led to a rebellion by both him and his brother, Eadwine. The two brothers were Anglo-Danish thegns, sons of Aelfgar, Earl of Mercia and grandsons of Leofric. Edwin had succeeded his father in 1063 as Earl of Mercia. Morcar also held lands in East Mercia, most notably in Lincolnshire, where he is recorded in Domesday as holding the Manor of Bourne in King Edward’s time. The manor was forfeited by Hereward Askeltilson as part of his punishment for outlawry in the reign of Edward. It was close to Stamford, one of the five boroughs of the Danelaw. During Hereward’s exile in Flanders, Morcar seems to have acted as caretaker for Hereward’s manor.

Marching south with the rebels, Morcar gathered into his forces the men of the five boroughs, including those of Nottingham, Derby and Lincoln, members of the old confederacy of towns in the Danelaw, and met Eadwine heading up a considerable force at Northampton. There they massed a huge force of arms from Mercia, Wales and Northumbria. Harold met the rebels at Northampton, where the brothers considered proposals for peace offered by him, but he failed to get them to stand down and Tostig was sent into exile from the Humber. Negotiations continued at Oxford, where with the Northumbrian army insisting on Morcar’s recognition, Harold yielded on 28th September 1065, and Morcar’s election was legalised.

Nineteen – Westminster, 1065-66 – Death of the Confessor; Harold’s Conspiracy and Coronation:

The Confessor’s health declined rapidly in 1065, and he was bypassed by the Godwinsons, who again persuaded members of the Witan that Eadgar was too young and inexperienced in matters of state and not mature enough as a teenager (aged fifteen) to lead the country under threat of invasion.

Due to the Confessor’s decline, the rededication of Westminster Abbey was brought forward to 28th December, and a week later King Edward died. Edward died close to the most important men in his kingdom who had come to Westminster for the rededication of the Abbey, including the Earls Edwin and Morcar. They were not, however, direct witnesses to his last words, and neither, of course, was the Aetheling.

Eadgar had been confirmed as Aetheling, his successor, by the Confessor as his health declined rapidly in 1065. He was also supported by many Saxon bishops and thanes. Before January 1066, he had been the main obstacle to Harold’s ambitions to rise to the throne. His blood link through his grandfather to the Kings of Wessex and, latterly, England, combined with the considerable efforts that had been made to secure the return of the Exile’s family from Hungary, must have led many to assume that Eadgar would, in due course, succeed his great uncle.

His title, according to many contemporary sources, indicated that he was considered worthy of ascending to the throne. Harold had sworn, in Edward’s presence, to uphold Eadgar’s rights, and besides breaking his oath on this, he then had to obtain enough support from the English magnates for the Aetheling’s rights to be set aside. This was secured by the deal Harold struck with Edwin and Morcar in October 1065, which strengthened their position through the marriage of the two leading Saxon families.    

King Edward was disappointed by his nobles who were unwilling to face down the rebels. As a result of the rising, both Morcar and Edwin had their earldoms restored and with them the equilibrium of the kingdom. As 1066 began, therefore, Eadgar began to hope that he might one day soon become king with the help of Mercia and Northumbria in securing the royal Wessex succession.

They were defeated by Hardrada at York in 1066 and had to surrender the city after the Battle of Fulford Gate and before the Battle of Stamford Bridge, in which, apparently, they were not involved. Morcar was the Earl of Northumbria from 1063 to 1066, and Edwin was Earl of Mercia from 1063 to his death near Ely in 1071.  

But, in 1065, unknown to the Aetheling, Edwin and Morcar had struck a deal with Harold in which they agreed to support Harold’s succession in return for the security of their earldoms. This agreement also involved the marriage of the Earls’ sister, Ealdgyth, to Harold, even though he was already married, albeit in the Danish tradition, to Edith Swan-neck. 

The Anglo-Danish connection was further strengthened when Stigand was made Archbishop of Canterbury in preference to an Anglo-Norman candidate. It was becoming increasingly clear to William that if he was to gain the throne of England, this could only be done through force of arms, and with the support of the Papacy, which had been increasingly taken over by the Reformers led by the Benedictines.

At this point, Harold was seemingly unconcerned that William could, or would, launch an invasion fleet. Unlike their Viking forebears of previous generations, the Normans were, by now, a settled francophile people, not feared, unlike the Danes and Norwegians, for their ship-building and seafaring skills.

The Life of King Edward named four people as being present at the King’s death – the Queen, Archbishop Stigand, Robert (the Steward of the Palace of Westminster) and Earl Harold.  The Life recorded the last words of the King to Harold as…

I commend the life of this lady and all the kingdom to your protection.

The rest of his recorded words concerned the welfare of Queen Eadith, Harold’s sister. His words therefore fell a long way short of providing an unambiguous designation of his successor. If anything, they suggest Harold’s appointment as Regent. The C and D versions of the Chronicle both use the same word, entrusted, concerning the kingdom, suggesting that Harold was only empowered to take care of the kingdom temporarily. However, none of those present refuted the suggestion that Harold had been designated as Edward’s successor.

However, according to other sources, many people seemed to have harboured serious doubts as to the veracity of Harold’s version of events. The Norman chronicler, William of Poitiers, claimed that Harold had seized the throne with the connivance of a few wicked men, suggesting that his election was far from unanimous as suggested by some versions of the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle.

On his deathbed, Edward accepted that Harold would be regent, but that Eadgar would succeed him as King when he reached his majority, at sixteen, the following year. We cannot know whether it was always Harold’s intention to usurp his brother-in-law, or whether it was simply his interpretation of Edward’s dying wishes. There were conventions concerning the succession, but no set of rules governing it. Cnut had upset the principle, claiming the right to rule by conquest. Harold seemed to be in great haste to be crowned since, as more recently, the usual practice was to observe a due period of mourning for the recently-deceased monarch, lasting at least six months, if not a full year.

A close blood link was not necessary to succeed, though highly desirable. It was also seen as beneficial for the successor to have been designated as such by his predecessor. Thirdly, there needed to have been an election, with the clear majority of the Witan approving of the candidate’s succession. Earl Harold was related to Edward only by his sister Eadyth’s marriage and therefore, like William, had no direct blood link through the male line to the English monarchy. His main claim rested on nomination by Edward and election by the magnates. The E version of the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle confirmed both of these, and John of Worcester claimed that Harold had been elected by all the principal men of England. But both were written with a strong pro-Godwin bias.

Unusually, Edward was buried the next morning, at Epiphany, 6th January, in his renewed abbey. The same day, in the afternoon, Harold was crowned as his successor. No single fact points more to a conspiracy than the circumstances of Harold’s coronation. No previous King of England had demonstrated so desperate a hurry to have himself consecrated. Besides the lack of the traditional respectful gap between funeral and consecration, the coronation had never been regarded as a king-making process in England.

Harold seemed to have been concerned to justify his highly dubious claim as soon as possible with an instant consecration. He may also have felt this necessary because there was still trouble in the North, where people were no more willing to have Harold Godwinson as king than they had been to accept his brother as their earl the year before. Harold himself went north soon after the event to head off any sign of rebellion and possibly, also, to arrange and celebrate his wedding to Ealdgyth.    

The Bayeux tapestry shows the new king crowned and enthroned. The inclusion of the excommunicate Archbishop Stigand is probably a later Norman fabrication, designed to discredit the acts of coronation, as John of Worcester makes clear that the consecration was performed by Ealdred, Archbishop of York (as he had become in 1060). On the death of Edward the Confessor, Morcar professedly supported Harold as his successor, but the people of his earldom were dissatisfied. Harold, we are told, visited York the following Spring of 1066, and overcame their disaffection by peaceful means.

There are few primary sources dealing with the Norman reaction to the news of Harold’s succession and coronation. The only chronicle recording the event was written a century later, and it claimed that William was hunting near Rouen when a messenger arrived, and William received his message in private. He then returned to his palace in anger, speaking to no-one. He sent messages to Harold, urging him to renounce the throne and to keep his pledges. Harold chose to ignore these admonitions, and William received his message, and William resolved, in the words of the Norman chronicler and the Duke’s chaplain, William of Poitiers, to claim his inheritance through force of arms. Poitiers helped to ensure the support of the Pope, Alexander II, who sanctioned William’s use of arms by sending him a papal banner to carry into battle.

Twenty; Spring 1066 – The Norwegian Invasion and Battle of Stamford Bridge:

By Easter 1066, at which point Harold returned south from his mysterious trip to York, fears of foreign invasion were already mounting. His return to Westminster coincided with the appearance of a comet (later identified by Haley), which only appeared every seventy-six years, well outside the average human life-span in the early medieval period, so it was regarded as a terrible omen.

Estranged from his brother, Tostig had returned from Flanders in the Spring, launching an attack on the Isle of Wight, then on Sandwich on the Kent coast and then raiding up the east coast to Lincolnshire. According to the Chronicle, Tostig had remained as Malcolm Canmore’s guest throughout the Summer of 1066, following his unsuccessful attempt to invade Wessex in the Spring and his ravaging of the Mercian east coast in the early summer, which Edwin and Morcar successfully repulsed. Tostig then visited Norway to persuade Harald to join him in invading England. Tostig was back in Scotland, or perhaps Orkney, by the end of August, where he met with Hardrada’s invasion fleet of some two hundred ships. They sailed on to the Humber estuary and up the Ouse, landing on its north bank at Riccor, ten miles south of York, their principal target.

England now faced invasion on two fronts – by the Norwegian king, Harald Hardrada, and by William, Duke of Normandy, both of whom laid claim to the English throne. Before 1066, Harald Sigurdsson had been mentioned only once in the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, at the start of his reign in the mid-1040s. There’s little evidence that he intended to become King of England, though there are reports of an earlier deal with Harthacnut, that each should become the other’s heir. Otherwise, he had been preoccupied with his struggle with Sweyn Estridsson for control of Denmark. He only became interested in invading England in 1066 at Tostig’s suggestion. According to the Chronicle, the events in the North occurred during the first week of September, which suggests careful planning by Harald and Tostig.

On 8th September, Harold Godwinson dismissed the great fleet he had held in readiness for a cross-channel attack since the start of the summer. He must have done so at almost the same time as the northern invaders embarked to capture York, suggesting that the Norwegian invasion had been unexpected in England. Certainly, Earl Morcar was unprepared to meet Hardrada’s force; it was not until York was directly threatened that, having been joined by Edwin, he went out against them with a large army. By the third week in September, Edwin and Morcar had mobilised the English militia against Hardrada’s army, a defensive force they thought sufficient for them to resist an engagement on the eastern side of the city at Fulford. Still, they were roundly defeated there on the twentieth.

When Hardrada and Tostig entered the city, its citizens surrendered without a fight. Edwin and Morcar were nowhere to be found. Further hostages were to be exchanged at Stamford Bridge on the River Derwent, where Tostig and Hardrada also planned to meet to receive a final round of submissions before advancing to subdue the rest of the kingdom. Meanwhile, Harold Godwinson had led a forced march, and within two weeks had arrived at Tadcaster on 24th September. He had expected to find his adversaries fortified in York, but discovered on entering the city next morning that they had already left for Stamford Bridge, oblivious to his arrival in Yorkshire.

It was an opportunity he could not miss, so he marched his army straight through the city and out towards the Derwent, a distance of eighteen miles. According to the Norse historian, Snorri Sturluson (1179-1241), when the two leaders met, Harold told Harald (Hardrada), that he would grant him only seven feet of ground, enough for his burial. Another of Snorri’s stories, corroborated by a contemporary, told of how the Norwegians had gone to Stamford Bridge without their mail shirts due to the warm weather, not expecting to be involved in battle.

When they were surprised by Harold’s army, the fierce fighting continued until late in the day. The English were prevented from crossing the bridge by a lone warrior wearing mail, until an inspired Saxon crept under the bridge with his javelin and speared him in the one place where his chain mail offered no protection. The rest of Harold’s army then swarmed over the bridge and the rest of the Norwegian army was slaughtered, including both Hardrada and Tostig. The remaining Norwegians tried to run back to their ships at Riccall, but they were pursued by the English, with some drowning and others slain in various ways.

(… to be continued…)

‘Out of Darkness Cometh Light’ – Seventieth Anniversary of Floodlit European Football at Wolverhampton II.

Part Two: 1965-2024.

Peter Broadbent with the first of three First Division Championship trophies won with Wolves.

Sadly, in the season they lost the guidance of the great Stan Cullis and were relegated, 1964-65, Wolves also lost the silky skills of inside forward Peter Broadbent after fourteen years when he joined Shrewsbury Town in January 1965. Stan Cullis had signed him from Brentford in 1951, calling it one of his finest-ever signings. A magical playmaker and prolific goalscorer (scoring 145 goals in 497 appearances for Wolves), his delicate touch and crafty body swerve rivalled anything seen in continental football then. Broadbent’s style of play attracted many admirers, including the young George Best, as already mentioned. In his biography, Bestie, Joe Lovejoy said that Best told him that, while he didn’t have an individual hero growing up, he supposed that Peter Broadbent was the closest. Having watched both players from the pitch side as a boy from the mid-sixties to the early seventies, I can recall the similarities in style. However, Broadbent left Wolves just as Best was arriving on the scene for Manchester United. Broadbent won three First Division titles and an FA Cup medal with Wolves, and gained seven caps with England, including at the 1958 World Cup. After leaving Wolves in 1965, he wasn’t selected for the 1966 World Cup.

Ron Flowers (below) was selected for the England squad, but didn’t play in any of the matches in the finals, his 49th and final cap being won on 29 June 1966 against Norway in Oslo. Flowers narrowly missed playing in the final itself, as Jack Charlton caught a cold on the eve of the great game against West Germany and Alf Ramsey put him on stand-by. But Charlton had recovered in the morning and ultimately he never kicked a ball in the tournament nor received a medal. His first cap had been awarded in 1955 so the fact that his last came eleven years later is testimony to the longevity of the wonderful wing-half. Flowers was the last of the great players of the Wolves’ golden era, captaining the club to victory in the 1960 FA Cup Final, but he also left the club towards the end of the decade.

In the meantime, in August 1965, Ronnie Allen, a recently retired star player for local rivals West Bromwich Albion, joined Wolves as a coach. When Beattie resigned following a disastrous start to the team’s campaign in Division Two, Allen was appointed caretaker-manager, a decision not initially popular with the Wolves fans, given his long-term association with the Albion. However, after the turmoil of Cullis’ sacking and relegation from the top flight, the team’s confidence was at ‘rock bottom’, and the West Brom man somehow managed to revive it. In March 1966, Allen bought Mike Bailey from Charlton to stiffen the resolve of the midfield. Bailey was to have a major influence over the coming years, both as a player and captain.

As his reward for halting the slide in his first season, in July 1966, just before the World Cup Finals, and ahead of the new season, Allen was confirmed as the full-time manager. In March 1967, he produced a stroke of genius by signing Derek Dougan from Leicester City. ‘The Doog’ knocked in nine goals in eleven games, leading a great attacking line-up of Terry Wharton, Ernie Hunt, Peter Knowles and Dave Wagstaffe (below), whom Beattie had signed. Their goals brought to an end Wolves’ two-season stay in Division Two. Wolves finished as runners-up to Coventry City, winning promotion back to the First Division.

Peter Knowles is front and centre (No. 10) in this photo of ‘LA Wolves’, United Soccer Association Champions in July 1967.

That summer they accepted an invitation to cross the Atlantic to play in the inaugural United Soccer Association League which began with twelve teams recruited from around the world. For six weeks Wolves were based in Los Angeles and from 27 May to 14 July, the Los Angeles Wolves played fourteen matches, clocking up thousands of air miles and taking in Cleveland, Washington DC and San Francisco. It was an itinerary closer to that of a rock band rather than a football team. In the final, they scored a ‘golden goal’ through Bobby Thomson to win 6-5, with the first five scored by Dougan, Knowles and a hat-trick from Burnside.

During their time in LA, Dave Wagstaffe (above) renewed a Manchester boyhood friendship with Davy Jones of The Monkees, a chart-topping pop group with their own TV series. They watched several of the team’s matches and arranged a visit to the Columbia studios in Hollywood to see the group recording an episode of their series. The story of ‘Waggy and the Monkees’ is well told in the Wolves Museum.

Dave Wagstaffe’s kit and the trophies from the Summer 1967 US Tour

Wolves were ‘Champions of the USA’ and Ronnie Allen won the coach of the tournament award, but in the following 1967-68 season, the Wolves finished a lowly seventeenth in the First Division and Allen decided to move on. But before doing so, he made further astute signings, including those of Frank Munro (from Aberdeen) and Kenny Hibbitt.

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Allen was replaced by Bill McGarry in November 1968, who added more quality signings, including Jim McCalliog from Cup-winning Sheffield Wednesday. In May 1969 Wolves returned to America to play in the the North American Soccer League International League in the guise of ‘Kansas City Spurs’. Their home ground was the Kansas City Municipal Stadium, also a Baseball stadium where The Beatles had played five years earlier when they ‘conquered the USA’. In reality, they were simply the warm-up act for the Wolves whose own ‘Beatle’, Peter Knowles, was again in the squad which topped the League and was crowned champions for a second time.

By then, the wonderful floodlit friendlies had become a thing of the past. On Wednesday 27 August 1969, Wolves unveiled their new floodlights in a League match with Brian Clough’s Derby County. Apparently, the new lights were so powerful that they caused many of the press photographers to over-expose their films. On 3 September, the floodlights lit up the first-ever floodlit game to be broadcast in colour. This was the second-round League Cup clash with Tottenham Hotspur, which Wolves won 1-0. The 1969-70 season started magnificently with Wolves winning their first four games, but then came another bombshell.

The fans’ favourite (and mine), Peter Knowles announced that he was giving up football at the age of twenty-four, to devote the rest of his life to the Jehovah’s Witnesses. In his programme notes for Knowles’ last game against Nottingham Forest, McGarry wrote that he was still hoping that Peter would return for training the next Monday to find his kit laid out for him. The Club held onto his registration for several seasons, but Peter never returned, except once, for a final testimonial at the end of that hiatus. Fortunately, in 1967 Wolves had been joined by another future talented goalscorer in John Richards, although a very different player to Knowles.

Peter ‘knocker’ Knowles had seemed destined to become a great footballer, perhaps rivalling Peter Broadbent or even George Best. A Yorkshireman, he signed from Wolves’ nursery team, Wath Wanderers in 1962, as a seventeen-year-old, making his first-team debut in October 1963, a year after becoming professional, scoring four times in fourteen outings. By the end of the following season, he had established himself as a regular first-team member and although injuries restricted his appearances, he still managed to score eighty-four goals in 188 games. Not only was he wonderfully skilled, but he also revealed a special temperament in how he played the game. Perhaps it was this that also gave him the moral fortitude to turn his back forever on the sport he loved.

Knowles was capped four times for England’s under-23 team, and would surely have become a full international in the following decade. The disappointment of the fans at his sudden departure is therefore understandable, but they also showed respect for his decision. The season as a whole finished disappointingly with Wolves losing eight of their final thirteen games and drawing the other five, taking only five points from a possible twenty-six. The 1969-70 season ended with a thirteenth place finish. Another emerging star of the 1960s was goalkeeper Phil ‘Lofty’ Parkes, who made his debut in November 1966 and would go in the next decade to make 127 consecutive league appearances, 170 in all competitions, a Wolves record.

Phil Parkes in action at Molineux

The Seventies’ Icons:

The Seventies began with two impressive seasons, including the next ‘chapter’ in Wolves’ European narrative which came in 1971-72 when they qualified, as fourth-best league finishers, for the UEFA Cup, renamed from the Inter-City Fairs Cup. After their mixed experience in the Anglo-Italian Cup in 1969-70 and the Texaco Cup in 1970-71 (against Scottish and Irish League teams, which they won, beating Heart of Midlothian over two legs), the Wolves fans looked forward to being back in European Competition proper.

The 1971-72 season was iconic, as Wolves competed in Europe for the first time since 1960-61. In the UEFA competition Wolves took on and beat some of Europe’s most illustrious clubs, beginning with a Portuguese team from the university city of Coimbra. They had qualified by finishing fifth in Portugal’s First Division and had earned a reputation for being hard to beat in knock-out competition; no team had managed to score more than one goal against them over two legs in a European tie. However, in the first leg at Molineux in mid-September, the Wolves managed to smash their visitors’ proud record by beating them 3-0 with goals from John McAlle (pictured below), John Richards and Derek Dougan. In the away leg, Wolves again won by three goals, 4-1, including a hat-trick from Dougan and another rare goal from McAlle. In the next round, Wolves won by the same aggregate of 7-1 against FC Den Haag of the Netherlands, with a 4-0 victory at Molineux on 3 November, with the Dutch scoring three of them – own goals!

Wolves went behind the iron curtain to beat East German team Carl Zeiss Jena in the third round, in a match played in the snow, before meeting Juventus in the Quarter Final. They then went to Italy, travelling with Juventus, Leeds United and Wales legend John Charles as an ambassador who sat on the bench with Bill McGarry and his assistant, Sammy Chung. This turned out to be a tactical masterstroke by McGarry, as Wolves drew in Italy and went on to beat the Italian giants 3-2 on aggregate, 2-1 at Molineux, with goals from Derek Dougan and Danny Hegan.

John Charles

In the Semi-final they faced even tougher opponents in the Hungarian aces Ferencváros and their great centre-forward Flórián Albert, winner of the Ballon d’Or Player of the Year Award in 1967. The first leg was played on a beautiful Budapest Spring afternoon in April 1972, in the Népstadion where they had last met Honvéd. The attendance was 44,763 and kick-off was at 5.30 p.m. Wolves managed to maintain their excellent away form in the competition, drawing a hard-fought game, 2-2. They showed a determined effort after their brilliant young striker John Richards had put them ahead after nineteen minutes. Derek Dougan cleverly drew the defenders away before back-healing the ball back to Richards, who didn’t miss.

The People’s Stadium today, under floodlights.

Ferencváros came back strongly, however, scoring two in eight minutes. István Szőke got the first on the half-hour from the penalty spot, and then the Magyars took a two-goal lead. Flórián Albert netted from open play, shooting past Phil Parkes following Szőke’s tempting cross, making it 2-1 to ‘Fradi’ at half-time. At seventy-four minutes, the home team was awarded another penalty, but this time Parkes magnificently saved Szőke’s shot with his left foot. The Budapest team went close again when Kű headed just over. The Wolves then rallied and won a corner. Dave Wagstaffe swung the ball in and Frank Munro was perfectly placed to nod home the equaliser. After that, Kenny Hibbitt and Jimmy McCalliog smacked in powerful shots, but they didn’t result in a winning goal. The Wolves had almost three times the number of efforts on goal as the home team but the two sides went into the return leg on equal terms. The two teams in Budapest were as follows:

Ferencváros: Vörös; Novák, Pancsícs; Megyesi, Vépi, Bálint; Sőke, Bránkovics, Albert (pictured below), Kű, Múcha (Rákósi). Subs: Rákósi, Fusi, Hórváth, Géczi.

Wolves: Parkes; Shaw, Taylor; Hegan, Munro, McAlle; McCalliog, Hibbitt, Richards, Dougan, Wagstaffe. Subs: Arnold, Parkin, Daley, Sunderland, Eastoe.

The second leg was held at Molineux a fortnight later on 19th April 1972 in front of a disappointingly small crowd (for a European semi-final) of just over twenty-eight thousand. The Wolves were determined not to lose this semi-final as they had their last in Europe, against Glasgow Rangers in 1961. Phil Parkes was once again outstanding, Alan Sunderland came in at right back for the suspended Shaw, and Steve Daley, aged eighteen, made his European debut in place of the also-suspended Dave Wagstaffe. New boy Daley’s dream came true when he put Wolverhampton ahead in the first minute. Goalkeeper Vörös missed Sunderland’s high floating cross, the ball falling to Daley. Just before half-time, up jumped Frank Munro (above) as he had in the away leg to put the home team 2-0 up. Lájos Kű pulled a goal back for ‘Fradi’ two minutes after the interval and then Phil Parkes saved another penalty from Szőke with his leg. It was a very entertaining game, worthy of a final, in which Daley and Hibbitt went close, Dougan hit the bar and Sunderland sent in a thirty-yard screamer before Taylor cleared a József Múcha effort off the line. Wolves won a close match 2-1, and the tie 4-3 on aggregate.

Derek Dougan in the Seventies.

Sixty-four clubs had initially set out to contest the competition, so it was testimony to the strength of English football that two First Division clubs reached the final. Unfortunately for Wolves, the other team was Tottenham Hotspur, one of their cup bogey teams. Wolves lost their home leg 2-1, Martin Chivers scoring both goals for the visitors, and the second leg was drawn 1-1, so the cup went to Spurs. Wolves should have won their first European trophy, and the 3-2 aggregate score over the two legs was not a fair reflection of the games, according to many media reports the day after the match at White Hart Lane, where Wolves gave a brilliant performance. Dave Wagstaffe’s equalising goal in the forty-first minute was one of the greatest goals ever scored by a man in the golden shirt. It was said by those present to be better than the one he scored in the 5-1 thrashing of Arsenal in a snowstorm at Molineux the previous November which had won the BBC’s Goal of the Month competition.

Although the Wanderers’ 1971-72 European campaign was ultimately unsuccessful, it seems curious that it is not remembered at least as favourably as the floodlit friendly matches of 1953-54 against Honved in the club’s annals. In many ways, the Wolves’ victory against Ferencváros in the semi-final of the UEFA Cup, an official competition, can be seen as the pinnacle of the Old Golds’ distinguished European history. Their team that season was perhaps as great as the one that faced Honvéd in 1954, especially in its forward line, though Billy Wright’s half-back line will always be remembered as the finest ever to take the field both for his club and for England. I am too young to have seen the class of ’54, except on video, and the gap between the two periods is too great to make a reasonable comparison. In what was their first European Cup final, the fact that their opponents were Tottenham, though a star-studded team themselves, made it seem less of a European final. The semi-final was a far more fitting final, especially given the star-studded nature of the Ferencváros team which included the ‘Ballon d’Or’ winning Florián Albert (below).

The class of 1971-72 are still the only Wolves side ever to get to a European Final, and, together with Spurs, the first-ever English team in the UEFA Cup. This was also achieved without their inspirational skipper and lynchpin Mike Bailey, who was injured for the last three ties and only played in the second leg of the final, though Jim McCalliog ably replaced him as skipper.

In their first season together, 1971-72, the Dougan-Richards combination scored forty goals in the League and UEFA Cup. I remember watching them in action at the Hawthorns, against West Bromwich Albion, and at Molineux. The duo scored a total of 125 goals in 127 games together in two-and-a-half seasons.

The Strike Partnership of the Seventies: Dougan and Richards.

In 1972-73, Wolves finished fifth in the League and were semi-finalists in both domestic cups. Their league position earned them another place in the UEFA Cup, at the expense of Arsenal, who despite finishing as runners-up in the League, were not allowed to compete because of a rule which only permitted one team per city to enter what had been the Inter-city Fairs Cup. Tottenham finished eighth, but their League Cup win meant that they took precedence over their North London rivals. So Wolves found themselves back in Europe, but they made a departure in the second round of the UEFA Cup when they met the East Germans, Lokomotiv Leipzig, in October 1973. In the first leg, in Leipzig, the Wolves were without their midfield king-pin Mike Bailey and strikers John Richards and Dave Wagstaffe. But no one in the Wolves camp could quite believe the result, a 3-0 defeat, their first away defeat on their UEFA Cup travels. Not since they met Barcelona in the Quarter-final of the European Champions Cup in 1960 had a side put three past Wolves in a competitive European game.

Steve Kindon & Derek Dougan on the ground after a Wolves attack has been frustrated in the UEFA Cup tie against Lokomotiv Leipzig.

The Old Gold tried to rally and rescue the tie in the second leg at Molineux, in a match that the fans who went to see it felt privileged to witness. They had scored the four goals they needed by the 83rd minute, but Lokomotiv scored the all-important away goal in the 72nd minute. So the tie finished 4-4 on aggregate, but the Wolves went out on the away goals rule, which stipulated that, in the event of scores finishing level after both legs, away goals would count double.

It was some compensation that in March 1974 Wolves won the League Cup. They had beaten Liverpool in the fifth round when the 1973 Oil Crisis had threatened kick-off times in the League Cup from October when the oil-producing countries began an embargo on exports to countries perceived to be supporting Israel in the Yom Kippur War, including the UK. This threatened the use of floodlights as there was a concern that the power stations would simply not be able to operate. In the event, Wolves were able to beat Norwich City in the semi-final over two legs and faced Manchester City in the final at Wembley in front of 97,886 fans. Both finalists were in mid-table positions at this time, but Man City had one of the best forward lines in the business from Mike Summerbee on the right, through Colin Bell, Francis Lee, Denis Law and Rodney Marsh. Besides, City had been there before, and recently, beating West Brom a few seasons previously, a match for which I was fortunate to get a ticket.

The Wolves also had an impressive forward line with its striking partnership of Derek Dougan and John Richards, flanked by Kenny Hibbitt on the right and Dave Wagstaffe on the left, with Steve Daley assisting from midfield. But the players were nervous before the game as only Derek Dougan had been to a Wembley final before. Nevertheless, Wolves took the lead through Hibbitt just before half-time. Then Colin Bell equalised for City on the hour. ‘King’ John Richards sealed the win five minutes from time to bring the trophy to Molineux for the first time since the competition began in 1966. Most importantly, Wolves qualified for another season in the UEFA Cup. In 2024 Wolves celebrated the fiftieth anniversary of that victory by inviting surviving players to Molineux, where they were introduced to the crowd at a Premier League game.

But the hobbling Richards didn’t play again that season, while the ageing ‘Doog’ was mostly restricted to the substitutes’ bench. Dougan played his last six full games in 1974-75, two of them in the UEFA Cup when Wolves went ‘one worse’ than their performances in previous seasons by losing in the first round to FC Porto, to a team packed with world stars, including the Brazilian World Cup star, Flavio. The first leg was played in Oporto on Wednesday 18 September. John Richards’ hamstring injury kept him out of the tie and Dave Wagstaffe was also missing. Wolves lost by a humiliating scoreline of 4-1 and trying to turn around a three-goal deficit seemed impossible given Wolves’ recent performances in the competition.

But on the 2nd of October, the true Molineux faithful were treated to another night of fully committed football. The atmosphere was once again electric and the floodlights seemed brighter than ever. The score was 1-1 at the interval following a goal from Bailey, and on the resumption, it only took the snarling Wolves only a minute to score a second when Alan Sunderland crossed the ball, Dougan rose high to head it on and Steve Daley nodded it home. In the photograph below, he is shown celebrating after scoring. In the 79th minute, Wolves won a free-kick which Derek Parkin floated into the danger area. Dougan rose high to meet the ball cleanly, and it was 3-1 on the night. What followed was a display of all-out attacking football from Wolves, but they couldn’t quite get the fourth goal. The season ended in a mid-table finish for the Wolves who were knocked out in their first-round matches in both domestic cups. Derek Dougan hung up his boots after a career spanning twenty years.

The following season the club was surprisingly relegated to the second division after Dave Wagstaffe was sold to Blackburn Rovers early in 1976. In May, Bill McGarry lost his job, with his assistant trainer Sammy Chung succeeding him. Chung turned things around by winning promotion back to the top flight at their first attempt in 1977 and winning the second division title for the first time since Major Buckley.

Eighties & Nineties – The Fall & Rise of the ‘Mighty Wolves’:

Fortunes revived somewhat In the 1979/80 season when Wolves beat Brian Clough’s Nottingham Forest in the League Cup Final at Wembley with Andy Gray scoring the decisive single goal. Forest had won the European Cup in 1979 and went on to retain it in 1980. Emlyn Hughes (below) proudly lifted the only trophy that had hitherto eluded him in his long and distinguished career at Liverpool. Wolves also finished the season in a creditable sixth place, the last time they finished in the top six of Division One. So it was that, at the beginning of the 1980/81 season, the Wolves found themselves on another, fourth UEFA Cup adventure.

But Dutch masters PSV Eindhoven all but put an end to the Wolves’ high hopes in mid-September by beating them 3-1 in Holland. That deficit was always going to be difficult to reverse, even at Molineux, where such things had happened before in European matches. Richards and Gray did everything they could to get the ball in the net, despite the fouls perpetrated against them. The Dutch ‘keeper stopped everything that came his way, but it looked as if the Wolves might just come out on top. Then, in the 38th minute, the lights suddenly went out, as the stadium and much of Wolverhampton town centre were thrown into darkness by a power cut. The players and spectators stood around for twenty-five minutes until the game could be restarted, but it was not until the second half that a Wolves goal came, following a fiftieth-minute goalmouth melée, with Darlaston-born Mel Eves (below) the scorer of what was destined to be the last Wolves’ goal to be scored in a European competition until 2019. Ominously, the lights went out again as Eves scored. Wolves were denied two penalties and, urged on by Emlyn Hughes (above), they threw everything into attack but failed to get another breakthrough.

Once again, the dream was over. As Mel Eves later wrote, neither the players nor the fans envisaged the catastrophes that were looming on the horizon, nor that this would turn out to be their last European adventure for a very long time:

“I often get asked what it was like to be the last Wolves player to score a goal in a European competition; the answer is simple: at the time, neither I, nor anyone else that I know of, could have imagined that this would be Wolves’ last European goal; I’d never have believed it if someone had told me that. I suppose my best answer is that it was great to score any goal for Wolves. Now I can’t wait to lose the tag because for someone to score a European goal would mean we’d have regained our rightful place in the top echelon of English football, back where Wolves belong.”

The 1980s were one of the most difficult decades in the history of British football, and Wolves found themselves at the forefront of the financial struggle. The construction and associated cost of the ‘New Stand’ (below) had really put pressure on finances at Wolves just at the time when the team declined to eighteenth place and was relegated at the end of the 1981-82 season. In the summer of 1982, the club faced bankruptcy, with the local newspaper, The Express and Star, headlining “Wolves Have Gone Bust”. Derek Dougan led a consortium to save the club. It made sweeping changes immediately, replacing its management team with a team led by Graham Hawkins, a former Wolves player and supporter. He guided Wolves to an immediate promotion in 1982-83, when Wolves were runners-up.

However, the promotion was a false dawn, and in 1983-84 Wolves were again relegated after a miserable season in Division One. In the 1984-85 season, Wolves won only eight games in another miserable season. From mid-November 1984 to mid-April 1985 Wolves failed to score a single goal at Molineux. On Saturday 11th May 1985 Wolves played their final Division Two fixture at Ewood Park, Blackburn. Meanwhile, just over the Pennines, fifty-six supporters were tragically killed in a fire at Bradford City’s Valley Parade Stadium. This horrendous event led to the Popplewell Enquiry, which directly affected Molineux.

The North Bank and the Waterloo Road Stand were closed due to their wooden content. When they were declared unsafe at the beginning of the 1985-86 season, the Wolves were close to being unable to play at their ground. But Wolves did take their place in Division Three, the first time they had been in the third tier since 1923-24. The season ended in their third successive relegation. These three disastrous seasons saw the Old Gold plummet from Division One to Division Four in consecutive seasons. Meanwhile, Molineux continued to crumble. The club was saved from being wound up by a three-way consortium led by Asda Supermarkets, which marked a turning point in the club’s fortunes. The Club was then joined as manager by Graham Turner, formerly of Watford and England fame, a boyhood Wolves fan.

Under Turner’s leadership, in 1987-1988, the Wolves stormed to the Fourth Division title and the following season, to the Third Division title. A lot of their success was down to Steve Bull scoring more than fifty goals in two consecutive seasons. As a third-tier player, this earned him a surprise call-up to the England team in 1989. He went on to represent his country in the World Cup in Italy in 1990. He scored four goals in thirteen internationals, but despite scoring 309 goals for Wolves, a club record, he never had the chance to play in European club competition before injury ended his career in 1999.

By the nineties, the Wolves were back in Division Two, so in the 1980s, they had played on almost every league ground in England and Wales. But the Hillsborough Enquiry put more pressure on all these grounds, including Molineux, which added to the costs and issues already faced as a result of the Popplewell Report of 1985.

The Taylor Report meant the clock was ticking and the redevelopment of Molineux needed to happen with a sense of urgency. Lifelong fan Jack Hayward (pictured above) stepped in to purchase the club in 1990 and immediately funded the extensive redevelopment of a by-then-dilapidated Molineux into a modern all-seater stadium, one of the best in the country. The rebuild began in 1991 and was completed in 1993, after which Hayward redirected his investment onto the playing side in an attempt to win promotion to the newly formed Premier League, which took another ten years, into the twenty-first century.

To mark the opening of the new stands, named after Stan Cullis, Billy Wright and Jack Harris, and celebrate the new-look stadium, there was a special fixture against Kispest Honved scheduled for 7 December 1993. This was the first time Wolves supporters had seen a four-sided Molineux since 1985. Interestingly, this was the third friendly floodlit match against Honved at Molineux, thirty-nine years after the first. A lasting memory of that night was Billy Wright and Ferenc Puskás standing in the players’ tunnel before kick-off. Puskás had recently returned from Australia, where he managed South Melbourne between 1989 and 1992. In their playing days, Puskás had twice led Wright a ‘merry dance’ when Hungary met England and now Wright was reduced to laughter when a wag shouted in broad Black Country: “Billy, that’s the closest yo’ve ever got to ‘im.” There was a short delay because of another failure in the floodlighting. But compared with some of the darker days of the previous fifteen years, this was not a major issue since, as Wolves fans knew, Out of Darkness Cometh Light. The capacity all-seated crowd of 28,245 watched the visitors hold Wolves to a 2-2 draw.

Memorabilia from the 1993 Wolves v Honved floodlit friendly at Molineux.

In August 1998, Wolves again met Barcelona in a pre-season friendly match to celebrate the club’s 125th anniversary. Then, after the tragedy of seeing West Brom ‘steal’ promotion by finishing second in Division Two in 2001-02 and losing to Norwich in the play-off semi-final, Wolves finally returned to the top flight after winning against Sheffield United at the Millennium Stadium, Cardiff in the 2003 play-off final. Wolves were back in the top division in time to celebrate the fiftieth anniversary of their first-ever friendly under floodlights at Molineux. As John Shipley put it in 2003:

‘Yes, there have been other more recent floodlit friendlies, but none that have recaptured or have gone any way towards evoking the wonderful atmosphere of those games in the 1950s, or those in the various European competitions in which Wolves competed. …’

Shipley (2003), p.191.

Top: Sir Jack Hayward and manager Dave Jones celebrate promotion from the top of an open-top bus
Below: crowds join them in the centre of Wolverhampton.

In 2003-04, I returned to Molineux with my cousin and twelve-year-old son to watch the Wolves beat Manchester United and Fulham in their first season back in the First Division. These were memorable moments, but unfortunately, their return to the top flight under Dave Jones only lasted one season. They finished bottom and returned to what had become ‘the Championship’. After a slow start in the 2004-05 campaign, Jones was dismissed in November 2004 and replaced by former England manager Glenn Hoddle. He managed to steer Wolves to ninth in the 2004-05 campaign and seventh in 2005-06, but then suddenly resigned in July 2006. Sir Jack made his final managerial appointment with Mick McCarthy who set about rebuilding the team when there was hardly any of the squad left. This led to another play-off finish, in which Wolves lost narrowly to West Brom. Nevertheless, the campaign was way above even the most positive Wolves supporter’s expectations, restoring confidence in the Molineux fan base. In the 2007-08 season, Sir Jack’s last, McCarthy led the Wanderers to a strong seventh place, slightly lower than the play-off places. In his time at the club, Sir Jack Hayward had rebuilt the infrastructure of the club, leaving a Molineux to be proud of and a new training ground of a very high standard.

More Ups & Downs, 2008-2017:

In 2008, Jack sold the club to Steve Morgan for a nominal fee of ten pounds on the condition that Morgan would invest up to thirty million in the club. Mick McCarthy won the Championship in 2008-09, only the third Wolves manager to win the second-tier title after Major Buckley and Sammy Chung. His team also won it in fine style in a superb season. They finished seven points clear of runners-up Birmingham City and ten clear of Sheffield United in third. There were also impressively consistent individual performances throughout the team. Wolves were back in the Premier League after five years away and there were many more memorable moments, like the last day of the 2010-11 season that saw the Wanderers narrowly avoid relegation on goal difference. Again, there were some fine victories against Manchester United, Manchester City and Arsenal. The new owner, Steve Morgan, believed that Molineux needed to be bigger to host Premier League football, to take its capacity to forty thousand. The Stan Cullis stand came down at the end of the season and was replaced with a two-tier stand which also houses the club megastore and museum.

Above: The finally completed Molineux stadium, with twenty-first-century floodlighting.

However, the 2011-12 season, with Molineux’s reduced capacity, sadly saw the club relegated. McCarthy was sacked in February 2012, following a dismal display against West Brom. He was replaced by Terry Connor, who could not stop the Wolves from being relegated. Connor’s successor, Norwegian Stale Solbakken, was also dismissed in January 2013 after a run of poor performances, to be replaced by Dean Saunders. He could not prevent a further relegation to League One, the third tier, but the astute appointment of Kenny Jackett ensured that Wolves romped to the League One title in 2014 with a record 103 points. The subsequent promotion back to the Championship felt like another turning point for the club and its fans. Jackett was very unlucky not to get the team into the play-offs at the end of the 2014-15 season, and when the team slipped back to a mid-table place in 2015-16, he left the club.

The 2016-17 season was not the best of seasons, but in the summer of 2017, the ‘Fosun revolution’ (named after the new owners, Fosun International) began to take shape. The appointment of Nuno Espirito Santo signalled the real beginning of the new era, along with the arrival of various Portuguese players. Evertonian Conor Coady, who had arrived at the club in the summer of 2015, took on a new role as a sweeper and was made club captain. Wolves took the Championship apart and won it at a canter with the entire squad impressing and Head Coach Nuno quickly becoming a club hero. The 2017-2018 season for all involved was incredible. Wolves were Champions and back in the Premier League after a five-year gap. This time it felt somewhat different, however. Ruben Neves and Diogo Jota had arrived in 2017, along with Wily Boly.

The Wanderers’ Return To Europe, 2018-20:

In the Summer of 2018, Wolves were joined by further exciting arrivals from Portugal in the guise of internationals, goalkeeper Rui Patricio and Joao Mutinho, sending a clear message of intent to the other Premier League clubs: Wolves were not back in the top flight simply to make up the numbers. They were determined to compete and they succeeded in this by finishing seventh at the end of their first season back, securing a place in the Europa League. Wolves also got to the FA Cup semi-final and their supporters had a wonderful Wembley day out. But despite the heroics from Mexican star Raul Jimenez, the match finished in defeat to Watford.

Above: Diogo Jota fires a shot at goal during Wolves’ return to Europe against Crusaders. Jota scored Wolves’ first goal in European competition for 39 years in the 38th minute.
Picture: Matthew Childs/ Reuters

On the hottest July day on record in 2019, Wolves played the Belfast club Crusaders, who finished fourth in the Irish Premiership in the 2018/19 season, also winning the Irish Cup. Wolves won 2-0 and went through to the next round, after winning by a similar margin in the return leg in Belfast the following week. Before the opening game, highlights of the Molineux team’s historic 1950s triumphs over Spartak Moscow and Budapest Honvéd were beamed on the big screens. After their victory over Crusaders in the Europa League, Wolves then went on to beat the Arminian club Pyunik, 8-0 on aggregate, and on 29 August, they booked their place in the Europa League group stage after beating Torino in front of a jubilant Molineux. The Black Country side were in the main stage of a European competition for the first time since 1980 after coming through three rounds of qualifiers. Their popular Portuguese manager, who had turned the club around since his 2017 appointment when they were in the Championship, named a strong team. They started the game on the back foot, however, with Torino dominating possession and Wolves playing a counter-attacking game. But wing-back Traore was lively down the right and forced a save from Salvatore Sirigu after a sensational surging run, before setting up Jimenez for the opener.

Pictured above, Raul Jimenez scored six goals in as many Europa League qualifiers.

Torino needed three goals at that stage and for about sixty seconds they seemed back in the tie when Italian international Belotti headed in Daniele Baselli’s free-kick. That made it 4-3 on aggregate, but Leander Dendoncker put the game out of reach. Wolves had restored their two-goal aggregate advantage when Diogo Jota’s shot was saved and Dendoncker’s first-time shot from sixteen yards went in via the post. That goal meant Torino needed to score twice to force extra time, and, despite some late chances, a comeback never seemed likely. Wolves’ European run ended up causing problems for their twenty-one-man first-team squad – this was their ninth game in thirty-six days – but that was a problem boss Nuno Espirito Santo wanted:

“Work started two years ago and this is the next step. This is massive for us.

“It has been tough so far. The way the fans push us, they are the twelfth man.”

Former Wolves manager Nuno Espirito Santo

In reaching the Europa League group stage, Wolves had returned to the European competition they played a significant role in inspiring sixty-five years before. Just reaching the Europa League group stage had not been an insignificant task for Wolves. Home and away victories in the play-off round against Torino represented only the eleventh time an English club had beaten the same Italian opposition in back-to-back games in the entire history of European competition. It was a notable achievement for a side whose history was well-known around Europe. In the main stage of the competition, Wolves were drawn against Braga, Besiktas and Slovan Bratislava. They qualified out of the group in second place, only losing one game. Success continued when they then defeated Espanyol in the Round of thirty-two and Olympiacos in the last sixteen. Despite beating the top Greek team in Athens, due to the Covid-19 pandemic supporters were unable to attend. The second leg of the tie took place almost five months later. Wolves progressed to the quarter-final where they played Sevilla at a neutral venue in Germany, behind closed doors and in a one-legged tie. Unfortunately, the Wolves ‘bowed out’ of the competition in a narrow 1-0 defeat. In 1919-20, Wolves replicated their previous season’s seventh-place finish in the Premier League, but with two more points, and only missed out on a return to continental competition on goal difference.

The Post-Pandemic Seasons – The End of the Legend?

Despite the difficult circumstances of the pandemic that had taken control of the world at this point, and the number of games Wolves had to play at home and away, including in European competition, Wolves had not managed to finish this high in the top League since the consecutive seasons of 1959-60 and 1960-61. Nuno’s final season was 2020-21, the majority of it played behind closed doors, and even when crowds did return it was in very minimal numbers. There were also serious injuries to Jimenez, Pedro Neto and Jonny which resulted in the team slipping to thirteenth in the League. Nuno left in 2021 after achieving a measure of greatness to compare with former glories, leaving the supporters with great memories of some extraordinary excursions around Europe before the pandemic hit. In the eyes of the fans, he had become its latest legend.

Current Wolves Manager (since 2023) Gary O’Neil.

On 9th August 2023 Wolves appointed Gary O’Neil as their new manager, following short spells in charge from Bruno Lage and Julen Lopetegui. O’neil had steered Bournemouth to safety the season before. He had only five days to work with the players before the opening day’s visit to Old Trafford where, despite an impressive performance, they lost. The first home games also saw defeats, but then they climbed back to seventh before dropping to fourteenth by the end of the season. Along the way, they recorded great wins against champions Manchester City, Tottenham and Chelsea. They also beat West Brom at the Hawthorns for the first time since 1996, in the FA Cup. However, in the current season, they remain as far away as ever from qualifying for European competition.

The Light Shines on…

In his foreword to the Wolves Museum Guide, Mel Eves recalls his junior school trip to Molineux when he looked ‘in awe at the trophy-filled cabinets’ in the main entrance to the stadium in Waterloo Road. In 1974, like me, he was in the sixth form of Grammar School when he made his first trip to Wembley to see his team, the Wolves, beat a star-studded Manchester City 2-1, to lift the Football League Cup for the first time. His second visit was in 1980 when he was playing in the Wolves team which beat the Nottingham Forest team that went on to retain the European Cup at the end of the season. He commented:

“I was very blessed to be able to play football professionally. It was even more special to fulfil my boyhood ambition with the team I had always supported. Before my nine years at Wolves ended… in May 1984 aged twenty-seven, I had played in 214 games and scored fifty-three goals. … The rich history of the club, from being a founder member of the Football League, all the way through competing with the best in Europe and the Premier League, is brought to life in the Museum experience.”

Mel Eves, quoted in Wolves Museum Guide, 2024, loc. cit.

As a Wolves fan of a very similar age, who as a young lad wanted to play for the Wolves and who visited the Museum earlier this year, I share his opinion, and the city and club motto, Out of darkness cometh light. After all, Chandlers make candles, which shed light into the darkest of corners!

Steffan Chandler buying his shirt, in August 2024, after a tour of Molineux.
Sources:

György Szöllősi (2015), Ferenc Puskás: The Most Famous Hungarian. Budapest: Rézbong Kiadó.

György Szöllősi, Zalán Bodnár (2015), Az Aranycsapat Kinceskönyve (‘The Golden Team Treasure Book’). Budapest: Twister Media.

Bán Tibor & Harmos Zotán (2011), Puskás Ferenc. Budapest: Arena 2000.

Czégány Pál (2021), Albert 80: The Legacy of the One and Only Hungarian Ballon d’Or Winner. Budapest: Ferencvárosi Torna Club: Albert Flórián Labdarúgó Utánpótlás és Sportalapitvány (www.albertalapitvany.hu).

John Shipley (2003), Wolves Against the World: European Nights, 1953-1980. Stroud (Glos.): Tempus Publishing.

Molineux Stadium (2024), Wolves Museum Guide, Third Edition.: Wolverhampton: Synaxis Design Consultancy.

Gallery:

‘Out of Darkness Cometh Light’ – Seventieth Anniversary of Floodlit European Football at Wolverhampton I.

Part One: 1949-1964 – The Cullis Years

Wolverhampton’s Civic Crest
Wolverhampton, The Black Country and the West Midlands, showing the county boundaries in the 1950s-60s

‘They Wore the Shirt’:

At the end of July 2024, my son and I, both fans of Wolverhampton Wanderers (the ‘Wolves’) visited their stadium, Molineux, and their new Museum chronicling the history of the club and the stadium dating back to 1877. The museum itself dates from the 2011-12 season when the Stan Cullis Stand, itself built where the ‘Cow Shed’ end once stood (where I used to stand as a boy) was replaced by a magnificent two-tier stand which also houses the club ‘megastore’ and the museum. One of the most iconic exhibits in the museum is the Rayon Silk shirt (now somewhat faded from its original fluorescent old gold, as seen in two of the photographs below), which the Wolves team wore on a few occasions, firstly in the second half of two league games in 1951.

The shirt in the Museum is thought to have been worn by Brian Punter at a Youth team game against Birmingham County FA as described in Steve Plant’s book, They Wore the Shirt. This occurred at Dudley’s Revo Electric Ground in 1953 when floodlit games began at Molineux. The shirt has no number on the back and is therefore believed to be a prototype. Revo Electric’s ground had floodlights before Molineux itself, and it’s thought that Stan Cullis, the Wolves manager, was in attendance and wanted to see what the shirt looked like under the lights as, of course, It was designed to reflect the floodlights. It’s also believed that Punter wore this shirt with the rest of the Wolves Youth side wearing the standard Wolves shirt of the time.

The floodlit friendly games were all ‘iconic’ but especially the match played on 13th December 1954 against Honved of Budapest, so the golden shirt of ‘poor man’s silk’ represents that famous occasion. It was discovered during a ‘Champions of the World’ project, funded by the national lottery to celebrate the sixtieth anniversary of the iconic Wolves v Honved match. Peter Crump, whose brother found the shirt, writes:

“I love this shirt as it allows us to tell the amazing story of how Wolverhampton Wanderers and the great footballers of that period changed football forever.

“The Wolves players of this period are not just Wolves Legends, they are footballing legends. Football under the lights gradually become a normal part of the calendar and (they) are still magical to this day.

“I am far too young to remember this era. This period is so special and this wonderful shirt allows us to make sure that we keep this alive. We have a duty to tell this story over and over again and make sure that Stan Cullis’ Gold and Black Army always lives on.”

Quoted in Wolves Museum Guide (2024), p. 48.

Prelude – The Buckley Era, 1927-47:

The story of Wolves’ Golden Era has its roots in Major Frank Buckley’s period as their manager beginning in 1927. During his time at Wolves, Major Buckley showed that he was not frightened of taking decisions that would make him an unpopular figure with supporters. One of these was the sale of Bryn Jones in 1938:

A display panel from the Wolves Museum.

1938 is also notorious in the history of the England football team, as it is in British history, as the year in which the team played in Berlin and gave the Nazi salute in tribute to Adolf Hitler and the fascist régime triumphant in the country and other German-speaking areas of Europe at that time. This was at the peak of the British government’s appeasement policy towards the ascendancy of fascism throughout Europe, especially in Italy and Spain in addition to Germany. The team photo before the game, showing all the players making the salute, was widely published in the national and international press at the time:

In 1934 Buckley signed a young Stan Cullis, who captained Wolves at 19 and England when two days short of his 23rd birthday. He won his first cap in the 5-1 win against Ireland in 1937, the first of twelve (Hitler’s European War prevented him from winning more). England won the match in Berlin 6-3, and despite his refusal to ‘obey orders’, he became one of only six Wolves players to have captained England. Buckley almost won Wolves’ first-ever First Division title for the 1937-38 season, but they were overtaken by Arsenal at the final hurdle.

In 1938, William Ambrose Wright was invited for a trial. Buckley, a tough defender as a player, thought the youngster was too small and was about to release the player when his trainer, Jack Davies (pictured above), persuaded him to retain Wright.

The following year, the team made their first visit to Wembley Stadium but lost unexpectedly to Portsmouth. They did, however, win the ‘wartime cup’ in 1942 under Buckley before his resignation in 1944. He was a strict military disciplinarian in training but transformed the team, paving the way to future post-war success.

The first competitive season after the war was the 1946-47 campaign, led by ex-Bolton Wanderers player, Ted Vizard as manager. Again, it ended in heartbreak when Wolves ‘simply’ needed to beat Liverpool in the season’s final game to win their first top-flight title. Unfortunately for the Wolves, Liverpool won 2-1 and took the title. The match was also the last for Stan Cullis as a player. He retired (aged 31) to become the club’s Assistant Manager in 1947, beginning the ‘Golden Era’ for the team. In the following season, the Wolves finished fifth and in 1948 Cullis became manager.

The Cullis Era Begins, 1948-53 – Cup-Winners & Champions:

The 1949 Cup Final

The following season, 1948-49, Cullis delivered Wolves’ first major trophy since 1908, when, a full decade after losing to Portsmouth, they finally won the FA Cup, beating Leicester City at Wembley. In the following two seasons, however, there was a significant slip in Wolves’ form. But Wolves were much improved in that season, as they returned to the top three. Over the previous ten seasons (excluding the war break), Wolves had finished second three times, third twice, fifth twice and sixth once. The 1952-53 season saw a revival in the club’s fortunes as they finished third in the League, and they continued to secure their place among the top clubs in the country, though they had to wait until 1953-54 to become First Division Champions.

Johnny Hancocks is in the right foreground, wearing a pin-striped suit.

In the season following the late Queen’s Coronation, Wolves became Britain’s best and most celebrated football team. They won their inaugural First Division title, finishing four points ahead of local Black Country rivals West Bromwich Albion. They completed the double over West Brom, which proved vital at the end of the season as only two points were awarded for a win at that time. In the following nine seasons, Wolves finished outside the top three only once.

The Floodlit Friendly Fifties – ‘Champions of the World’, 1953-58:

Towards the end of this initial successful period, the forward-looking board took the monumental decision to be among the first football league clubs to install floodlights, thus heralding a series of memorable night games. The Wolves programme had proudly proclaimed that the Molineux Grounds boasted covered accommodation for thirty thousand plus uncovered space for more than an additional thirty thousand. A system of floodlights would be a great addition to the stadium; however, both the Football League and the FA pronounced that floodlights would not be allowed for League and Cup games, though they could be used for friendly and charity games. In 1953 the construction of the floodlights proceeded apace and the lights were ready for the new season. But they were not allowed to be used for League and Cup games until February 1956. As a result, Wolves had to be innovative, and they invited a series of opponents to Molineux. From September 1953 to December 1962 Wolves played twenty-three iconic games under the lights. These were a mixture of friendlies, Charity Shield, European Cup and Cup Winners’ Cup games. Besides being English League Champions, they had also beaten Glasgow Celtic 2-0 in the second floodlit friendly match at Molineux in October 1953.

The first floodlit match took place a fortnight earlier, on 30 September, against the touring South African team, a game originally scheduled for the afternoon of that day. The honour of playing the very first floodlit game had originally been promised to Celtic, but the system, designed by W. G. France’s Electric Ltd. of Darlaston on the dining table of the Managing Director’s Bilston home, using a scaled model, was ready for use in advance of the prestigious match against the South African tourists. The Wolves board were keen to make the inaugural floodlit match as grand an affair as possible and therefore had the idea to switch the match against South Africa from what might have been, given the inclement late summer weather, a dull Wednesday afternoon fixture, into something that would live in the memory of all who witnessed it.

Probably no more than five or six thousand would have been at the afternoon match, as most people would be working. The Celtic directors readily gave way when the situation was explained to them. The inaugural match under the brand new lights proved to be a ‘magical’ occasion, dubbed variously in the press as ‘Football in Wonderland’, ‘Football in Fairyland’, ‘Football in Technicolor’ and a ‘Footballing Spectacular’. It kicked off at 7.45 p.m. in front of 33,000 curious supporters, the biggest crowd to watch the tourists, despite the ‘dodgy’ weather. The gate was probably a little disappointing for the directors, however, considering how momentous the occasion was. Wolves ran out in their new luminous gold strip contrasting with the bright green shirts of the ‘Springboks’: They ran in 3-1 winners. There weren’t many Wolverhampton people who saw this first match that wouldn’t want to see the Celtic match.

Sure enough, Wolves’ first floodlit friendly against a club side at Molineux resulted in a 2-0 victory over Glasgow Celtic on 14 October 1953, but their first match under lights against continental opposition was against the crack Austrian team, First Vienna FC on 13 October 1954. Wolves had already travelled to Austria to play a friendly against them on a wet Sunday afternoon in August, beating them to win a gold-plated trophy. Returning to Wolverhampton, they then played the FA Charity Shield clash with West Bromwich Albion, their Cup-winning neighbours. The match played on 29 September 1954 was a floodlit epic 4-4 draw, watched by over forty thousand. Wolves raced into a 4-1 lead before being pegged back by the Albion with a future Wolves manager, Ronnie Allen snatching a hat-trick.

Bill Slater, centre-half turned centre-forward (against First Vienna FC), with Bert Williams behind him.

The return match with FC First Vienna was played on a Wednesday night at Molineux in mid-October and ended in a 0-0 draw. Wolves had to make several changes, the most noticeable of which was Bill Slater moving to centre forward. He failed to score, but on any other day, he might have scored a hat trick in what was an excellent performance. Vienna’s goalkeeper, Kurt Smied, gave a heroic display worthy of Bert Williams in keeping the hungry Wolves at bay.

This was followed by a match against Spartak Moscow on a foggy Wolverhampton evening of 16 November and was broadcast live by the BBC. Spartak had recently crushed two of Belgium’s finest sides, Liége and Anderlecht, and a week earlier had beaten Arsenal 2-1 at Highbury, so Wolves knew that they were in for a tough night. The Wolves captain, Billy Wright led his side out clad in their new fluorescent rayon strip of gold shirts and black shorts. But the visitors began playing enthusiastically and panache, moving the ball around with great skill. Twice it had to be cleared from the goal line with Bert Williams beaten, but the Wolves goalkeeper (pictured above) saved several more good attempts on his goal.

Wolves then began to counter with their own display of fierce but fair tackling that led to them moving the ball around with purpose, and they finally went ahead in the sixty-second minute through their outstanding centre-forward, Dennis Wilshaw. Then, seven minutes from time, with the Russians noticeably tiring, Johnny Hancocks got a second. It began to look good for the home team, and the Wolves’ superior stamina now began to tell. In the eighty-eighth minute, Roy Swinbourne added a third, followed a minute later by Hancocks making it four. Wolves had scored three in a little over five minutes against one of the tightest defences in Europe. The 4-0 scoreline may have looked a little flattering, but it might not have looked so emphatic had Bill Shorthouse and Billy Wright not broken up a series of threatening Russian attacks earlier in the game.

Afternoon matches kicked off early in the Winter of 1953, even at Wembley, as there were no floodlights..

During and following their title-winning season in 1953-54, Wolves played hosts to a succession of European club sides, along with teams from as widely spread as Argentina (Racing Club of Buenos Aires) and Israel (Maccabi Tel Aviv), under the new floodlights at Molineux. The most famous of these matches was the game against Honved of Budapest, the crack team of the Hungarian army, eight of whom, including captain Ferenc Puskás, had been in the national team that had beaten England 6-3 at Wembley (the first time England had lost to a continental side on home soil), and 7-1 in Budapest, the previous season. Both these defeats were still fresh in the minds of English fans when, in December 1954, Honved arrived in Wolverhampton. Their team contained many stars from the national ‘Golden Team’ (Arany Csapat) which, besides Puskás, included his well-drilled comrade-soldiers, Bozsik, Kocsis, Lorant, Czibor and Budai.

The full teams who ran out at Molineux behind the captains, Wright and Puskás, were:

Honved: Farago; Rákóczi, Kovács; Bozsik, Lorant, Banyai; Budai, Kocsis, Machos (Tichy), Puskás, Czibor.

Johnny Hancocks in training

Wolves: Williams; Stuart, Shorthouse; Slater, Wright, Flowers; Hancocks, Broadbent, Swinbourne, Wilshaw, Smith.

Scorers for Wolves: Johnny Hancocks (penalty), Roy Swinburne (2)

Scorers for Honved: Kocsis, Machos.

Attendance: 54,998.

To understand the significance of the early floodlit matches, it is important to understand the peculiar social and political context and circumstances of this period of the Cold War, specifically 1953-58. The Hungarian national side, already Olympic Champions in 1952, should also have won the World Cup in the Summer of 1954, held in Switzerland, but were beaten in the final by a West German side which came from 2-0 down to win 3-2. Kocsis was the leading scorer in the World Cup and so, following their own sensational win over Spartak Moscow a month earlier, Wolves were keen to welcome the tormentors of England to Molineux. Since the England team did not meet the ‘Mighty Magyars’ in the finals (they were knocked out by Uruguay in the quarter-finals), this club match at Molineux the following December was billed as the ‘chance for revenge’ by Billy Wright and his boys.

The first biography of Puskás, available worldwide, was published in London in 1955.

The game was played under the new floodlights on a Monday night, 13th December, with 55,000 cheering fans watching at the ground and many more on the new phenomenon of TV. The BBC broadcast the second half live on TV, and the whole match live on the radio. Just as they had led out their national teams in the games the previous season, Billy Wright and Ferenc Puskás were again side-by-side as the two teams ran out onto the pitch, Wolves wearing their golden rayon shirts to reflect the floodlights (pictured below). Billy Wright would have been fully aware of the threat Honvéd posed, having captained England games in the two heavy defeats to Hungary.

The visitors immediately began to play with fantastic ball control and speed of passing. As in the World Cup final, the Hungarian club team went 2-0 up in the first half, and were in full control, their precision passing and speed of attack drawing gasps of appreciation from the crowd. The first goal came from a pin-point free kick which found the head of Kocsis and the ball flew past Bert Williams in the Wolves’ goal like a bullet. This was followed up by a second from the speedy winger, Machos, who was put through the defence by Kocsis. That all happened in the first quarter-hour, but after that Williams pulled off a string of saves to keep the score down to 2-0 at the interval. As the teams left the field at half-time, the crowd rose to salute the Hungarian artistry, but the Wolves fans were worried that their team might be humiliated in the second half, just as the England team had been the year before.

In the second half, however, the Wolves called upon all their fighting spirit and energy reserves. During the interval, the Wolves manager, Stan Cullis, ordered the pitch to be watered again (it had been watered, as usual in winter, before the match). This prevented the pitch from freezing and becoming dangerous to the players. However, the softer surface conditions suited the Wolves’ long-ball playing style more than the short-passing style of the visitors. Johnny Hancocks (above) scored from a penalty soon after the re-start, and, with fifteen minutes left, and the Hungarians tiring on what had become a very muddy pitch, Roy Swinbourne (below) scored twice to win the match 3-2 in a second half televised live throughout Britain, with many national servicemen watching it in their barracks (including my cousin, John Hartshorne). Graham Hughes explained how the morale of one group of National Servicemen was boosted by the victory:

“In 1954 I was serving with the Royal Corps of Signals, stationed at at Sherford Camp near Taunton. On the day of the Wolves’ game with Honved our orders were to move chairs into the NAAFI so the servicemen could watch the BBC broadcast of the game. Myself and my two mates, Taffy Townsend and Les Cockin, being from Wolverhampton, were guests of honour and given front row seats; it was great. When Wolves scored the winner everybody jumped up, shouting and cheering: Scousers, Cockneys, Geordies, the lot; even the officers. In fact, the officers were so pleased, they ordered the NAAFI to stay open so we could celebrate Wolves’ win properly. Fantastic!”

Quoted in Shipley (2003), p.47.

The next day, Wolves were acclaimed as ‘Champions of the World’ in the English press, especially by The Daily Mail. Gabriel Hanot, a sports journalist for ‘L’Équipe’ responded by suggesting that this could only be proved by establishing a continental cup competition. He had long been campaigning for a European tournament, and he stated:

“Before we declare that Wolverhampton Wanderers are invincible, let them go to Moscow and Budapest. And there are other internationally renowned clubs: A. C. Milan and Real Madrid to name but two. A club world championship, or at least a European one – larger, more meaningful and more prestigious than the Mitropa Cup and more original than a competition for national teams – should be launched.”

Quoted in Wolves Museum Guide (2024), p. 17.

A variety of events led to the creation of the European Cup in the following season, 1955/56. However, the short-sighted Football League Management Committee refused to support Chelsea, the 1954/55 champions (they had four more points than Wolves, who finished as runners-up) in their application to take part. The Chelsea Chairman was very enthusiastic about the new competition. He sent a delegate to the April 1955 organising committee in Paris, but the Football League were suspicious of European club football and concerned about potential fixture congestion. They strongly advised Chelsea to withdraw, and the Blues reluctantly gave way to be replaced by Gwardia Warsaw. The only British club to enter this first-ever European Cup was therefore the Edinburgh club Hibernian, then considered to be Scotland’s top team, though they only finished fifth in the Scottish League (to begin with, it wasn’t necessary to be domestic League champions to enter). ‘Hibs’ justified their entry by reaching the semi-finals, losing 3-0 to French club Reims.

The Hungarian team returning to Budapest from Vienna following the 1954 Cup Final.

Meanwhile, in Hungary, there had been a strong public reaction to the ‘Golden Team’ losing in the World Cup Final the previous year. As Tibór Fischer, the historian with Hungarian roots put it in his best-seller, Under the Frog:

‘Hungarians don’t mind dictatorship, but they really hate losing a football match.’

Quoted by György Szöllősi, loc.cit., p. 28.

The Commissars of Hungarian sport: Gustáv Sebes (coach of the national football team) & István Kutas.

Following the defeat to West Germany in 1954, Hungarians turned against the national team’s management and against the wider political régime. Its leaders had for years basked in the successes of the country’s footballers, but now the coaches and players also felt the loss of confidence. The World Cup final constituted a turning point in Hungarian football, but its devastating effect was more palpable over a long period rather than in the short term. In the capital, shop windows were smashed and streetcars overturned before finally, the angry masses reached the Magyar Rádió building, where they handed in a petition stating that Gusztav Sebes should not return home after his ignominious failure. The spontaneous demonstration was soon put down, the ringleaders arrested and the press kept silent about the whole event. However, the disturbances were later seen as a precursor to the 1956 Uprising because this was the first time people could experience when they could and should raise their heads above the parapet.

But after the Berne final the national team went on another unbeaten run lasting a year and a half. Apart from a 2-1 defeat in a Moscow ‘friendly’ and the World Cup final, Sebes’ national team were undefeated in six years. The Hungarian Uprising and Soviet invasion in 1956 ended the run of Puskás’s magnificent men in the national team. By February 1956, the more and more anti-football dictatorship began a series of humiliations against the ‘spoilt’ footballers, as it portrayed them. On the 19th they suffered a 3-1 defeat by Turkey in Istanbul. This was followed by other defeats and unacceptable performances, which led to Sebes losing political influence and being ousted in the summer of 1956.

Sebes’s successor was Márton Bukovi, the MTK coach, who produced a five-match winning streak, reactivating Grosics (from scapegoating and house arrest under the previous régime) as goalkeeper while giving Puskás an ultimatum to get fit or lose his place. After victories over Poland, Yugoslavia, the USSR, France and Austria, the national team was preparing for a match against Sweden when the anti-government demonstration began, followed by an armed uprising. Zoltán Czibor (below) was a well-known anti-Communist and he helped Puskás get passports for the squad from the new government of Imre Nagy. On 1st November, Honvéd set off for their European Cup match with Athletico Bilbao, due to take place in Spain three weeks later. Vörös Lobogó (‘Red Banner’) (MTK) had competed for Hungary in the inaugural competition the year before.

However, three days after the team left Hungary, the Soviet tanks streamed across the eastern border to put down the uprising. The Honvéd players did everything they could to get their families out of the country. Puskas’s wife and their four-year-old daughter managed to cross into Austria on 1st December. The first leg of the Athletico Bilbao match had finished 3-2 to the Basques, and the return leg took place on 20th December in Brussels due to the volatile situation in Budapest. It finished 3-3, so Honvéd were out. Understandably, many of the players, including Kocsis and Puskás himself, decided against returning home to Budapest, preferring to ply their trade in the ‘free world’. In December, two years to the day of the Honved match, a benefit match for Hungarian refugees was played at Molineux, again under floodlights, with ‘Red Banner’ (MTK) Budapest as opponents. The team included four internationals, with Hidegkúti at centre-forward, who combined brilliantly with Palotás.

In the Fifties, with the first floodlights.

The home team was not exactly ‘howling’ at the Hungarians’ gates, however, and ‘the Molineux murmur’ of dissatisfaction soon began as the crowd sensed that their team was holding something back. To be fair, they found it difficult to break down the visitors’ defensive system, one of the coolest under pressure ever seen at Molineux to that date. The Magyars took the lead when Palotás whipped the ball past the diving Bert Williams after some world-class footwork by Hidegkúti.

Bert Williams in training.

Wolves drew level from a Hooper corner, which was palmed away by Veres, but only as far as Neil who had drifted outside the goal area and was unmarked. His smartly hit shot passed through the ruck of players and beat Veres on the line. The cool, calculated football of MTK sometimes became over-complicated. They were all too frequently guilty of playing one pass too many. At half-time, the talented Hidegkúti was replaced by Karasz, but the game was far from dull, however, with both goalkeepers acquitting themselves well by making strings of acrobatic saves.

MTK became only the second team to escape floodlit defeat at Wolves’ Molineux ‘lair’. But the 1-1 scoreline was largely irrelevant since the match did not live up to the reputation of Hungarian football, no matter how hard MTK tried. The solemnity of the occasion, set against the Soviet crushing of the Hungarian Uprising, meant that the football served up on the night was not as slick as that of the Honved match of two years earlier. The day after the match, the Hungarian players and officials made their way back to Vienna, unsure of their onward movements, given the course of events in their stricken country. What mattered most to them was that the attendance receipts had raised 2,300 pounds for the Hungarian Relief Fund, and the memorable speech of the Wolves Chairman, James Baker, at the pre-match banquet. He referred to the Wolves’ motto, ‘out of darkness cometh light’ (which is also the motto on the Wolverhampton civic crest, below), and expressed the hope that would soon be proved true in their native land.

The day after the match, the Hungarians were on their way to Vienna, where their onward movements would be dictated by the course of political events in the shape of the continued Soviets’ crushing of the Hungarian Uprising. Meanwhile, the Honvéd team and their relatives were spending Christmas in Milan after being knocked out of the European Cup. By taking their fate into their own hands, the team could now take up the offer of a fairytale tour of South America, starting in Brazil. The offer was lucrative enough for them to be able to ignore the pleading of Guszstáv Sebes, who was sent by the once-again firmly entrenched Hungarian Communist Party to persuade the players, with threats and pleading, to return to Hungary. After their successful tour, which went ahead despite international sanctions, the team returned to Europe and most of the players eventually found their way back to Hungary, knowing that punishments awaited them. The most serious of these would apply to Puskás as team captain, a one-year ban. He was also infuriated by Hungarian newspaper articles obtained in Vienna, which slandered him, and he and his wife were emboldened to remain abroad, together with their daughter, Czibor, Kocsis and most of the touring Hungarian youth team.

Official European Competitors, 1957-60:

Meanwhile, Wolves had not been distracted by their friendly European matches from domestic competition, remaining strong in the League, finishing second in 1954-55, third in 1955-56 and sixth in 1956-57. They took the First Division title for a second time in 1957-58.

Victory also came in the Charity Shield at the end of the 1958-59 season, the only time Wolves have won it outright.

At the end of the 1957-58 season, they were finally able to accept an invitation to play in the European Cup, the Football League having overcome their previous aversion to the competition. Wolves can therefore lay claim to being the pioneers of the European Champions Cup, following their famous floodlit friendlies, though they were not the first English team to play in the competition. That honour fell to the ill-fated Manchester United team, League Champions in the previous season. Tragic scenes accompanied the Munich air crash on 6 February 1958, bringing tears to many football fans’ eyes, not just in Manchester or England. To lose so many young, gifted stars in a single disaster was devastating. Wolves became only the second English team to play in the European Cup in 1958-59, but their debut against FC Schalke at home resulted in a disappointing 2-2 draw; they lost the tie to the West Germans 4-3 on aggregate.

Wolves’ first European Cup tie at Molineux on 17th November 1958.

The first five European Championships were won by Real Madrid, with Puskás playing for them from 1958. Fortunately for Wolves, he hadn’t yet started playing for them In 1957, when they beat the Spanish champions 3-2 in a floodlit friendly at Molineux. Wolves were again crowned League champions in 1958-1959, and FA Cup winners in 1960. They suffered a further loss in the European Cup (Quarter-final) to Barcelona by a staggering 9-2 on aggregate with Sándor Kocsis, the fabulous Hungarian striker, now exiled in Spain, scoring four in the return leg at Molineux in March 1960. The match marked the end of an era as Wolves lost their hard-won and much-coveted record of ‘unbeaten under Molineux lights’.

An unofficial programme which was available on the night.

The Cup Final win over Blackburn meant that, though pipped to post by Burnley in the final round of League games, they qualified for the inaugural European Cup Winners Cup. Besides the defeats to Schalke and Barcelona, Wolves also went behind the ‘iron curtain’ to beat Vorwaerts of East Berlin (3-2 agg.) and Red Star Belgrade (4-2). There were also more famous friendly nights under the lights against Dynamo Moscow, CCA Rumania, Borussia Dortmund and Valencia. These European experiences form a significant part of the impressive and recently revamped displays in the Wolves Museum at Molineux.

The two men who led the Wolves’ ‘Golden team’ of the fifties were Stan Cullis as the Manager and Billy Wright as skipper. The success both had with Wolves is known and recognised by the statues outside Molineux and the two Stands named after them. Cullis, a fine player in his day, managed Wolves in all five-trophy successes. He was, like his manager when playing, Major Buckley, a strong disciplinarian and a coach who insisted on fitness first and foremost. Cullis was undoubtedly the best Wolves manager ever, and most recent and current fans would say that he remains so. But the start of the 1959-60 season was marred for him when the Wolves legend Billy Wright dropped a bombshell by announcing his retirement, aged thirty-five. He reportedly told a reporter;

“Yes, this is it. I have had a wonderful run with a wonderful club and I wanted to finish while I am still at the top.”

Billy in action for Wolves

Stan Cullis was reported to have said that, under no circumstances, would he ask Billy to play in the reserves, but would want him to finish as a first-team player. So Billy played his farewell match at Molineux in Wolves colours in the pre-season charity match on Saturday 8 August 1959. Although Billy’s news was bad for the Wolves it was good for the charity, as a larger-than-usual crowd was expected to turn out in honour of their captain. In fact, twenty thousand fans turned out, twice the usual number for the charity match. In a later interview, Wright acknowledged that he had told reporters the previous April that he was ‘good for another season at least’, but added that since he had got his hundredth England cap, and had been awarded a CBE, he had thought it over and decided that it was time to quit. Cullis wanted Wright to take over as his chief coach, with specific responsibility for the club’s youngsters. Billy hadn’t decided on this but confirmed that he would not move to play for another club. ‘How can I play for anyone else after Wolves?’ he said. He did, however, become Arsenal’s manager in the summer of 1963.

Billy Wright in the 1950s with Johnny Hancocks looking on.

Wright was captain in all Wolves’ trophy triumphs except the second Cup Final success, which came in 1960, eleven years after he had lifted the trophy for the Wolves’ first Wembley triumph. Born in Ironbridge, Shropshire, Billy had joined the groundstaff at Molineux in 1938 and, after initially being turned down by Buckley for being too short, made his debut as a player in 1939 before turning professional in 1941. Wright made a total of 541 appearances for Wolves, scoring sixteen goals. He was the first person in the world to play for his country one hundred times and gained 105 caps in all, the first in 1946, only surpassed by Bobby Charlton (106). On ninety of those occasions, he captained the team, playing in three World Cup finals. In his exemplary twenty-year career, he was never sent off, nor even booked. He was regarded not just as a great player and captain, but as a true gentleman. Voted ‘Footballer of the Year’ for 1951-52 and ‘European Footballer of the Year’ runner-up in 1956-57, Billy won everything and achieved everything in his illustrious career which ended with presenting matches on independent TV in the seventies. As a captain, he was the ‘rock’ around which Stan Cullis built his team.

Some of the other iconic players from this era whose names I heard repeatedly from my father, uncle and cousin were those of the wingers, Hancocks, Deeley and Mullen; forwards Swinbourne, Wilshaw and Murray; defenders Slater and Flowers, and goalkeepers Williams and Finlayson. The only player from the fifties team I personally saw play was Peter Broadbent when I was taken to Molineux by my Dad in the mid-1960s, from the age of eight. He was arguably the best of them all according to those who saw the other great players, and was the reason George Best was a Wolves supporter as a boy. Best had seen him play in the second halves of the floodlit games which were shown on BBC television and tried to copy his style. Broadbent had scored Wolves’ first goal in the 3-2 win against Real Madrid in October 1957, a victory which marked the pinnacle of Wolves’ floodlit fest.

Glory Days, Floodlit Nights:

John Shipley, a lifelong Wolves fan from Bridgnorth, first entered Molineux ‘through the front gate’ as a fourteen-year-old schoolboy for the 1957 match between Wolves and Manchester United at Molineux, three years after Wolves had triumphed over Moscow Spartak and Honved of Budapest in the series of floodlit matches.

John reflected on those experiences in his 2003 book:

‘I adored those magical night games… the lights, satin shirts, the excitement, the fantastic attacking football, the ball swinging wing to wing from the boots of Johnny Hancocks and Jimmy Murray… I reckoned that all my Albion mates were pig-sick with jealousy. They had good reason in spite of their own, not insignificant, success because throughout the 1950s Wolverhampton Wanderers went from strength to strength, competing against, and beating, the best teams in Europe, plus giants from other parts of the world; pioneering in every sense. Wolves spearheaded English football’s European onslaught in those heady days. The team in the distinctive old gold and black won a fearsome reputation, and in the process salvaged the English pride that had been so badly dented by the great Hungarian team of the 1950s.’

Memorabilia of the Wolves v Honvéd match in the Wolves Museum.

John Shipley watched the majority of the floodlit games from a strategic vantage point in the South Bank, not far from where I found during my own viewpoint, in the years 1965 to 1975 when, after settling with my family on the boundary between Birmingham and Smethwick, I regularly went to Wolves matches with my father and his Black Country relatives. Fifty years later, I’m looking forward to revisiting Molineux, this time to see a floodlit match, once the Wolves return to European football. It’s worth remembering that these games were born out of a spirit of friendly rivalry and transcontinental cooperation after decades of violent conflict between European nations. Football, and Sport more generally, is not separate from the rest of human activity; it is an expression of its most creative impulses. This was certainly the case in this early post-war era when nationalism was replaced by idealism and before it in turn was supplanted by materialism.

Ron Flowers with the FA Cup in 1960 and Stan Cullis on the right.

Into the Sixties – Swings & Roundabouts:

It may have seemed to many fans that the Wolves ‘golden era’ was drawing to a close at the end of the decade, but, of course, the great team of the fifties did not suddenly ‘give up the golden ghost’ when the clock struck twelve on 31st December 1959. The new decade began brightly with a fantastic FA Cup win, with Wolves defeating Blackburn Rovers at Wembley in 1960, which meant that they qualified for the inaugural Cup Winners Cup. They were also close to winning the League in 1960, which would have given them three titles in a row, besides winning the double, the first team to do so that century.

Wolves score against Blackburn Rovers in the 1960 FA Cup Final.

From 1949 to 1960 Wolves had won three First Division League Titles and two FA Cups. In 1960-61, the Wolves played in Cup Winners Cup ties against Austria Vienna and Glasgow Rangers. They also finished third in the League but dropped to eighteenth in 1961-62, not far from relegation. However, this turned out to be a temporary dip as in the following season they were back up to fifth. The Old Gold had great victories in the League in 1962-63, thrashing Manchester City 8-1 and West Bromwich Albion 7-0 at Molineux. Although not in official European competition, they once again entertained Honvéd at their home in December 1962. However, this time there was no clamour for tickets like there had been eight years earlier, since Hungarian football had suffered a decline since the Soviet invasion. Gone (to Spain) were the legendary Puskás, Kocsis and many others of the talented Hungarian ‘Golden Team’ of the fifties. The Honvéd team were no longer the pride of Hungary and Europe, but they were currently second in Hungary’s top division, and would still prove excellent opponents for the Wolves.

Flowers, Slater and Broadbent from the class of ’54 were happy to renew old friendships and rivalries with two ‘Mighty Magyars’: József Bozsik was, by then, club president and Gyula Lóránt club coach. The one player they recognised from previous ‘outings’ who lined up against them was goalkeeper, Lajos Farago, who had been understudy to the great Grosics in 1954. He had been almost invincible in his previous Molineux appearance and was now between the sticks again. Farago’s brilliance apart, however, the match bore scant resemblance to the 1954 classic. Then, ten minutes from time, Honvéd’s speedy winger, Vági, broke free but fluffed his chance. With five minutes left, Komara clipped the ball over to Nagy to score what everyone thought was the winner, but Wednesbury’s Alan Hinton crashed home a terrific equaliser past Farago, saving the Wanderers’ blushes. Bozsik announced that he wanted to make the match an annual event, and a year later the teams met again in Budapest. Wolves travelled to Budapest to play a friendly against Honvéd on 6 October 1963, losing 2-1 in the Népstadion (‘People’s Stadium’).

By the end of the 1962-63 season, Wolves had completed ten years of floodlit friendlies. Between September 1953 and December 1962, they played seventeen games, winning thirteen and drawing four, all against continental opposition, except for Glasgow Celtic. In addition, there were six home European ties at Molineux, with the Wolves winning three, drawing four and losing only once, to Barcelona. The following summer, Wolves embarked on a new venture, a tour of North America, playing against Mexican, Canadian, American and Brazilian teams. Also that summer, a new international era began when Alf Ramsay, who was in the England team beaten by the Hungarians in 1953, replaced Walter Winterbottom as England manager. In 1963-64, the fortunes of the Wolves team took a distinct turn for the worse as European qualification became no more than a distant dream. The team’s performance worsened, culminating in relegation at the end of the season. The Chairman, James Marshall, handed over the reins to John Ireland and two months later, Ireland sacked Stan Cullis who had been suffering from a long illness. This was on 15 September 1964, following defeat in the first three league matches, a draw in the fourth and further defeats in the next three. Attendances had dropped significantly. In their eighth match, Wolves managed a 4-3 victory over West Ham at Molineux, but this came too late to rescue Cullis from ‘the axe’ a day later.

The statue of Cullis at Molineux.

For a decade and a half, Stan Cullis was Wolverhampton Wanderers. A proud and dedicated man, he was one of a small breed of footballing ‘giants’ who achieved greatness both as a player and a manager after joining Wolves as the former in February 1934. As a player, he was a tough-tackling centre-half, good in the air and shrewd in passing the ball. A ‘born’ leader, he captained Wolves before his nineteenth birthday and England a few months later. He was a member of Wolves’ 1939 Cup Final team, but hung up his boots in 1947, becoming manager the following year, the youngest to manage any club at this level. His full managerial record over sixteen years included two FA Cups, three First Division Championships, and nine other top-six finishes, three times as runners-up.

In the last of these, he almost won ‘the double’ in 1960, finishing one point behind Burnley. After leaving his belovéd Wolves four years later, he was appointed manager of Birmingham City. Meanwhile, caretaker-manager Andy Beattie, appointed in November 1964, failed to keep Wolves up and they were relegated to the (then) Division Two. Thus ended an unbroken top-flight record of twenty-two seasons, from 1936-37 to 1964-65 (excluding the war break), during which Wolves were Champions three times and runners-up five times, with nine other top-six finishes. They finished lower than this in only five seasons.

Sources:

György Szöllősi (2015), Ferenc Puskás: The Most Famous Hungarian. Budapest: Rézbong Kiadó.

György Szöllősi, Zalán Bodnár (2015), Az Aranycsapat Kinceskönyve (‘The Golden Team Treasure Book’). Budapest: Twister Media.

Bán Tibor & Harmos Zotán (2011), Puskás Ferenc. Budapest: Arena 2000.

John Shipley (2003), Wolves Against the World: European Nights, 1953-1980. Stroud (Glos.): Tempus Publishing.

Molineux Stadium (2024), Wolves Museum Guide, Third Edition.: Wolverhampton: Synaxis Design Consultancy.

Gallery:

Is Hungary’s Appeasement of Putin Justified by its Past Experiences? V

Chapter Five: Hungary under Horthy – In the Eye of the Hurricane:

It was largely the impossibility of reconstructing the order of Europe and the wider world as it was in January 1919 that swept away the ‘pacifist democracy’ that took over Hungary at the end of the First World War. It thwarted the first chance that the country obtained for a transition to democracy in the twentieth century. The democratic experiment was quickly followed by first red, then white terror, and the flaws and shortcomings of the peace treaty system dictated by the Allies lent credibility to the inherent nationalism and revisionism of the conservative régime that came to dominate the following two decades. The war, and to some extent the peace settlement, dealt a mortal blow to the conservative institutions of the multi-national empires of Central-Eastern Europe. Nationalism triumphed in the belief that this was consistent with the cause of liberty and democracy, and very few lamented the fall of the Hohenzollern, Habsburg, Romanov, and Ottoman emperors. The Western Allies, who won the war and made the peace were motivated not just by the ideal of national self-determination, but also by power policy considerations in their disregard of the Austro-Hungarian Dual Monarchy; they believed that its ethnic minorities, once liberated from imperial oppression, would automatically emerge as liberal democracies and be able to play the traditional Hapsburg role of ensuring the central-eastern European balance of power.

The Crest of the pre-War Hapsburg Empire (Dual Monarchy).

Both these assumptions proved to be fundamentally wrong. With the partial exception of Czechoslovakia, the democratic credentials of the new states were rather weak. The Peace settlement failed to solve ethnic tensions in the region’s countries and created new ones. Socio-economic backwardness fuelled nationalist sentiments, creating disunity between the potential partners and making them a poor match for the potentially formidable strength of the losers of the peace settlement. These included, besides Germany, Austria and Hungary, Italy and Soviet Russia, which suffered significant territorial losses and were ignored altogether at the peace conference.

After Trianon – Treaties & Alliances:

Szent-Iványi, a diplomat in Chicago in the 1930s.

Domokos Szent-Iványi wrote in the foreword to his (1977) book, The Hungarian Independence Movement, 1939-46:

‘Over the past centuries, Poland and Hungary, arguably the two strongest political units in East Central Europe have played an important historic role by forming a huge bulwark which has allowed Western and Central Europe to develop in its protection.’

‘With the peace treaties of 1919-20, East Central Europe disintegrated, in effect giving both Nazi Germany and Soviet Russia an open invitation to subjugate this huge territory.’

‘It was not just the authors of the system of the peace treaties of 1919-20 who failed to appreciate what it was they were doing; the blunders were neither fully recognised nor understood during the Second World War. Roosevelt and his advisors were late in grasping the the importance and fatal consequences of Soviet expansion in East Central Europe; Churchill was also late in perceiving the upheaval that was to befall Europe.’

‘But with once historic Europe gone, it was the responsibility of those in power to come up with an effective alternative.’

Szent-Iványi (1977), Budapest: Hungarian Review Books.

The system of peace treaties (1919-21) shattered the economic and political structure and the unity of the Carpathian-Danubian Basin to its core. After more than a thousand years, Hungary was dismembered: It lost over two-thirds (71.4 percent) of its geographical area, almost two-thirds (63.5 percent) of its population, and more than half its waterworks (55.2 percent). Hungary’s political isolation was complete. The reconstruction of Central Europe at the Peace Conference brought into existence new states, mutually suspicious and aggressive, conditions equally ruinous to their development and dangerous to the stability of Europe. The Little Entente was therefore an important diplomatic development, composed of the ‘artificial’ states of Czecho-Slovakia and Yugo-Slavia, in addition to Romania, was created. The economic activity of the Danubian region was doomed to extinction if these newly formed states remained entirely separate. But for the Hungarians, the alliance seemed to exist for the sole purpose of keeping Hungary in check, guaranteeing almost complete political isolation.

Two important factors brought about the formation of that alliance: The active opposition of Hungary to the Peace Settlement and the fear, common to all three states, that Hungary would resist it. The Magyars felt that they had been unjustly treated. Large groups were under the rule of their former subjects. Hungary’s irredentist aspirations threatened the security of the three Little Entente states. They regarded cooperation to frustrate these dangerous activities as essential, and in 1919 they combined to attack Hungary. Czechoslovakian statesmen were chiefly responsible for building up the alliance, and the initiative came from them because the needs of their new country were great. Like post-Trianon Hungary, Czechoslovakia was a landlocked state, but with longer frontiers not easily defended, and therefore dependent for its security and prosperity on good relations with its neighbours. Their statesmen had no easy task in overcoming the mutual distrust of the three states, let alone their mutual hostility with Hungary. The internal problems were similar in all three states; each government had to deal with groups of minorities, and they were faced with the task of reorganising their agriculture and industries and building up their foreign trade; each government met with difficulties in its attempt to organise an internal administration on democratic lines.

Throughout the twenties, Hungary concentrated its efforts on the peaceful revision of the Treaty of Trianon. At the same time, it made various attempts at breaking the iron ring of the Little Entente, which stifled the country both economically and politically. Its efforts in that direction, however, were constantly frustrated by the stiff resistance of the Little Entente states, fully supported by France. As a first step in the in the course of such attempts, Premier Bethlen and his Foreign Minister, Miklós Banffy attempted to negotiate and even made an approach towards Romania. In August and September 1919, Romanian-Hungarian negotiations were conducted with the participation of Bethlen, Pál Teleki, and Banffy.

The Hungarian negotiators tried to link recognition of Transylvanian secession to the status of the Hungarian state in the Dual Monarchy. The idea of a Romanian-Hungarian personal union under Romanian King Ferdinand was also mooted, as it was several times more in the 1920s. To facilitate the negotiations, the services of the Chief Hunt Master to the King were employed, as he had family ties with Bánffy and Bethlen. Bánffy, in a very Hungarian form of ‘appeasement’ even returned home to Transylvania, now part of the newly enlarged Romania, and became a Romanian citizen. But this was all in vain as the Czechoslovak Premier Benes combined with the French politicians to prevent any improvement in the Trianon terms for Hungary.

Three treaties were concluded as steps in the formation of the Little Entente: in 1920, between Czechoslovakia and Yugoslavia; in 1921, between Yugoslavia and Romania, and between Czechoslovakia and Romania. In 1933, the alliance was strengthened, and a permanent council of ministers was established to conduct a common foreign policy which they took to Geneva with them. By cooperating in this way, The Little Entente Powers were able to exert more influence in international affairs. The three countries had been encouraged to come to a mutual understanding by France, who saw the alliance and its adherence to the Peace Treaties as a strong guarantee of support against possible Hungarian or German aggression. The French government supplied them with arms and money. Alliances concluded in 1921, on the one hand between Poland and Romania, providing for mutual assistance if attacked by Russia, and on the other hand between France and Poland, promising mutual support, completed the grouping of the Powers of Central Europe and France.

Revising the Trianon Peace Treaty:

From the signing of the Peace Treaty at Trianon (1920) onwards, Hungarian public opinion, and therefore Hungarian foreign policy, had been dominated by its consequences. Seen as unjust and harmful by the great majority of Hungarians, revising the terms of the treaty became the primary foreign policy issue. In his last plea before the ‘People’s Tribunal’ that condemned him to death in 1946, the former Premier and Foreign Minister Bárdossy (1941-42), confirmed exactly this. In the decade following Trianon, the Hungarian government inaugurated a policy of revision through peaceful means. The government based its hopes on Article 19 of the Covenant of the League of Nations as well as on the declarations contained in the covering letter of President Millerand, both documents admitting the possibility of a peaceful revision of all treaties signed at the Peace Conference of 1919-1920.

All efforts by Hungary to have the Treaty revised were frustrated by France and Britain and the supporting votes of the Little Entente states which had the majority in the League of Nations. Their vain attempts led many to believe that peaceful attempts at revision were doomed, and by the beginning of the thirties, all hopes of revision had essentially vanished. Yet, at the same time, world events of great economic and political importance gave cause for optimism and a new direction to revisionist hopes and activities. In 1920, war broke out between Poland and Soviet Russia. At the beginning of hostilities, the Red Army made gains and the Polish Army was in retreat. Teleki, the premier at the time, offered Hungarian military help to Poland in return for a French guarantee for the revision of the Treaty. Ammunition, machine guns and other military hardware were on their way to Poland when Czechoslovakia, wanting to ensure a Soviet victory, attempted to block their transit. Yet much of the material had already crossed the territory of Czechoslovakia and arrived in time to be deployed in the Battle of Warsaw. That battle, the ‘Warsaw Miracle’, broke the advance of Tuchatchevsky’s armies and Poland was saved. Many in Poland believed that the Hungarian military hardware had played a decisive role in the outcome of the battle and, by extension, the war. Lenin considered the advance of the Red Army as vital to advancing Bolshevism in Europe. Despite Hungary’s help, France considered all further policies based on cooperation with Hungary as unnecessary. Its pro-Little Entente policy continued as before.

Patriotic design found on a silk scarf, 1926.

In 1926, commemorating the four hundredth anniversary of the Battle of Mohács in which a joint force of Serbs and Magyars were defeated by a massive Ottoman army, Regent Horthy gave a speech on the battlefield in which he called for a rapprochement between Budapest and Belgrade. The speech was well received in the Serbian press, but the Czechoslovak and Romanian governments rejected rapprochement. The friendly tone of the press was also unlikely to please the Italian government. Mussolini was unhappy with the increasingly warm relations between Hungary and Yugoslavia and took steps to bring Hungary into the Italian orbit. Britain’s attitude to a possible Magyar-Italian rapprochement was quite favourable. The British felt that such a development would help to reduce the influence of France in the League of Nations, where France with the supporting votes of the three Little Entente satellites, and sometimes even with those of Belgium, Greece, and Poland was, most of the time, able to push through decisions. It’s important to remember that at that time the three Great Powers, the USA, the Soviet Union and Germany did not participate in the League’s life and activities. Conversations between the Hungarian Premier, Count István Bethlen and the Italian Foreign Minister, Dino Grandi, as well as with the British Foreign Secretary, Austen Chamberlain, encouraged the Hungarian government to adopt a pro-Italian stance.

“I believe in Hungary’s Resurrection.” The ‘quiet prayer’ which began every day in junior school. Postcard & pencil-box.

In 1927, one of Britain’s leading newspaper tycoons, Lord Rothermere had a long conversation with Mussolini concerning the political isolation of Hungary after which he published a long article in The Daily News. The article, appearing shortly after the signing of the Treaty of Friendship (5th April 1927) between Italy and Hungary, voiced the opinion that the Treaty of Trianon was unjust and politically unsound and made a call for its revision. Thus, after eight years of almost complete political isolation, Hungary was once more able to play some role on the great international political stage. During the premierships of Pál Teleki and István Bethlen, several problems facing Hungary were resolved. Hungary’s finances were put on a sound basis with the cooperation of the League of Nations (1924-30) and, by cooperating with Britain and Italy, Hungary was able to break out of its political isolation (1926-27).

Picture: Grandfather and granddaughter share the belief – “It will be great, as it once was, oh Hungary”
Below, the revisionist dream seems to be realised on the different boxes: Upper Hungary and Subcarpathia, Northern Transylvania, and Bácska depicted as already recaptured. The pencil and pen tip boxes
originate from the period following the two Vienna Awards, circa 1940.

By the end of the 1920s, the League of Nations had established itself as a permanent international organisation for the preservation of world peace. Through the Geneva Protocol of 1924, the Powers confirmed their renunciation of war and recognised the compulsory jurisdiction of the Permanent Court of International Justice at the Hague. By the Locarno Pact of 1926, Britain, France, Germany, Belgium, and Italy guaranteed the new frontiers set up in Europe by the Peace Treaties. Britain and Italy undertook to go to the assistance of any state in Western Europe which suffered any violation of this pledge, i.e. to help France or Belgium if it was attacked by Germany. The Kellogg Pact (1928) was a solemn agreement, subscribed to by all the Powers, undertaking to renounce war except in self-defence.

Before the First World War, the Great Powers had exploited the jealousies which existed among the Balkan States to extend their own influence. From about 1929, a movement towards cooperation began between Yugoslavia, Greece, Romania and their former enemy, Turkey. Their object was to settle their own differences so that the Powers would have no excuse for interfering. During the nineteenth century, the Balkan States had shaken off the oppressive rule of the Turks, but it was not until after the war that they began to realise that the ‘new’ Turkey had no desire to threaten their security. In 1930, Greece and Turkey came to an agreement by which they promised to respect their common frontier. This was an important step towards the formation of the Pact of 1934.

The Balkan States had never been united except in their common opposition to Turkey. The territorial changes after the Second Balkan War (1912) left irreconcilable bitterness between Bulgaria and its neighbours, and the new settlement at Neuilly accentuated it. Bulgaria was not prepared to join any pact to guarantee frontiers with which it was completely dissatisfied. There was also continuing rivalry between Italy and Yugoslavia. Italian influence in Albania alienated Yugoslavia and prevented Italy from joining any Balkan alliance. Greek statesmen persisted in advocating for the alliance, which was concluded in Athens in 1934.

The fall of the two great central European empires, Germany and Austria, and the disruption of Russia by Bolshevism, seemed to augur well for the future of democratic government. After the First World War, democratic governments were established in the new states, whose rulers recognised the wisdom of adopting constitutions modelled on those of the Western Powers. In every European country except Russia, where a new form of government – a Communist dictatorship – was established, the principle of democratic government was accepted. However, the maps below show how soon Fascist parties began to flourish across Europe as they drew strength from the failure of Parliamentary governments to deal with the misery arising from the World Economic Crisis (1929-32).

Dictators came to power in Germany, Austria, Poland, Yugoslavia and Bulgaria. Even in France, the Netherlands, and Belgium, Fascism created difficulties for Parliamentary leaders. Only in England, Norway (in the early thirties), Denmark, and Sweden was the influence of the Fascist parties negligible. Czechoslovakia maintained her position with difficulty, surrounded from 1934 by a bloc of Fascist neighbours and countries prepared to ‘appease’ them to maintain a measure of independence. Hungary became one of the latter.

After a critical initial period of great bitterness among the losers, and an apparent consolidation in the more favourable climate of the 1920s, the political and moral foundations of the Paris Peace Settlement proved to be too fragile to survive the effects of the economic crisis beginning in 1929. Economic isolationism bred xenophobia, nationalism and political extremism; the successor states of Austria-Hungary were torn even further apart, creating favourable preconditions in the region for the penetration of Nazi Germany.

The seaplane flyer of György Endresz on the occasion of the first Lockheed, 16th July 1931.

Norman Stone (2019) claimed that in the late 1920s, Hungary had been the eye of the hurricane, a period when you could pretend that everything was heading back to 1914. In Budapest, the high aristocracy could show off with grand marriages, and the capital was still putting up interesting buildings, in this period of Art Deco. The recovery period ended in 1931, with the fall of Premier István Bethlen. After ten years he was tired and made misjudgments. Hungary was subject to the international context, and in 1929-30 a great world economic depression started, the second half of the hurricane. American money had financed European recovery. British money had helped as well, but had been lent ‘long’, on the strength of money borrowed ‘short’. The world had gone back to the gold standard, but not to the basics that had made it work in the later nineteenth century; i.e. free trade, including in gold, which the Americans and the French just stored. Germany, Britain, and France clung to gold and subjected their economies to ‘austerity’ to choke back import demand. At the same time, they protected their own industries, so that other countries’ exports suffered. But the banks in central Europe had been lending money on ‘Ponzi Principles’.

In May 1931, some of the largest banks simply failed as foreigners called in loans. International trade fell by two-thirds when the British Cabinet abandoned the Gold Standard in 1931. Every country spent spent less on agricultural imports and this left Hungary vulnerable to economic problems. It lost two-thirds of its wheat exports and half of other agricultural exports. Industrial output fell by a quarter between 1929 and 1933, property auctions were common in the countryside and village shopkeepers went bankrupt. The other was autarky; a self-sufficient economy, with all the tortuous long-way-round attempts to do what was done more successfully elsewhere. Public works, four- and five-year plans, and state boards to buy up surplus produce at guaranteed prices marked the decade (and beyond). This went together with stringent control of foreign exchange: travellers were searched at the borders for Swiss francs and valuables. In Germany, Autarky was the answer, and Hungary depended on it. There were already agreements with Austria and Italy, guaranteeing a quota of agricultural exports at something above the world price, but in 1934 came an agreement with Germany which sent a quarter of Hungary’s exports there. The Germans were stockpiling raw materials and agreed to send industrial goods in return.

The Nazis & Hungarian Revisionism, 1932-1936:

Postcards published by the Hungarian Grand Committee of the National Flag (Országzászló).

Initially, Nazism did not provoke a hostile reaction in the Hungarian population at large. This was because the dominating idea of public opinion was already one of Revisionism before Hitler came to power in Berlin. Then, from 1933, the Nazis had been seen as successfully breaking the shackles put on Germany by the peace treaties of 1919-1920; many thought that perhaps the restoration of Hungary’s territorial integrity could also be realised with help from a Great Power in its neighbourhood. Later, however, disenchantment with the Nazis grew as a consequence of their expansionist policy in East Central Europe.

Hungary was not supposed to have a large army but re-introduced conscription, and by 1936 the atmosphere was again one of the anticipation of war. To appease Berlin, the half-million Hungarian Germans – Swabians – were allowed collective representation, inevitably of a Nazi tendency. There were warnings: the ever-sensible Bethlen warned against the adoption of Nazi tendencies and pointed out that Hungary was losing its independence. It was also clear that in the trade negotiations, Hungary was being degraded to a mere provider of raw materials; the Germans also refused to pay more in hard currency for agricultural imports, although world prices had now recovered somewhat; and there was nowhere else for Hungarian exports to go. There were also Hungarian imitators of Nazism who emerged when the traditional conservatives lost their predominance. The most sinister of them was Ferenc Szalási, who became a member of the general staff towards the end of the First World War. He believed in uniforms, discipline and the inspirational power of the Nation, a Greater Hungary cleansed of Jews and Communists. He also had a sense of personal destiny matching that of Hitler or Mussolini:

“I have been chosen by a higher Divine authority to redeem the Hungarian people.”

From a speech quoted in Cartledge, The Will to Survive, p.371.

There would be a ‘Hungarist’ state, along Fascist lines, and its badge was the crossed arrows that supposedly represented the original Magyar conquest. This gave the National Socialist party the name ‘Arrow Cross’. It made inroads, not just among the lower middle classes, but also among the working classes, where anti-Semitism could mean combating capitalism. Horthy contemptuously refused office to Szalási at this stage, though he was forced to give way to him when abdicating in 1944. In 1938, he appointed Béla Imrédy, a banker and a man well-known to the British, as premier.

Meanwhile, Hitler’s ever more impudent violations of the Versailles Treaty went unpunished. Not only did Nazi Germany become the most important economic partner of most states in central-eastern Europe, but Hitler was also cheered by the crowds in Vienna as the Anschluss took place, and was accepted as an ally in the revision of the Paris Settlement in Hungarian political circles. In addition, he found forces to work with among the disgruntled minor partners in the Czecho-Slovak and South Slav agglomerates and in Romania; using the pretext of the bulky German minorities in the Czech lands, he exploited the attitude of appeasement among the Western powers at the expense of Czechoslovakia. Central Europe as a whole was both a symbolic and operational base for Hitler’s plan to acquire Lebensraum (‘living space’) for the Germans, as outlined in Mein Kampf; from Berlin, Hungary was viewed as a key partner in this strategy to gain control of the Slav lands to the east and south of the Reich. Most historians of interwar Hungary would agree with the view that the dismantling of ‘historic Hungary’ was the product of ‘centrifugal forces’ rather than the result of a conspiracy between rival nationalities and the Western great powers, though they would agree that the way the process took place was fundamentally influenced by the contingencies of war and the peace that concluded it.

Viewing the successes of Hitler, many Hungarians’ revisionary hopes turned toward Germany. If Germany had been able to shake off the military restrictions imposed on it by the Versailles Treaty, they thought, Hungary could, through close collaboration with Berlin and with the help of the League of Nations, realise her revisionist aspirations. As a result of this shift in public opinion, a closer relationship between Hungary and Germany evolved. There were those in Hungarian political and social circles who were alarmed about the growing collaboration with the Nazi régime in Berlin and what it would mean for Hungarian interests and, in particular, for the independence movement. Hungarian domestic politics also underwent a change. Under the pressure of the growing economic difficulties on the one hand, and of steadily increasing right-wing tendencies on the other, Bethlen resigned in 1931 and was followed as Premier by Count Gyula Károlyi. However, his return did not last long and the following year he yielded his place to General Gömbös, an anti-Semite, proto-fascist and pro-Nazi politician. Unsurprisingly, Gömbös’s premiership, backed by various groups, mainly of Swabian origin, some of them of a clandestine character, saw such ideas and sympathies become more widespread.

Top: An ‘anti-Imperialist’ postcard from 1919
Below: Local Hungarians protesting in Temesvár (Timisoara) in Transylvania, March 1919.

The tragedy of Trianon consists of far more than merely putting the seal on an ‘inevitable’ process, in that Hungarian national consciousness was tailored to the reality that Hungary was a medium-sized nation of twenty million people in which Magyar primacy was not determined by a vulgar, statistical majority or on racial identity, but on historical and political achievement. It was bewildered by being forced within the confines of a small country with a population of eight million. Given that the flaws of the settlement gave some justification to the general spirit of outrage and revenge, as compressed in the slogan ‘No, no, never!’, no political party entertaining any hope of success in Hungary could afford to neglect the issue of revision in its agenda in the 1930s and early 1940s.

Hungarian politics were being overshadowed by Austro-German tendencies. Sympathies with Fascism were coming to the fore, parallel to the rise of Dolfuss in Austria rather than that of Hitler, though by 1932 Hitler was on the rise as well. This was more the ‘spirit of Szeged’ from 1919, however; nationalist, anti-Habsburg, anti-magnate, somewhat anti-Semitic, but not violently so. Horthy made Gömbös promise to leave Bethlen’s supporters alone, as a majority in the lower House, to refrain from attacking Jews and to forget about land reform. Gömbös agreed and famously spoke in parliament to renounce his anti-Semitism. But he was an authoritarian who extended censorship and snooping and stuffed the civil service and the army with his supporters.

Then he approached Mussolini for trade pacts and visited Hitler in 1935. In the same year, he staged elections full of violence and corruption, replacing Bethlen’s men with his own, despite his promises to Horthy, who took alarm at these events. Gömbös made things easier for the Regent by dying of kidney disease in October 1936. By then, with German economic recovery, the great question concerned how to handle Hitler. Germany had vastly more to offer than Italy, whether in trade or territory. Also in 1936, Horthy followed the troop of visitors to Berchtesgaden, saying foolish things and pronouncing that the Führer was “a moderate and wise statesman”. Following Hitler’s remilitarisation of the Rhineland, Horthy announced his approval and also supported Mussolini’s invasion of Abyssinia.

A New Year Greetings Card, to a better Hungarian future!

The most important of the pro-German groups was the General Staff of the Hungarian Honvédség, the Army, which became a state within a state during the tenure of its Chief of Staff, Werth (October 1938-September 1941). Partly in consequence of his Swabian ethnic origins and partly due to his profession as a staff officer, Werth was overtly pro-German in outlook, believing that Revision in Hungary’s favour should be carried out exclusively through cooperation with Germany and that Hungary had to attach her future to German military power. In one of his situation reports of 1939, Werth went so far as to say that Hungary had to stick to Germany durch Dick und Dünn, under all circumstances, even in the inconceivable case of it losing the war. Szent-Iványi later reflected that the appointment of Werth to Chief of Staff was:

‘A great blunder of the Regent and his advisers, … later proved by the activities of Werth and his intimate circle of collaborators, activities which led to Hungary entering the Second World War and putting her last manpower reserves at Hitler’s disposal in 1944 when the outcome of the war could not be considered in doubt. … Werth and his clique formed the the power behind the curtain that caused Hungary to enter the Second World War as well as – indirectly – to Premier Teleki’s tragic death’.

Szent-Iványi (2013 ed.),The Hungarian Independence Movement p 85.

After Werth was relieved from duty, his beliefs and political and military opinions were sustained by a group of staff officers, whose leading spirit became General Dezső László, who had been brought up in Werth’s principles. While Werth himself had claimed “the glory” for forcing Hungary into the War, it was General László who was instrumental in blocking Hungary’s ‘Third Attempt’ at leaving the Axis Camp in October 1944. For this, he was executed in 1947.

Another pro-German ‘group’ consisted of all those Hungarian citizens of German ‘stock’ who, in consequence of the Nazi successes of 1931-1940, believed in the theory of the supremacy of the German race. When the Hungarian Government was forced by Berlin to allow the organisation of an exclusively German federation, the Volksbund, the ultra-pro-German elements were the first to play an important role in the new association and other pro-German activities. Szent-Iványi recalled a conversation on Petöfi Square in July 1940 with Kalmán Breslmayer, the son of the owner of Hungary’s well-known banking enterprises:

Breslmayer, buoyed by the German “Blitzkriege” in Poland, Norway, Denmark, the Netherlands and France delivered a speech of almost forty minutes. The essence of his speech was that Germany had already conquered Europe; that in a short time England and even Russia would be forced to submit by Hitler; that a great reshaping of the European political map would follow with a new economic-political “order” and finally, that Hungary must attach herself fully to Germany without reservation.

Szent-Iványi (2013), p. 86.

The Period of Appeasement, 9 October 1936-11 March 1938:

Alarmed by this increasing Nazi influence, leading moderate circles began exercising pressure on the government to lessen German economic and political power in Hungary. Negotiations followed in Paris and London in the hope of securing financial aid which would reduce Hungary’s reliance on Germany for trade. Among other effects, Hungary tried to have her surplus wheat taken by England and France. These actions proved fruitless since London, on account of the interests of the wheat-producing members of the British Empire, and Paris, in consequence of the protection of her own producers of wheat, took little if any interest in the matter.

A secret Gömbös-Göring agreement was concluded in September 1937 during Gömbös’ visit to Berlin. It included promises by Gömbös that Hungary would introduce a political system along the lines of Nazi Germany. In their discussions, the two men also chose the question of Hungarian revision as their main theme, since Gömbös was willing to make political concessions to Germany to realise the revision of the Peace Treaty of Trianon. In this respect, as Szent-Iványi observed in his note, Gömbős thought and acted no differently from other Hungarian politicians of this era, including even Teleki, in wanting to see the Revision materialise, feeling sure that with Germany’s assistance even full revision might be realised.

Gömbös’s replacement, Kálmán Darányi, gravitated further towards ‘the Axis’, not by slavishly toeing the Nazi line, but through a more coherent policy of ‘all-round appeasement’, approaching the British in vain to gain an understanding. At this point, British ministers also wanted an agreement with Hitler, and would let him remake central-eastern Europe, provided he did so peacefully. Darányi supported the British policy, which gained currency in 1938, following Lord Halifax’s visit to Berlin in November 1937. The Germans indicated that Hungary could recover her lost territories in Czechoslovakia, provided that it helped with Germany’s plans for the destruction of the country. Besides the three million German speakers in western Czechoslovakia, including the Sudetenland, there were another three million Hungarians in Slovakia, who also had many grievances. Austria had already been sucked into Hitler’s orbit and was annexed on 13th March 1938. The Hungarian government was the first to congratulate the Führer. By this time, there was a wave of pro-German sentiment in Hungary, and there were rumours of a right-wing coup in the capital, not least because the officer corps was known to be, in the main, pro-German.

The Period of Appeasement in Hungary covered the period from 9 October 1936, the date of the formation of the first Darányi Cabinet, to 11 March 1938, the date of the formation of both the second Darányi Cabinet and the Austrian Anschluss. The period was the result of the new Hungarian Premier’s overcautious, almost fearful policy which resulted partly from his own timidity and inferiority complex. Darányi was consistently trying to appease, calm, and win over any person with whom he had to thrash out problems of political importance. In such efforts, he was undoubtedly a great success; Darányi was able to create an atmosphere of peace and cooperation, a kind of Pax Romana á la Darányi. He was so rarely attacked in Parliament that some politicians began to worry about his particular brand of peace and cooperation which, in their view, was tending toward a dangerous political dullness and apathy. Darányi had little understanding of foreign policy; his real domain was internal politics and government administration. Yet certain qualities in his personality meant that he became a leading factor in Hungary’s foreign policy, particularly in its relations with the Third Reich. These facets provided a catalyst for the independence and resistance movements. In his widely-known contemporary work, October Fifteenth, The Englishman in Budapest, C. A. Macartney wrote of him:

” Darányi possessed stronger sympathies for the Right Radicals or at any rate less will to oppose them, than either Horthy or Bethlen seems to have suspected in the autumn of 1936. He was nothing approachinmg a Liberal or a Democrat in the western sense of these terms, and so far from being pronounced anti-German that more than once, in after years, he was sent to smooth down Hitler’s plumage when it had been ruffled by other Hungarians. But he was undoubtedly quite innocent of any personal dictatorial ambitions, and there seems to be no reason to doubt that he took office in the knowledge that Horthy expected him to steer Hungary’s course away from the rapids towards which Gömbös had been heading it, and with the sincere intention of doing so. In any case, the impression generally held both inside and outside the country was that it represented an act of resistance, not perhaps defiance, … towards the increasing pressure now being exercised by Germany in both the foreign and domestic fields, …

Macartney, op. cit.

Following the death of General Gömbös and the appointment of Darányi to the premiership, relations between Germany became more strained. But, as Macartney wrote in his October Fifteenth (op.cit.), the new premier could not easily move Hungary away from its close economic and political ties with its longstanding ally and partner, even if he wished to do so:

“Germany’s attitude towards Hungary was of such enormous importance to Hungary’s political life that it is justifiable to give that aspect pride of place in our description of Hungarian history during the period… Furthermore, … the influence of that attitude was, thanks to Hitler’s peculiar method of conducting his foreign relationships, even stronger on Hungary’s internal politics than on her wider foreign policy. … In all these fields, the first year of Darányi’s Minister- presidency forms a distinct chapter of Hungarian history.

“Germany … greeted the news of Darányi’s appointment with an outburst of extreme hostility, which is only comprehensible on the assumption that (it) had attached a … deep importance to the the secret agreement between Gömbös and Göring. It is reported that as soon as he knew that Darányi had been … appointed, the German Minister visited him to ask whather the agreement still hed good. Darányi, who had only just learnt of its existence when going through his predecessor’s most private papers, replied that it did not. From this refusal, … the Germans seem to have drawn conclusions that as to the extent of the change of ‘Richtung’ in Hungary which were far more far-reaching than … its authors warranted. The Germans appear to have believed that a sinister gang of effete aristocrats and rapacious Jews had seized the chance of Gömbös’ illness to intrigue him out of office, for purposes which might even include a Hapsburg restoration.”

Macartney, op. cit.

In May 1937, Regent Horthy’s visit to the King of Italy was reciprocated. While the visit of Miklas had been intended primarily as a courtesy call, which it surpassed, the visit of the King had major political ramifications. First, it was a message of resistance, to demonstrate the strong Magyar-Italian co-operation in the face of Nazi pressure. Furthermore, it was the first time that Hungary, in the course of a military parade, had put on show the military hardware, arms that were prohibited by the Peace Treaties of 1919-20, and arms that were of Italian, not German manufacturing origin. Among these were the small Ansolo tanks delivered by Italy to Hungary in 1937-38. The justifications for this were threefold; Germany had rearmed and was continuing to do so at pace, despite the stipulations of the Treaty of Versailles, so why shouldn’t Hungary, with Italy’s help? Italy had already, unofficially, helped Hungary to modernise its Honvédség (national defence force).

It was important for Darányi to appease the supporters of the late General Gömbös by distributing among them key business and administrative posts. He continued to act very cautiously and did not conduct a great purge, as had been hoped for in conservative circles. Instead, he confined himself to clearing out those pro-Gömbös elements that seemed to be too proactive in certain organisations which were overtly supporting Nazism, for example, the EKSZ (X). The General Staff officers who had been transferred to the Premier’s Office by Gömbös were given the choice of returning to the army or being transferred to the State Civil Administration. In foreign policy, however, there was a continuing stress on improving relations with Italy, both in economic and political terms.

This Italo-Hungarian cooperation had the desired effect in Berlin since the Nazi government felt uneasy at the Hungarian government’s efforts to weaken German influence in the Carpatho-Danubian basin and its neighbouring Balkan states. This concern of the German leaders led to the German Hungarians being invited to Berlin for a meeting in November 1937. Before this took place, Hitler had already achieved a certain freedom of action in central-eastern Europe. In the course of his negotiations with the new Foreign Secretary, Lord Halifax, Hitler had gained an understanding that Britain would have no objections to modifications in the Paris Peace Settlement of 1919-20, in particular with dispositions concerning the frontiers in the Bohemian Basin, i.e. the frontiers of Czechoslovakia. Many Hungarians began to believe that the break-up of the Trianon system was imminent and that the time had come to start to reclaim lost territories, which could only be achieved with German military support. In the meantime, Hungarian military maneuvers were held along the Tisza River in the vicinity of Szolnok which added further fuel to the fire.

Nevertheless, Hungary grew closer to Germany in the summer of 1938. Horthy, the wartime Admiral, was invited to Kiel, to the launch of a German battle cruiser, where he was asked to participate in the partition of Czechoslovakia. Imrédy had signed a non-aggression pact with the three countries of the Little Entente – Yugoslavia, Czechoslovakia, and Poland – who had been the beneficiaries at Trianon, at Bled in Slovenia. Hitler, however, expected Hungary to support his planned attack on Czechoslovakia, but at first, it did not. Instead, he reached an agreement with the British and French at Munich, giving him only a part of what he wanted, but without firing a shot.

At this time, many moderately pro-German Hungarians considered the ‘Bolshevik danger’ to be the greatest menace to Hungary’s independence and integrity; Hungary, they believed, was no match for the Soviet Union. Unlimited cooperation with Germany was seen as the lesser of two evils. Some held that Hungary’s recent troubles had come from powers other than Germany. They argued that the dismemberment of Hungary by the peace treaties of 1919-20 was caused by France and her ‘Little Entente’ states; Czechoslovakia, Romania, and Yugoslavia. The dictatorship of Béla Kun, they claimed, was undertaken by men who embraced Communism and its ideas in the Soviet Union and “freemasons of Jewish descent” had played an important role in the dismembering of Austria-Hungary, and that practically all leaders of the Kun’s dictatorship were of Jewish descent. A sizeable minority of anti-Semites became pro-German for no other reason than that they considered the Jews to be ‘enemy number one’. Gentile, religious groups feared Communism, a fear borne of the experiences and lessons drawn from the events of the terror régime of Béla Kun. Goebbels’ propaganda in Hungary utilised this fear to stress the national ‘necessity’ for the country to become a close ‘partner’ of Nazi Germany to escape destruction by Communism, equating this ‘danger’ with the “Jewish-Zionist peril”.

The record and reputation of Horthy’s Hungary was besmirched by its anti-Semitism legislation which enabled the Holocaust of 1944-45, following the German occupation of the country. The first law was passed at the end of 1938, limiting Jewish employment in certain areas. On 4 May 1939 came a second law, to clarify the ‘grey areas’ that the first had created. Also, the quota for Jewish employment was further reduced to six percent. These laws made Imrédy himself look foolish, and he had to resign when journalists dug into his ancestry and found a great-grandmother who had converted. Pál Teleki took office, as he had done in 1920, intending to secure political consolidation by bridling extremism and putting it into the service of conservative nationalist policies. If the auspices had been ambiguous the first time around, now they were distinctly unfavourable. In the last year of increasingly fragile peace in Europe, National Socialism, with its cult of power, the dynamism it radiated, its promise to wipe out ossified social structures, political institutions and cultural habits, and its ideas of racial superiority and Lebensraum, applied to the role of Magyardom in the Danube Basin, exerted an even greater appeal to broad segments of the Hungarian civil servants and the officer corps, the petty bourgeoisie and even the working classes, especially among the younger generation.

Darányi stated several times to Szent-Iványi that he would try to steer a middle course despite the pressure coming from both Left and Right. To understand the Premier’s attitude, we must familiarise ourselves with Hungarian nationalism and adherence to independence as two sides of the same coin. According to Szent-Iványi, true Hungarians had always been nationalistic, irrespective of social or political status. Macartney showed a good understanding of Hungarian national pride when he wrote about the rise of Szálasi’s Hungarism:

“…Szalási – the product of a nation whose ancient State had been dismembered in the name of nationality – always had his eyes fixed on the historic frontiers of his State. As a matter of fact, Szalási’s Hungarism has nothing particularly sensational about it. Any student of Central Europe will recognise in it simply one more of the innumerable Hungarians, from Eötvös and Kossuth, to Jászi, Mihály Károli, Pál Teleki and many others less distinguished, have excogitated for organising the Danube Basin in a way which satisfied their idea of what was due to the past achievements and present virtues of the Magyars.”

Macartney, op.cit.. Vol 1, p.161.

Darányi himself knew that all Hungarians, regardless of their background, held similar views regarding the questions of Revision and independence. While doing his best to uphold the independence of his country, he found nothing objectionable or contradictory to the idea of the revision of the Peace Treaty of Trianon. He was not, as many of his contemporaries believed, anti-German, but simply a Hungarian nationalist; a concept that in his own mind, demanded an independent Hungarian state. But Darányi’s Hungarian character prevented him falling victim to Nazi coaxing and pressure. Despite his rather timid personality, Darányi succeeded in standing firm in difficult situations, like at his meeting with Hitler on 14 October 1938:

“… Hitler, stressing his principle that Aryan peoples should unite against Jewish (and other non-Aryan groups’) aggression, Darányi said that Hungary, not belonging to the Aryan group, could not possibly be interested in such questions. At another point, Hitler made a hint at a possible conflict with Poland in which the case the question of German armies passing through Hungarian territory to reach Poland might arise. Darányi said that in spite of our friendship with Germany, Hungary would never, under any circumstances, turn against Poland or permit a foreign power to attack Poland through Hungarian territory. Hitler’s answer greatly surprised Darányi. The Führer expressed his thanks for having received an open, straightforward answer from the ex-Premier. And smilingly, he added that in no case would the German army need a passage through Hungarian territory: ‘We shall crush Poland in the case of war without any help from any other state or passage given to us by a foreign government.”

Szent-Iványi, op. cit., p. 95, quoting from his own contemporary manuscript.

In Hungary itself, changes in the international scene between 1936 and 1938 also encouraged the growth of fascist organisations. Hitler’s remilitarisation of the Rhineland only evoked consternation and protest, but no action on the part of the Western powers; the German-Italian axis eventually came into existence and rounded off with Japan in the Anti-Comintern Pact; General Franco’s army was gaining the upper hand in the Spanish Civil War. At the same time, Darányi’s foreign minister, Kálmán Kánya, negotiated in vain with his opposite numbers from the Little Entente to secure a non-aggression pact linked to the settlement of the minorities’ problem and the acknowledgment of Hungarian military parity. He also failed to reawaken British interest in Hungary to counter Germany’s growing influence, a move which only served to annoy Hitler who, having decided on action against Austria and Czechoslovakia, assured the Hungarians that he considered their claims against the latter as valid and expected them to cooperate in the execution of his plans.

Darányi had tried to steer a middle course, doing his best to avoid any major changes. He had inherited the pro-Italian policy from Bethlen which mirrored the policy of Anthony Eden, British foreign minister in 1936; with the installation of the Chamberlain government in Britain, non-intervention became the byword for British foreign policy. During his visit to Germany in November 1937, Lord Halifax, replacing Eden, assured Hitler of Britain’s yielding free way to Germany’s position as regarded the revision of the peace treaties in central Europe. From this Hitler concluded that Britain would not put obstacles in the way of the Austrian Anschluss and the incorporation of the Sudetenland into the Reich. Hitler’s meeting with Halifax made the Austrian government very nervous, even though the context for this was already widely known. As the Austrians had already had also been informed about the meeting between Darányi, Kánya and Hitler and other key figures in the Nazi hierarchy, the opening of a Budapest-Vienna dialogue became urgent. Schuschnigg, the Austrian Chancellor and Schmidt drove to Kisbér, a small town close to the Austro-Hungarian frontier on 23rd October 1937 and had talks with their Hungarian hosts, Darányi and Kánya. The Austrians expressed their view that Hitler might shortly start with some action against Austria and the Hungarians promised to clarify everything they could about German plans in connection with Austria.

But Darányi had inherited the government Party from Gömbös in addition to his Cabinet and, in consequence, while putting less emphasis on Germany, he cautiously continued along his chosen ‘independent’ lines. Part of this continuing policy saw Foreign Minister Kánya having talks on the further development of the Rome Protocols with his Austrian and Italian opposite numbers in Vienna. This event was followed by Count Ciano’s visit to Budapest to prepare for the official visit of Regent Horthy to Rome, as well as the official visit of the King of Italy to Budapest. The visit of Regent Horthy took place from 24 to 27 November 1936. Darányi and Kánya accompanied the Regent. The Italian foreign minister was received in Budapest with the ceremony due to a head of state. He was greeted by editorials in the papers, and a central square, the Oktogon, was renamed Mussolini Square, a gesture made in gratitude for Mussolini’s support of Hungarian territorial claims. Ciano, however, never repeated this stand, but in the course of the talks, he emphasised the importance of good relations between Germany and Italy, laying the ground for Italy’s acceptance of the forthcoming annexation of Austria by the Reich, and Italy’s rapprochement with Yugoslavia.

Poster declaring Mussolini’s support for Hungarian Revisionism. ‘Justice to Hungary, the Great Mutilated One!

By 1937, Hungary was sending Germany half of its fruit, vegetables, eggs and bacon, and a fifth of exported flour and beef cattle. By 1939, Germany had 53 percent of Hungary’s trade, and on German terms. However, in the short term, this worked. Hungary recovered from the Depression and by 1937 agricultural and industrial production were both above the levels of 1929. Discovery of oil and gas deposits helped. In Veszprém bauxite was also discovered, which gave the metallurgical industries a new edge; already in 1935, the German Air Force needed aluminum, produced on Csepel Island, one of the great industrial centres of Budapest. New industries – electrical, pharmaceutical – developed, and Hungarian industrial goods made a strong showing. Unemployment dwindled. Of course, as a still chiefly agrarian economy, Hungary was a long way behind the Western countries, but it had done better than its neighbours to the east and south as an independent country.

After the Anschluss, 1938-1940 – Diplomatic Roads to Rome & Berlin:

The Anschluss of 12-13 March 1938 took the Hungarian establishment by surprise, the more so because they were expecting Hitler to cede the Burgenland to Hungary, which he was unwilling to do. It was this that alerted Hungary’s political leaders to Hitler’s true plans. He completely absorbed the Burgenland, which (before Trianon) had been a part of Hungary for a century. The Anschluss, more than his earlier declarations and actions, had revised the peace treaty system of 1919-20, but only to the benefit of the German Reich. The Munich Agreement of the 25th September 1938 simply added to the widespread bitterness in Hungary towards Hitler and his régime. That memorable meeting in Munich of the four heads of government did not settle the Revisionist claims of Hungary and the urge to turn away from Nazi Germany only increased. Moreover, although beneficial to Hungary, the First Vienna Award (2 November 1938) did not meet the expectations of Hungarian public opinion as far as their conception of the revision of the Trianon Peace Treaty was concerned. A popular satirical song of the period used the expression, “… becapcsolt a mázsoló…” (“We have been cheated by the Daubster”, i.e. Hitler, the amateur painter).

As a consequence of the Austrian Anschluss, Germany absorbed Austro-Hungarian trade in full and became Hungary’s main trading partner; up to and over ninety percent of Hungarian exports and imports now depended on Germany. Hungarian trade and business were now, in effect, at the mercy of Germany and were closely followed by the expansion of German cultural and political activities. While Italian-fascist influence on Hungary’s economy was not considered a risk to the country’s independence, plans were being made to ensure that Nazi influence on Hungarian political thought and action did not become overly strong. Even the Gömbös régime had sought a solution by which Hungary could utilise German help in its efforts to have the Trianon Treaty revised while keeping the country safe from a Nazi take-over. It was this desire to maintain independence that led to the Rome and Semmering protocols which were considered as the nucleus of cooperation and alliance between Austria, Hungary, Italy and Poland. Hitler’s political methods and schemes were viewed with horror by leading Hungarian circles who began to look to a four-power alliance as a counter-poise to German supremacy in Central Europe.

However, by the following spring, it was too late for Darányi to work out an agreement with the political extremists within Hungary. The German annexation of Austria was hailed as a great success by the followers of Szalási, who were able to exert formidable pressure through propaganda and agitation. This prompted Darányi to appease the Arrow Cross Party and the broader Hungarist Movement. This was too much for the conservatives as well as for the Regent, and Darányi was dismissed from office by Horthy in May 1938. His replacement was Béla Imrédy, who had the reputation of being an outstanding financial expert and a determined Anglophile. Ironically, however, it was under his premiership that Hungary’s commitment to the German side became complete and irreversible. The anti-Jewish legislation prepared under Darányi was pushed into law, establishing a twenty percent quota of the number of ‘persons of the Israelite faith’ allowed to be employed in business and the professions, depriving about fifteen thousand people of jobs for which they were qualified. Liberals and Social Democrats in Parliament protested, together with prominent figures in cultural life including Bártok, Kodály, and Móricz, but the radical Right found the measure too indulgent.

‘Hitler and Mussolini will decide if Prague and Budapest can’t agree’. Headline, 23 October 1938. The red line on the map shows the proposed adjustment to the Slovak-Hungarian border.

On the 30th of September 1938, there was encouragement for Hungary to deal with her own revisionist claims separately, and a meeting with the Slovaks did occur, fruitlessly, at Komárom. It broke up after four days, and then a Hungarian offer for invasion with German support went to Berlin, for which Hungary offered to join the Anti-Comintern Pact and leave the League of Nations. Hitler and Mussolini agreed to mediate, and in the Belvedere Palace in Vienna on 2nd November the First Vienna Award gave Hungary part of Slovakia, including a strip north of the Danube with a largely Hungarian population and the towns of Kassa, Munkács, and Ungvár in Sub-Carpathia (now part of Ukraine). Horthy rode his white horse again as the territory returned to Hungary, an area of twelve thousand square kilometres, with a million people.

The Return of Kassa to Hungarian rule, following the First Vienna Award of 2nd November 1938.

Early in 1939, under a different foreign minister, István Csáky, Hungary joined the Anti-Comintern Pact and left the League. The Germans were then told that Hungary would do something about ‘the Jewish problem’. But by the beginning of 1939, the Hungarian citizenry had realised that it was futile to rely on Hitler’s promises and high-sounding declarations. The consequence of this realisation was a general disillusionment. There were, however, various groups who were pro-German rather than pro-Nazi.

Similarly, fear of Nazi terrorism made Soviet Russia an attractive prospect in the eyes of many. A greater part of Hungarian Jewry considered it to be their only possible saviour from the Nazi peril. So it was fear that opened the doors to both the Nazis and Communists in central-eastern Europe; Nazi domination and terror was followed by Communist rule. Nonetheless, Throughout most of the thirties, unlike elsewhere in Europe where Fascism rose to power, acts of political violence were scarce and insignificant in Hungary. Nazi influence and dominance in Hungary was rejected by practically all social classes. Admiral Horthy, when in intimate circles, liked to label Hitler as “the daubster”. The Hungarian aristocracy, as a rule, hated Nazism almost as much as Hungarians of Jewish ‘stock’. Hungarian intellectuals were also overwhelmingly anti-Nazi.

The ‘moderates’ pointed out that Hungary had experienced time and time again being squeezed between two great powers, both of whom threatened its independence. In addition, the political ideologies of both current Powers were antithetical to those of moderate Hungarians. At the same time, the aims of the Little Entente, backed by France, were to insist on a policy of oppressing Hungary, forcing it to accept its dismemberment by the Trianon Treaty as irrevocable and unalterable. A policy of rapprochement with either Germany or the Soviet Union, therefore, seemed doomed to failure. However, as all signs and events pointed towards a considerable change in European political affairs, such ‘moderates’ put their faith in a ‘wait-and-see’ policy supported by an increase in military strength. In their opinion, any binding declaration in favour of the three international political directions would have been detrimental to true Hungarian interests.

Cover of Hungarian regional magazine, featuring PM Pál Teleki.

The rejection of collaboration with Germany began with some political leaders, like Bethlen, Teleki and Kereszstes-Fischer as early as 1938, and was continued and developed by those groups which, from 1939, supported the cause of Independence and Revision in tandem; finally, the Hungarian people followed the example of these leaders and rejected Nazi domination. From that moment on it became rather difficult to distinguish between those who were continuing to resist German influence and those who were working for independence.

The growth of fascism naturally worried not only many intellectuals, Jewish professionals, and middle classes, plus the Left, but also the whole of the traditional élite, who feared its social-revolutionary character, and were unhappy about Hitler’s intervention on behalf of the German minority, and had misgivings over the superiority of German arms. For all these reasons, they sought to maintain contacts with the Western democracies. But now they had tasted the first fruits of revisionism, and all Hungarian politicians were willing to subordinate other considerations to the restoration of historic borders, more than ever before. Teleki was no exception to this rule, and while he secretly hoped for the ultimate victory of the Western democracies in the conflict he considered inevitable between them and the fascist dictatorships, in the meantime, he wished to take advantage of the fact that the current domination of the Central European scene by the latter made it possible to redress Hungarian grievances. Historians have rightly blamed this policy as narrow, short-sighted, and ultimately disastrous for the country.

Teleki benefited from the fall of Czechoslovakia in March 1939, when Tiso’s Slovak Fascists, under German pressure, declared independence on 14th March. The next day, Hitler marched into Prague and turned Bohemia and Moravia into a Protectorate of the Reich. That left Sub-Carpathia, the once Hungaro-Ruthene (or Ukrainian) north-eastern corner of Slovakia. Hungarian forces staged a provocation there and occupied twelve thousand square kilometres of thick forest. Many of the local population did not consider themselves Ukrainian, but rather Carpatho-Ruthene, a minority within a minority, and therefore looked to Hungary for protection. This effective revision of the terms of Trianon brought about huge national jubilation across Hungary, which even left-wing poets such as Mihály Babits joined in. Extreme nationalism was now in vogue, and the anti-Jewish laws played into this. By implication, Jewish property could now be ‘confiscated’.

But Teleki’s foreign policy horizons were narrowing. He had scored a distinct success by achieving the long-coveted common border with Poland, thus breaking the encirclement by the Little Entente. But this was just a month after taking office. The occupation of Ruthenia (Carpatho-Ukraine) gave Hungary a territory nearly as large as that acquired under the First Vienna Award, but three-quarters of its population was Ukrainian, so the acquisition had to be justified on strategic and historical grounds, rather than on ethnic ones. The takeover was synchronised with that of Czechoslovakia by Germany on 15th March 1939. Teleki’s initiative to supply Carpatho-Ukraine with broad autonomy came to nothing in the following summer, however, as tensions rose between Hungary and the Slovak satellite state created by Hitler. Revisionist claims by Hungary against Romania were raised at around the same time, which helped Hitler to play his small allies against each other, acting again as an arbiter in central Europe. Nevertheless, this long-hoped-for second step in the ‘augmentation of the country’ earned Teleki and his governing party a great many votes, securing a seventy percent majority for it in parliament, at the elections of 1939. The radical Right also gained twenty percent of the seats and the imprisoned Szalási’s Arrowcross Party was very successful in working-class districts, taking full advantage of the ambiguous policies Teleki pursued regarding ‘augmentation’.

Postscript – Transylvania, 1940-41: ‘The Land of Make-Believe’.
A large crowd gathered in the centre of Marosvásárhely to celebrate its return to Hungary with the Second Vienna Award in August 1940.

The policy of augmentation led to two further stages of appeasement. The Second Vienna Award (30 August 1940) returned parts of Transylvania, including Kolozsvár (below) to Hungary.

Source: István Lázar (see ‘Sources’ below)

The final expansion of Hungarian territory was the result of the German invasion of Yugoslavia and Greece in April 1941. On the 2nd, German troops passed through Hungary on their way to Croatia. The following day Teleki shot himself, ashamed of being forced to renege on the recently signed Treaty of Friendship between Yugoslavia and Hungary (I have also referred to this in my previous chapter). Horthy appointed László Bárdossy, the foreign minister, to the premiership. On the 11th of April, Hungary entered the war when its troops followed the Wehrmacht into Yugoslavia and occupied the town of Bácska. Hungarian-speaking Vojvodina returned to Hungary (see the map below), completing its augmentation programme successfully. At the end of June, Hungary declared war on the USSR when the newly returned city of Kassa in Slovakia was bombed by unidentified airplanes. Three years later, Hungary had once more lost these lands, suffering one defeat after another, concluding with occupations first by the Nazis and then by the Soviets.

Given the extent and nature of the cataclysmic events that followed those described here, over at least four years of war (in Hungary’s case), it is easy to ignore the fact that the Nazi movement in Germany was part of a broader European political shift to the extreme right. That is why Germany was able to exploit this development by supporting puppet fascist governments in occupied areas or winning the active collaboration of quasi-fascist or ultra-nationalist régimes. The powerful anti-communism that fuelled the rise of the ‘radical right’ also produced thousands of volunteers from other European states to fight against the ‘Soviet enemy’. At the outset, therefore, there was an ideological commitment to the conflict on their part, as there had been in the Spanish Civil War which immediately preceded it. Germany’s chief ally was Mussolini’s Italy, and in May 1939 the two régimes entered into the so-called Pact of Steel, a military alliance from which Mussolini extracted himself with some difficulty in September 1939. In June 1940 he joined the war on Germany’s side, and the two allies co-operated in the Balkans and North Africa. Although Hitler kept the Barbarossa campaign a secret from his fellow dictator, Mussolini sent forces to help in the east in 1941. So too did Franco and in October 1941 a division of volunteers from the fascist Falange party went to Russia. Other volunteers came from all over Europe, many of them attracted to the élite SS which recruited honourary ‘Aryans’ for combat in their armed divisions.

Under German pressure, much of Europe had fascist or pro-fascist régimes during the war. In Slovakia, the clerical-fascist Slovak People’s Party under Josef Tiso was installed in power in 1939 and was entirely subordinate to Berlin. Some fifty thousand Slovaks served on the eastern front until the nationalists in Slovakia became increasingly disillusioned with Nazism. Other allies in Hungary, Romania, and Bulgaria also sent forces to fight on the eastern front, but they too became lukewarm about the German cause as the war went on. Hungary was occupied by the SS in March 1944, and when it tried to leave the Axis to seek an armistice with the Soviets, Horthy was exiled and replaced with an overtly fascist, pro-German government run by Szalási and the Arrow Cross Party. The numbers of non-German volunteers for the eastern front are given on the map above, including significant forces from Hungarian-occupied Yugoslavia and Slovakia, as well as from Hungary itself. These soldiers were not forced to serve in the Waffen SS and the Wehrmacht; their motivations were ideological, or connected to a sense of prestige and power. Hungarians were not pressed into the service of the Reich, whether direct or indirect; their service, and that of the Hungarian State, was a logical conclusion of the populist policies of revisionism and appeasement, both internal and external, developed throughout the interwar years. These were clear choices made by Hungarian politicians, some in reluctant acquiescence, some more willingly.

The populist policies and disastrous choices of the period 1936-44 in Hungarian history have since become shrouded in collective national amnesia which continues to dampen and distort the discourse regarding Hungary’s past. As for the present, it is difficult to see how the policy of ‘appeasement’ of dictators, as defined and redefined by international historians, can be confused as a strategy with genuine peace-making among politicians and diplomats.

Sources for Chapters IV & V:

Irene Richards, et. al (1938): A Sketch-Map History of the Great War and After, London: George G. Harrap & Co. Ltd.

Száraz Miklós György (2019): Fájó Trianon, Budapest: Scolar Kiadó.

Richard Overy (1996): The Penguin Historical Atlas of the Third Reich, Harmondsworth: Penguin Books Ltd.

István Lázár (1989), An Illustrated History of Hungary, Budapest: Corvina Books.

Mark Almond, András Bereznay, et. al., (1994, 2002), The Times Atlas of European History. London: Harper Collins Publishers.

Andrew Roberts (2009), The Storm of War: A New History of the Second World War. Allen Lane/Penguin Books.

Norman Stone (2019), Hungary: A Short History. London: Profile Books.

Laurence Rees (2008), World War Two: Behind Closed Doors; Stalin, The Nazis and The West. London, BBC Books: Ebury/ Random House.

Domokos Szent-Iványi (2013); Gyula Kodolányi & Nóra Szekér, eds. The Hungarian Independence Movement, 1936-46. Budapest: Hungarian Review Books.

Lászlo Kontler (2009), A History of Hungary. Budapest: Atlantisz Publishing House.

Is Hungary’s Appeasement of Putin Justified by its Past Experiences? IV

Chapter Four: What was/ is Appeasement? – Hungary in The Era of the Two World Wars.

Preface: Present Day ‘appeasers’?

On 8th July 2024, Hungary’s Prime Minister and current President of the European Council paid another visit, on his own initiative, to Vladimir Putin in Moscow. Later the same day, the Kremlin launched yet another missile attack on Eastern Ukraine, killing more than thirty civilians and destroying one of central-eastern Europe’s most renowned specialist children’s hospitals. The following morning, experienced BBC journalists described Orbán’s visit as an act of ‘appeasement’ in the context of these events. How accurate is their application of this term, drawing on its original context of the inter-war period?

Introduction – ‘Horrible Historiography’:

In 1988, on the fiftieth anniversary of the Munich Crisis of 1938, my Professor from Bangor University, my own ‘alma mater’ of a decade earlier, Keith Robbins, published a useful little book on ‘Appeasement’ for the Historical Association. Until then, the fifty-year rule governing access to official papers prevented historians from accessing the British documents of the period, though in 1944 it had been agreed that volumes of selected documents covering the entire inter-war period would appear. Such was the obvious interest in the years immediately leading up to the outbreak of the second war in Europe. These documents were among the first to be published roughly a decade after the events they referred to.

However, it took decades for the series of documents from 1929 onwards to reach the mid-1930s. Indeed, the volume on European affairs from July 1937 to August 1938 did not appear until 1982. Until then, ‘Western’ historians had little documentary knowledge of the problems and issues facing pre-war administrations, forming an essential preliminary to understanding the events of 1938. A particular consequence of publication policy was that it perpetuated an approach to appeasement that was thoroughly Eurocentric and Occidentalist. It could appear that ministers had nothing better to do than to worry about ‘Europe’. As the Cold War became colder in the divided Europe of their day, with Czechoslovakia and Hungary again suffering melancholy fates, Eurocentricity seemed an appropriate response.

However, by the 1950s, decolonisation seemed to be gathering pace, as highlighted by the Suez Crisis of 1956, revealing that if Britain was still a Great Power, it was in eclipse. The crisis had also occasioned an elaborate display of ‘anti-appeasement’ rhetoric which had an appeal across the British party political divide. It was argued that Egypt’s President Nasser was an ambitious, unstable, aggressive dictator. Unless stopped, he would, ‘like Hitler’, develop even more ambitious plans. British politicians claimed to be applying the ‘lessons’ of the 1930s and negatively labelled their opponents as ‘appeasers’.

Against this background, a new generation of British historians, including Keith Robbins, began to wonder whether their world of the 1960s had fresh questions to ask of the policy-makers of the 1930s. The Second World War, which this generation only experienced as infants, did not seem to have settled as much as their parents and teachers appeared to believe. These were also the years when Dean Acheson, the US Secretary of State, remarked that Britain had lost its Empire and not yet found a new role. Maybe the 1930s was a crucial decade in Britain’s Foreign Policy, in a sense never hitherto understood, standing halfway between the signing of agreements with Japan, France, and Russia in 1902-07 and the final dissolution of the Empire in the late 1960s. It might be possible to understand appeasement better if it was seen as a crucial episode in a protracted retreat from an untenable ‘world power’ status. Based on such longer-term contextualisation, Appeasement, as a policy, was a necessary instrument. Robbins continued in the first person:

“Since no historian writes in a vacuum, … I was quite convinced, as an undergraduate, that the policy had been morally wrong and politically disastrous. However, I was taught by A. J. P. Taylor, who published his ‘The Origins of the Second World War’ (1961) in the year I graduated. … I was attracted to the topic partly because I had not even been alive during the appeasement years and wanted to approach the entire topic afresh without the emotions which still so clearly troubled an older generation.”

Keith Robbins (1991, 1997) Appeasement. Oxford: Blackwell.

Certainly, many of that generation continued to apply the term ‘Little Hitler’ to any official who seemed ‘too big for their boots’ well into the sixties. In the mid-1960s, Martin Gilbert wrote:

” ‘Munich’ and ‘Appeasement’ have both become words of disapproval and abuse. For nearly thirty years they have been linked together as the twin symbols of British folly. Together they have been defended as if they were inseperable. Yet ‘Munich’ was a policy, dictated by fear and weakness, which Neville Chamberlain devised as a means not of postponing war but, as he personally believed, of making Anglo-German war unnecessary in the future. Appeasement was quite different; it was a policy of constant concessions based on common sense and strength.”

M. Gilbert (1966), The Roots of Appeasement. London: Weidenfeld & Nicolson.

With Ribbentrop to his left and Sir Arthur Henderson a step behind, Chamberlain walked past a guard of honour at Munich airport in October 1938.

According to Gilbert, appeasement was the guiding philosophy of British foreign policy for ten years. From 1919 to 1929, he wrote, successive British governments sought to influence European affairs toward ameliorating tempers and accepting discussions and negotiations as the best means of ensuring peaceful change. France tended to deny that any change was necessary. Still, British official opinion doubted whether a secure Europe could be based on the Treaties of 1919-20, and had strong hopes of obtaining a serious revision of those aspects that seemed to contain the seeds of future conflict. For ten years those hopes propelled policy forward and important progress was made each year. Appeasement seemed not only morally justifiable, as being clearly preferable to rearmament, conflict and war, but also politically acceptable and diplomatically feasible.

As a guiding policy, appeasement was based on the acceptance of independent nation-states, each in turn based as nearly as possible on Wilson’s principle of self-determination. With the disintegration in 1917-18 of the Russian, Turkish, German and Austro-Hungarian Empires, the final stage had been reached in a process that had begun in Europe during the Napoleonic era – the evolution of a strictly national as opposed to a dynastic or imperial system with defined, strategic frontiers. Post-1918 diplomacy was geared toward securing the final rectification of those frontiers still not conforming to the national principle. Such frontiers were few, most of them the result of Versailles boundaries which had been drawn to the disadvantage of the defeated ‘nations’, Germany, Austria and Hungary. Thus there were German-speaking people outside Germany and Austria, and Magyar-speakers outside Hungary, but contiguous to their frontiers. In addition, Austrians were forbidden union with Germany under Article 80 of the Treaty of Versailles, though this could be altered with the consent of the Council of the League of Nations. Although France was unlikely to make such consent possible, the principle of making territorial adjustments was officially acknowledged.

National inequities other than those of frontiers were also part of the Paris ‘Peace Settlement’, and were equally prone to the egalitarian touch of appeasement. The disarmament of Germany, while France remained, was a German grievance which could be met either by disarming France or allowing Germany to rearm. Both alternatives were considered by British policy-makers, and when the first proved impossible to secure, the second became logically difficult to resist. In pursuing an appeasement policy, the British Government sought to mediate between France and Germany, as an ‘honest broker’. Its aim was to allay mutual suspicions and it depended for its success upon both France and Germany realising that it was a ‘neutral’ policy, designed to provide both with adequate security, under British patronage, and thereby to make rearmament, military alliances, and war-plans unnecessary. The weakness of the policy was that France often felt that it was intended only to weaken it, and Germany that its aim was to keep it weak.

The policy of appeasement, as ‘invented’ in Britain and practised between 1919 and 1929, was, of course, wholly in Britain’s self-interest. It was in no sense intended as an altruistic policy. British policymakers reasoned that the basis of European peace was a flourishing economic situation, unhampered by political bickering, which, would, in turn, promote mutual trade, prosperity and understanding. As Gilbert concluded;

“Only by success in this policy could Britain avoid becoming involved once again in a war rising out of European national ambitions and frustrations: a war which might well prove even more destructive of human life and social order than the 1914-18 war had been. …

“But appeasement was never a coward’s creed. It never signified retreat or surrender from formal pledges. … Appeasement was not only an approach to foreign policy, it was a way of life, a method of human contact and progress.”

Gilbert, loc. cit. pp. 96-97, 177.

But by the mid-1970s, when I was first studying the topic under the tutelage of Professor Robbins, the flood of evidence available after the Public Record Act of 1967 led Gilbert to rethink his earlier views:

“I had not realised the extent to which Neville Chamberlain’s Cabinet were prepared to deceive Parliament. I had not realised the extent to which they chose to ignore the evidence of Hitler’s intention put before them. … And finally, no one had then realised the extent to which, after Munich, far from using the so-called ‘year gained’ to re-arm, Chamberlain had adopted quite a different policy and a quite different attitude, that now the time had come for a real agreement with Hitler which would make massive rearmament unnecessary, and disarmament a possibility. And I document them both from the Cabinet and the Cabinet Committee meetings … and also in Chamberlain’s letters to his sister. …

Keith Robbins was struck by Gilbert’s sudden change of perspective as he wrote his own analysis of the Munich Agreement:

“In retrospect, however, the early 1960s appears as a twilight period. Old preconceptions were still vigorous, though the speed with which Martin Gilbert … altered his emphasis in ‘The Roots of Appeasement’ (1966) from that adopted a few years earlier in ‘The Appeasers’… indicates a changing climate. Even so, it was ‘Munich 1938’ that the publishers supposed that my readers would want… not a general exposition of appeasement.”

Keith Robbins (1991, 1997) Appeasement. Oxford: Blackwell.

On the eve of the publication of Munich 1938, in 1968, the fifty-year rule on access to official documents was changed to a thirty-year one. Many scholars immersed themselves in the official documents this change made available, in addition to newly accessible private papers. This research became truly international, involving British, American, and German scholars. The outcome of these ‘new’ studies was that it became impossible to speak about ‘appeasement’ in simple terms anymore. Instead, historians increasingly referred to a series of policies that were described as forms of appeasement such as ‘economic appeasement’, ‘military appeasement’, ‘political appeasement’, and ‘social appeasement’. It was not easy, however, to determine how they related to each other and which were ‘primary’ and which ‘secondary’. Some argued that appeasement was no longer a term any historian should use since its meaning had become so general. But since it had already become common to speak of appeasement as a policy, it proved impossible to embark on an exhaustive definition. Also, it was evident from the range of sources then available, that the contemporary politicians, diplomats, and military leaders who thought of themselves or others as ‘appeasers’ had referred to the advocacy of a range of policies.

‘Appeasement’ may appear to be a particularly British phenomenon of the twentieth century; a fusion of moral values, political constraints, economic necessities, and military exigencies. Nevertheless, it remains sensible to think of it as a phenomenon of the 1930s and to describe as ‘appeasers’ those who were then responsible for both the formulation and execution of policy. Even if what was being attempted was, in a longer perspective, an elaboration of earlier insights and attitudes, its articulation was novel. After the 1930s, appeasement did not disappear from the lexicon of British foreign policy, as already noted, but eventually, it was called something different. Even in the 1990s, attitudes towards appeasement were affected, in part, by the reconsideration of the significance, for Britain, of the Second World War itself. However, there is a danger in seeing appeasement as something the British invented and controlled. Foreign Policy is always about the complex and constantly changing relations between states. Appeasement, therefore, was both a domestically and an externally generated initiative and response.

Overturning Versailles & Trianon – The Appeasement Debate in the Twenties & Thirties:

The shadow of the First World War and the Versailles Settlement, including the 1920 Trianon Treaty, concerned with Hungary, hung heavily over inter-war Europe, from east to west. The contemporary economist, John Maynard Keynes’ apparently damning indictments of the ‘Peace Settlement’ helped to develop the policy of appeasement, often misunderstood, as Martin Gilbert suggested later, as the policy of fear of 1937-39. In his book The Economic Consequences of the Peace (1924 edition), Keynes was scathing in his criticisms of those who aimed to bring about Central Europe’s impoverishment through vengeance. He claimed that the peace treaties included no provisions for economic solidarity among the allies themselves since no arrangement was reached at Paris for restoring the disordered finances of France and Italy, or to adjust the systems, or to adjust the systems of the old order for the new. The Council of Four (Britain, France, Italy and the USA) paid little attention to these issues. Keynes wrote:

‘It is an extraordinary fact that the fundamental economic problem of a Europe starving and disentegrating before their eyes was a question in which it was impossible to arouse the interest of the four. Reparation was their main excursion into the economic field, and they settled it from every point of view except that of the economic future of the states whose destiny they were handling.’

Edited Extract from The Economic Consequences of the Peace, loc. cit.

Above: Germans pay for entry to a circus with bread, sausage and other groceries after the collapse of the German currency in 1923.

Instead, Keynes argued for what was later referred to as economic appeasement. He went on:

‘Europe consists of the densest aggregation of population in the world. In relation to other continents, it is not self-sufficient; in particular, it cannot feed itself. The danger confronting us, therefore, is the rapid depression of the standard of life of the European populations to a point that will mean actual starvation for some… Men will not always die quietly. For starvation, which brings to some lethargy and a helpless despair, drives other temperaments to the nervous instability of hysteria and to a mad despair. And these in their distress may overturn the remnants of organisation.’

John Maynard Keynes (1924), The Economic Consequences of the Peace, loc. cit.

For his part, on coming to power, Hitler repeatedly made clear his profound hatred of the Peace Settlement and his deep resentment of Germany’s military inferiority and economic subservience. In 1935, he commented:

“A treaty has been ratified which promised peace but which brought in its wake endless bitterness and oppression.”

Adolph Hitler, 1935.

This view he shared with most of his compatriots, so that, during his first three years in power, he was able to defy and overturn many of the central features of the treaty. That Hitler was able to do so owed a good deal to the changing international circumstances after the economic slump. Other states were absorbed with their own domestic difficulties. The economic crisis reduced the willingness of the Western powers to collaborate and discouraged any risks in foreign policy. Reparations had already been suspended in June 1932, well before Hitler came to power, and by agreement between the powers involved rather than through unilateral action on Germany’s part.

The occupation forces in the Rhineland were withdrawn in 1930, five years ahead of schedule. The willingness and ability of the victor powers to continue to enforce the Treaty were already in question. Hitler made it clear no further reparations would be paid, and in doing so asserted Germany’s economic independence.

Hitler’s next priority was military independence. Here, too, the process of undermining the disarmament clauses in the Versailles Treaty had begun before Hitler came to power. The armed forces developed aircraft, submarines and tanks in veiled collaborative projects in the Soviet Union, Sweden and the Netherlands. From 1928, three four-year programmes had formed the basis of Hitler’s rearmament from 1933. In addition, in July 1933 the first plans were laid down for a new German airforce. Rearmament in the first two years of the Nazi régime was relatively modest in scope, though it violated the disarmament clauses of Versailles. Hitler and the armed forces proceeded cautiously, partly from fear of foreign intervention, partly from fear of economic consequences of rapid remilitarisation, but mostly because they wanted a planned, step-by-step development of a military infrastructure that had been largely dismantled in 1919-20. By 1935 Hitler was prepared to go further. On 16 March, he formally announced the re-establishment of Germany’s armed forces and German rearmament. Plans were finalised for an army of 700,000 men in thirty-six divisions, and an air force of more than two hundred squadrons. There was little international protest, and three months later Britain signed a Naval Agreement with Germany, limiting total German tonnage to 35% of the Royal Navy, but endorsing Germany’s right to rearm at sea. The same year the territorial settlement of 1919 was altered in Germany’s favour. As agreed in the treaty, a plebiscite was held in the Saar region to determine its future status. Ninety per cent voted for union with Germany (see the map above). A year later, Hitler gambled that he could re-occupy the demilitarised Rhineland with German forces, and on 7 March 1936 troops crossed the Rhine bridges and Germany fully regained her military independence.

The contemporary map above, showing The Effects of Treaty Repudiation, drawn in 1935 (published in 1938), confirms that, by that time, contemporary historians believed that the Peace Settlement had failed completely to satisfy the needs of Europe as a whole. Not only had the defeated state of Germany openly repudiated the restrictive clauses of the Treaty, but the victor states, recognising that the collective security of the League Covenant was uncertain, reverted to pre-war methods of forming alliances, piling up armaments and, in the case of Italy, undertaking military conquests. The main causes of treaty repudiation were, of course, the rise of Nazi Germany and the growth of militant Fascism in Italy, but these, in turn, were fuelled by the widespread sense of injustice which endured in those countries at the Versailles ‘Settlement’.

Above: 1935 cartoon of Hitler and the League of Nations.

Not only had the defeated state of Germany openly repudiated the restrictive clauses of the Treaty, but the victor states, recognising that the collective security of the League Covenant was uncertain, reverted to pre-war methods of forming alliances and piling up armaments. Two countries, Italy and Japan, had already undertaken military conquests in defiance of solemn treaty promises. But the rapprochement of France and Russia also had a role to play and forty years after Imperial Russia and France came together in their Entente, Soviet Russia and the French Republic, despite their polar opposite constitutions, came together in a new alliance in 1934. Once more, Germany found itself ‘encircled’ by the Western Powers and Russia. France, ever vigilant to guard its security and protect its borders, constructed a strong line of fortifications along its eastern frontier (the Maginot Line).

Britain announced plans in 1937 for rearmament on a scale to make it the strongest Power in Europe, if not, through its empire, the world. The USSR postponed the completion of its second Five Year Plan to concentrate on the manufacture of munitions. The Fascist leaders of Italy and Germany not only increased their armaments but also began to encourage in the minds of their people the idea that war was necessary, inevitable and splendid. One of the most disturbing features of pre-World War One Europe was the Anglo-German rivalry in naval power, and over colonial territory had reappeared. This, fundamentally, was what led to the development of the policy of appeasement by the Baldwin-Chamberlain Cabinet from 1936 to 1939. Writing in 1961, renowned historian A L Rowse condemned both Baldwin and Chamberlain for their development of the policy:

“But where Baldwin’s were sins of omission, Chamberlain’s were sins of deliberate commission. He really meant to come to terms with Hitler, to make concession after concession to the man to buy an agreement. Apart from the immorality of coming to terms with a criminal, it was always sheer nonsense; for no agreement was possible except through submission to Nazi Germany’s domination of Europe and, with her allies and their joint conquests, of the world … “

“Here (in Czechoslovakia) was an intense strain in the centre of Europe which, if it was not to lead from bad to worse, could only be relieved by a concession. There, in a sentence, is the whole psychological misconception. It is no use making concessions to a blackmailer or an aggressor; he will only ask for more. They were all taken back by Hitler’s march on Prague in March 1939, after the swag he had got, with their aid, at Munich. … And anyhow, what are political leaders for? Do we employ them to fall for the enemies of their country, to put across to us the lies they are such fools as to believe?… the proper function of political leaders is precisely not to be taken in, but to warn us.”

Chamberlain knew no history … had no conception of the elementary necessity of keeping the balance of power on one side; no conception of the Grand Alliance, or of its being the only way to contain Hitler and keep Europe safe. …

A. L. Rowse (1961), All Souls and Appeasement, London: Macmillan.

Rowse argued that the total upshot of the appeasers’ efforts was to aid Nazi Germany to achieve a position of brutal ascendancy. This became a threat to everyone else’s security, and only a war could end. This had the very result of letting the Russians into the centre of Europe which the appeasers… wished to prevent. The primary responsibility was all along that of the Germans, the people in the strongest position in Europe, the keystone of the whole European system, but who never knew how to behave, whether up or down, in the ascendant arrogant and brutal, in defeat base and grovelling. The appeasers had no real conception of Germany’s character or ‘malign record’ in modern history. Trevelyan argued that dictatorship and democracy must live side by side in peace, and the English would do well to remember that the Nazi form of government is in large measure the outcome of Allied injustice at Versailles in 1919-20, and the egregious folly of the ‘war guilt’ clause, which acted, as might have been foreseen, as a challenge to the Germans to prove that their Government was not to blame at all.

Throughout the interwar period, the appeasement policy had a coherent intellectual foundation with a high moral tone. Still, the aggressive expansionist policies of Mussolini in Abyssinia and Hitler in Central Europe exposed the absence of force to substantiate its principles. By 1937 there was a bitter ideological debate on appeasement, reflected in the historian G. M. Trevelyan’s letter to The Times (12 August ’37). The following year the policy soured, but not before substantial British and Dominion support for the ‘resolution’ of the Czechoslovak crisis at Munich. The bitterness of comments from France and Czechoslovakia also reflects the continental feeling that Britain’s geography enabled her to see Europe from too detached and moralistic a viewpoint; given France’s internal weaknesses, and the emergence of the Czechoslovak state in 1918 when Germany was weak, these arguments may have less weight in retrospect.

Rearmament, Remilitarisation & Bloodless Conquests 1935-40:

Keith Robbins believed that Hitler was singularly fortunate that the Disarmament Conference was taking place when he came to power. No British government, given public sentiments, could have been seen to scupper it. The German Chancellor could continue the less and less clandestine expansion of the Wehrmacht, which had begun much more modestly before he came to power. Had there been no conference, there might have been a different response from Western powers. Although Hitler did not announce German rearmament until March 1935, it was no secret in the years before. In the first two years of his régime, he had achieved by unilateral action what his predecessors had failed to achieve by negotiation. Some British Foreign Office officials still advised ministers that Germany might be willing to pay a diplomatic price for the international legalisation of this action, but that proved optimistic.

Hitler, on the other hand, could now threaten the use of force as an ingredient in a wider campaign to release Germany from other enduring aspects of the Versailles Treaty. The outlook, according to the British Prime Minister Ramsay MacDonald, was deplorable. Before Hitler acceded to power, the Germans had known that Britain no longer favoured trying to enforce the armaments limitations of Versailles. Their behaviour had revived anxieties about ‘German militarism’. Few members of his government had close relations with their French counterparts at the beginning of the decade but in the new climate of the mid-thirties, greater Franco-British intimacy was desirable. Security remained the major French concern and British ministers were left in no doubt that Britain too would have to commit itself to some specific steps if France was to formally acquiesce to German rearmament. What was under discussion was a British Scheme for Germany to return to the League of Nations with an agreed limitation of German armed forces alongside an eastern pact, a Danubian pact and an air pact, all designed to reassure the French.

Ten days before Sir John Simon’s visit to Berlin came Hitler’s announcement of the reintroduction of conscription and the creation of an army of half a million men. There was a British note of protest, and MacDonald and Simon met their French and Italian counterparts at Stresa. A ‘front’ seemed to be consolidating, motivated by a common anxiety about German intentions. The subsequent British action, however, seemed hardly helpful to such a development, and the inclusion of Mussolini, who was worried about Austria and Hungary, meant that the front could hardly be classified as a grouping of democratic states confronting fascism. That substantial section of British opinion which wanted foreign associations to be limited to the ideologically acceptable wasn’t best pleased with the company MacDonald was keeping.

Moreover, in the meantime, Simon and Eden went ahead with their visit to Berlin, though to no immediate result. Three months later, however, the Anglo-German naval agreement was signed, displeasing the French greatly, both because they were not consulted in advance and because it sanctioned a much larger German navy than was permitted by Versailles. On the other hand, there was disquiet about even a loose association which might convey the impression that Germany was about to be ‘encircled’. Although the sentiment had begun on the left, it was now fairly generally argued that even the semblance of a return to the alliance divisions of pre-1914 Europe would be likely to increase tension rather than promote stability.

Above: Abyssinian natives apparently photographed hailing the likeness of Mussolini. In April 1936,

French ministers, however, were less apprehensive on this score. Attaching great importance to the Italian connection, they were willing to accept the possibility of Italian expansion into Ethiopia, provided that French interests were safeguarded. Mussolini may have thought that the British would be similarly understanding if he offered them something concerning the Italian fleet in the Mediterranean, but that was unlikely. When the Ethiopian crisis erupted, Britain had a new Prime Minister and a new Foreign Secretary: Stanley Baldwin and Samuel Hoare (pictured below). MacDonald had always had a keen interest in Foreign affairs. Baldwin, however, did not share this interest and was not tempted to intervene if it could be avoided. Added to this, Sir Robert Vansittart, Permanent Under Secretary at the Foreign Office, did not favour sanctions against Italy and drew up plans for the partition of Ethiopia. When the final scheme was being discussed with Laval, the French Foreign minister, details leaked out, and there was a political storm. Hoare had to resign; Vansittart did not, though some were critical of his role. Following Mussolini’s ‘triumph’ in Ethiopia, there arose a great danger that an ideological axis between Rome and Berlin would be formed, where none had previously existed.

As a regular visitor to Abyssinia from 1930 to 1935, the journalist and author Evelyn Waugh wrote a piece for the Daily Mail reporting on how the Emperor of Ethiopia, Haile Selassie, had attempted to win the support of the League of Nations and…

transmitted to his simpler subjects the assertion that England and France were coming to fight against Italy so that even those who had least love of Abyssinian rule feared to declare themselves against what seemed be the stronger side. … The Italians, in the face of sanctions… felt their national honour to be challenged and their entire national resources committed to what, in its inception, was a minor colonial operation of the kind constantly performed in the recent past by every great power in the world. No one can doubt that an immense amount of avoidable suffering had been caused and that the ultimate consequences may be of worldwide effect.’

Edited extract from Waugh’s Abyssinia. Harmondsworth: Penguin.

On the evening of 9th May, from the balcony of the Palazzo Venezia, the duce spoke to a huge crowd in the square below: “Italy at last has her empire,” he declared,

“… an empire of peace, because Italy wants peace for herself and for all, and goes to war only when forced. It is an empire of civilisation and humanity for the Abyssinian population.”

The shift to large-scale armaments and a strategy of opportunistic expansion altered Germany’s position in Europe. The other driving force behind that change was the Nazi Party’s self-proclaimed foreign policy expert, Joachim von Ribbentrop. He had helped secure the Anglo-German Naval Agreement in 1935 and was sent as Hitler’s special representative to London to try to secure a wider British alliance. His aims, first as special commissioner and from August 1936 as German ambassador were frustrated by his own diplomatic ineptitude, however. A more serious obstacle was the unwillingness of the British government to make any substantial concession to the German position. Ribbentrop, who succeeded in turning Hitler against a British alliance, was also keen to support Japan rather than China and was instrumental in setting up the Anti-Comintern Pact of November 1936. Together with Göring, he wooed Mussolini into the Pact following the Abyssinian War and tension with Britain and France over the Spanish Civil War. No clear political agreement existed between Germany, Italy and Japan. Still, they became identified in the mid-1930s as ‘revisionist’ powers who hoped to alter the existing distribution of territory and international power in their favour.

The Reoccupation of the Rhineland, 1936.

After this, the Rhineland Affair of 1936 has frequently been seen as ‘the last chance’ to stop Hitler without going to war. Subsequently, the crisis has been seen as the first conspicuous failure of appeasement. But the contemporary reaction was characterised by annoyance rather than failure. By 1936, the concept of a demilitarised zone was an anachronism and perpetuated among Germans the sense of inferiority that precluded a deeper and more permanent settlement. In any event, it is important to remember that by the autumn of 1936, there were many other matters preoccupying the British Cabinet, not least the future of Edward VIII. Once the abdication had been achieved, Baldwin’s career was nearly at an end. At the opening of the new parliamentary session in November 1936, he listened to expressions of concern about the country’s defences. Then he stated that in 1933-34 he had felt that he ‘could not have persuaded a pacific democracy in an election to support rearmament.’ It was this remark that led Churchill, years later, to claim that Baldwin had put party before country. In the summer of 1936, he told a parliamentary delegation which included both Winston Churchill and Austen Chamberlain, that he was not going to get Britain into a war with anybody for the League of Nations or for anything else. ‘If there is any fighting in Europe’, he added, ‘I should like to see the Bolshies and the Nazis doing it.’ (Jenkins, 1987, p. 159).

Source: These Tremendous Years 1919-38 (a Picture Post-style publication of 1938)

The ‘Baldwin era’ came to an end in May 1937 when Neville Chamberlain became Prime Minister, a post he held for the last three years of a career which spanned more than two decades and included several senior government posts. The Cabinet was reshuffled from the existing pack. Having replaced Hoare, Eden remained as Foreign Secretary, initially seeming unalarmed by Chamberlain’s obvious intention to take more of an active interest in foreign affairs than Baldwin did. The Spanish Civil War, which began the previous year, prevented any easy accommodation with Rome. The Republican struggle against Franco’s Fascists attracted some enthusiastic support from Britain and France, but the British Cabinet had no enthusiasm for joining the war. A ‘Non-Intervention Agreement’ was in operation, but it didn’t serve as a barrier to German, Italian and Soviet activities. Nevertheless, Chamberlain deprecated the tendency among some of his colleagues to lump Germany and Italy together as ‘fascist powers’ (see the map below). For him, it was Germany that constituted the problem, and by the end of 1937, he had begun to address it directly and personally.

Nevertheless, it was impossible to deny that there was a common ideological thread linking the various far-right movements and repressive régimes that were emerging across Europe. But this thread did not produce identical movements. For example, when Salazar became Prime Minister of Portugal in 1932, at the age of forty-three, and was on the verge of creating an Estado Nova to tear Portugal away from its liberal moorings, he declined to follow the examples of Hitler and Mussolini by establishing a totalitarian party or an intrusive state to indoctrinate the masses. Salazar’s aim was the depolitisation of society, not the mobilisation of the populace.

Salazar was also a supporter of the church and a monarchist, like his neighbour General Franco, but he never considered restoring either to its former position and power, as happened in Spain. Instead, his formula was to create a ruling alliance of conservatives, some moderate liberals and a few nationalist ideologues, guaranteed ultimately by the armed forces. His ability to tap into nationalist feelings helps to explain his durability through to his death in 1970. He earned respect at home and abroad for showing a high degree of skill in foiling various international designs on Portugal which, though small, was strategically located but ill-placed to defend itself from the murderous conflicts of the 1930s and ’40s. Upon the eruption of civil war in Spain in 1936, Salazar backed the nationalists but then worked to keep Franco from throwing in his lot with Hitler after the ‘führer’ unleashed his wave of military conquests in 1939-40.

Lord Halifax touring Berlin with Göring, November 1937.

In mid-November 1937, Lord Halifax was sent to Berlin and Berchtesgaden. Although not altogether happy about this, Eden advised him to ‘leave the Germans guessing’ about British intentions. Halifax and Hitler got down to discussing specific questions concerning Danzig, Austria and Czechoslovakia. Halifax intimated that the ‘status quo’ in Central Europe was not sacrosanct, but that any change could only occur through ‘peaceful evolution’. Chamberlain’s view on these questions was that while Britain could not countenance Europe slipping under German domination, it was evident that, in some shape or form, German influence over central Europe was going to be extended. A dozen years earlier, his half-brother Austen, in negotiating the terms of the Locarno Treaty, had been adamant that Britain could not guarantee Germany’s eastern frontiers (and therefore those of its neighbours) in the same way as it did its western frontiers. The covert message was that these frontiers could be revised – by agreement. There was nothing that Britain could or should do directly to resolve disputes over boundaries or the problems of national minorities. Unlike France, Britain had declined to enter into specific treaty relations with Poland or Czechoslovakia that had been created after the First World War. Central-eastern Europe had never been a major British concern and it would be unwise to be too closely tied to the fortunes of new states with economic, social and political problems of considerable magnitude.

Source: ‘These Tremendous Years’, 1938.

Differences mounted between Chamberlain and Eden, particularly on how to handle approaches to Italy. In the following month, Eden resigned. His resignation cannot be interpreted, however, as a dramatic dissociation from the policy of appeasement. Eden did not seek to make life difficult for his PM by maintaining a running critique of his policy in public. But the initiative in Europe seemed to be held by Germany, perhaps in association with Italy, and by contrast, France seemed bewildered and inert.

In the wake of the Austrian Anschluss, attention now switched to Czechoslovakia. As a result of the events of 12th March 1938, the Czech frontiers had become more vulnerable, as did the Hungarian borders. However, it was likely that the security of the Czechoslovak state would be as much threatened by the disaffection of minorities as by external aggression. The large German minority could be expected to become excited and press for full autonomy within Czechoslovakia or for outright incorporation into the German Reich. There was some sympathy for Czechoslovakia, which was considered to have preserved a liberal constitution more successfully than other central-eastern European states had done. On the other hand, there was doubt about the attitude of Czechs towards the country’s substantial ethnic minorities.

Twenty years after its ‘creation’ at Versailles, was the Czechoslovak state really viable? There was a certain irony in the fact that it appeared to resemble the Habsburg Empire in its population mix, though Czechoslovakia had supposedly been established based on national self-determination. Britain had never gone so far as France in cultivating special relations with Czechoslovakia. The consensus of Cabinet opinion was that no guarantee should be offered. At the Munich conference at the end of September, there was no place for Czechoslovakia itself at the table. Agreement was swiftly reached on the German occupation of the Sudetenland and on an international commission which would supervise the Czech evacuation. In principle, too, there would be a guarantee of the rump state. Chamberlain had allowed himself to be outplayed by Hitler on almost every point. That has been the predominant verdict of posterity; at the time, whether or not the policy could be justified depended on what happened next. While the Conference ‘settled’ the issue of the Sudentenland, it stipulated the need for further negotiations between Hungary and Czechoslovakia on Hungarian claims to Slovak territories. These having proved fruitless, and with the Western powers refraining from ‘interfering’ in the issue, Germany and Italy decided to act as arbiters in the decision on what should happen to Slovakia.

On 24th March, Chamberlain told the Commons that Britain’s vital interests were not involved in the region, though he added that it should not be assumed that the absence of legal obligations meant that Britain had no interest in its future. What followed – the Munich Crisis – has been the subject of many books, pamphlets and articles since. Here, I am more concerned with the Slovak ‘end’ of its consequences and relations with Hungary. It was not Munich itself, but the Czechoslovak Crisis as a whole that began the long descent into war. The British and French were not prepared to allow Hitler a free hand in east-central Europe to build a new German Empire. They were prepared to make what they regarded as reasonable concessions arrived at through negotiation. Hitler agreed and the Sudetenland was granted to him by the Czechs. But six months after Munich on 15 March 1939, German troops occupied Bohemia and Moravia, making it a ‘Protectorate’ of the Reich and leaving Slovakia a fragile independence as a puppet state of the Nazis.

Source: René Cutforth, Later Than We Thought.

Hitler drew a series of lessons from the crisis. First, he was determined not to give way again to what he saw as largely hollow threats from the West. Second, he believed that the concessions made by Chamberlain amounted to a virtual green light to further expansion in the East, showing that the Western powers lacked the willpower to obstruct him further. He developed an obsession with building the political and economic foundation in Central Europe of a German superpower whose military strength would produce a revolution in the European balance of power. The next target of German expansionism was Poland, which would become a protectorate of the Reich voluntarily, like Slovakia or more gradually like Hungary, or involuntarily, by war and occupation.

Horthy & Hungary’s Appeasement of Hitler, 1938-42:

Horthy (left) inspected the German Navy in Kiel in 1938, wearing his Austro-Hungarian Admiral’s uniform. The caption above is by István Lázár.

In his foreign policy, the Hungarian premier in 1938, Béla Imrédy hoped to capitalise on his good personal contacts in Britain, while Kányá, continuing as foreign minister, embarked on another round of negotiations with the Little Entente to secure some of Hungary’s revisionist aims by peaceful means. In return for Hungary’s commitment to non-violence, the Conference of the Little Entente in Bled in August 1938, Hungary’s military parity was recognised, and promises were made to improve the conditions of the Hungarian minorities in neighbouring states. However, the agreement was never ratified. Yet it was against this background that the Regent held his meeting with Hitler at Kiel, at which the Führer offered him the whole of one-time Upper Hungary if his guest was willing to launch an attack on Slovakia. However, Horthy and Imrédy were unwilling to act as agent provocateurs. Instead, they suggested a settlement based on ethnic principles in Slovakia as well as in the German-populated western fringe of Bohemia, the Sudetenland. Having been summoned by Hitler again on 20 September, they were relieved to learn that the Czechoslovak crisis would be resolved at the Munich Conference of the Great Powers.

A month after Munich, on 2nd November 1938, Hitler and Mussolini, acting through their respective foreign ministers, Ribbentrop and Ciano, functioning as a ‘court of arbitration’, supported Hungary’s annexation of southern Slovakia, which took place suddenly and without consultation with Britain and France. Twelve thousand square kilometres with over a million inhabitants (between 57 and 84 per cent of whom were Hungarian, (depending on whether the Hungarian or Czechslovak censuses were used) were awarded to Hungary. This reduced Chamberlain to stating in the House of Commons that, “We never guaranteed the frontiers as they existed. What we did was to guarantee against unprovoked aggression – quite a different thing.” (Cited in Roberts, 2010, p. 9). This first success of revisionism was welcomed in Hungary, even by the Left-Liberal opposition, although there was still some resentment in the establishment and right-wing circles of the award’s failure to recover other parts of Slovakia, and in Ruthenia. A planned operation to occupy Ruthenia at the end of November 1938 was called off due to Hitler’s objections. This First Vienna Award made it clear that any further success in the revision of Trianon would depend on German support. The decision was based chiefly on ethnic considerations, which meant that the boundary line twisted and turned in such a way that for the next few years, every train heading for Kassa (‘Kosice’) had to pass through Slovakian territory before reaching its destination.

A contemporary Italian postcard – ‘Justice for Hungary! – The Great Mutilation! Mussolini as the patron of Hungarian Revisionism.

Europe showed no signs of settling down in the early months of 1939. Justified or not, rumours of further German expansion abounded. However, just six months after the Munich conference and a year after the Anschluss, it was Czechoslovakia that once more held the headlines. German troops entered Prague and established a Protectorate of Bohemia and Moravia and Slovakia became a nominally independent ‘puppet state’ under German ‘protection’. Alerted at last by Hitler’s occupation of non-German-speaking territory to the real dangers of German expansion, Britain and France pledged to defend Poland, Greece and Romania from similar Nazi aggression and embarked on a crash programme of military spending. Hitler’s aims could no longer be restricted to the inclusion of all Germans in one German state. Both Hungary and Poland found the prospect of grabbing parts of the dying Czechoslovak state lands irresistible. Poland seized Cieszyn (Teschen), while Hungary finally obtained parts of southern Slovakia and Ruthenia, which had substantial Hungarian minorities, previously belonging to the Crown lands of St Stephen.

However, Premier Imrédy’s attempts to demonstrate Hungary’s pro-German commitments by governing the recovered territories by decree led to a vote of no confidence in the National Parliament, unprecedented in the Horthy era. But as his opponents refused to take office in his place, he was allowed to continue and to form a new government, which he thought it essential to pack with pro-German politicians. Kánya was replaced by István Csáky as foreign minister, a firm believer in the need to tie Hungary’s resurrection to the success of German arms, which according to him was beyond reasonable doubt. It was during the subsequent months that the Nazi-style Volksbund became legalised and that Hungary announced its decision to leave the League of Nations and to join the Anti-Commintern Pact. To a considerable extent against his own wishes and because Britain remained apathetic towards Hungary, Imrédy became over-anxious to please the Germans, which led to his dismissal in February 1939, in circumstances quite similar to that of his predecessor, Gömbös.

Hungary’s annexation of Sub-Carpathia demonstrated that the central-eastern frontiers were no longer simply being adjusted, but were being redrawn by force, in the direct interests of Germany and its allies. This helps to explain the decision, after Prague in March 1939, for Britain to give a unilateral guarantee to the Polish government. Britain singled out Poland for this remarkable reversal of the attitude toward central Europe held by all the previous British governments since Versailles. It made it clear that war would result if Germany violated Poland’s sovereignty. France backed up the British declaration, albeit reluctantly, From the point of view of European stability, Poland was therefore the most explosive choice Hitler could have made for the next stage of Nazi expansion. But he simply refused to believe that Britain and France would declare war, asserting to his generals that the allies were bluffing, a view from which he wavered little until 1 September.

This poster from 1939 charts the development of ‘Greater Germany’ A Pan-German state had been the aim of many German nationalists since the period of unification in the mid-nineteenth century. Bismarck, a Prussian, created a small Germany in 1871; Hitler, an Austrian, created a large Germany in 1939. Bismarck’s creation lasted 47 years, Hitler’s only seven.

In reality, Germany was indeed free to attack Poland, especially after the Nazi-Soviet Pact was signed in August. Stalin finally took the bait after he became convinced that Britain and France had little to offer him in exchange for Russian cooperation. This meant that it was not just Germany that invaded Poland on 1 September, but also the Red Army from the east sixteen days later. Franco-British support for Poland was therefore likely to be of little assistance. Stalin simultaneously annexed the three Baltic States; he would also have taken Finland if he could. After the declaration of war with Germany, there was no enthusiasm for protracted conflict. There might still be a place for negotiations but, if so, they could now only be in the context of war. All the steps leading up to the partition of Czechoslovakia had already violated the terms of the Treaty of Versailles. Still, neither France nor Britain did anything to stop Hitler when they could. They had caved in over the Sudetenland, which had never belonged to Germany, and it was only with the invasion of Bohemia and Moravia that Western resolve finally stiffened in 1939.

Hitler had gambled again and won. But he was not a complete gamber, since he had used the pact with Stalin to bolster his conviction about Western bluff. With no prospect of a Soviet alliance and no effective way of helping Poland militarily, Hitler could see no reason for Western intervention. Although Goebbels and Göring tried to convince him that the risk was too great, Ribbentrop, whose own reputation with the Führer depended on his reading of British strategy, spurred Hitler on. Two days after the Blitzkrieg on Poland began, Britain and France declared war to his surprise and consternation. More importantly, he had achieved the exact reverse of his goals in 1933: a treaty of friendship and cooperation with Soviet Russia and a war with Britain and France.

The Western allies had been in no position to offer Stalin inducements to cooperate with them and the Poles had no desire to allow Soviet troops into their country, even to fight the Nazis. Hitler, in contrast, had no compunction about offering Stalin incentives to adopt a benevolent neutrality in the event of a German-Polish war. In fact, the secret protocols to the Non-aggression Pact envisaged the division of the Baltic States and Eastern Europe into German and Soviet spheres. Unlike the German conquerors, the Soviet forces went through the motions of organising plebiscites to demonstrate the popular will of the conquered peoples to join the Soviet Union. The following June, as Hitler’s army entered Paris, all three Baltic states ‘voted’ to join the Soviet Union.

Yet historians still remain puzzled as to how this could have led to the carnage involving the deaths of around sixty million people worldwide. In his (2009) essay for The Guardian‘s commemorative supplement on the Origins of the Second World War, Niall Ferguson updated the familiar ‘countdown’ to war from a truly global perspective (guardian.co.uk/readers offers/second world war.) Ferguson pointed out that, far more than the first world war, which was genuinely a European war, fought mainly in Europe by Europeans, the second world war was truly global. Therefore, we can only make sense of its true character by taking a world-historical view of its events. To do that immediately calls into question its ‘advertised’ starting point of 1 September 1939, marked by the invasion of Poland. Ferguson argues that, in reality, it began two years earlier with the full-scale Japanese invasion of Manchuria. Even if we focus on Europe from a global perspective, there was no sense of anything approaching twenty years of peace on the continent before 1939.

Hungary & the Road to War in the East, 1939-41:

For the Hapsburg, Ottoman and Romanov empires, the true losers of the First World War, there was scarcely any peace after 1918.

The so-called “successor states” of Austria-Hungary experienced a series of internal and cross-border conflicts in the early 1920s. Then, by September 1939, there had already been three years of civil war in Spain. Many historians have taken this further in representing the period from 1914 to 1945 as a second Thirty Years’ War or a prolonged ‘European civil war’. Some have even suggested that the entire period, or ‘era’ from 1904 to 1953 represents a ‘Fifty Years’ War’, playing out what was essentially the same conflict across several ‘theatres’ including the European empires in North Africa and the Middle East. The key to understanding these fifty years was the sustainability of Western imperial power over the rest of the world, most importantly over Asia.

The Onset of War in Poland, 1-28 September 1939.

For all these reasons, Ferguson argues, the events of September 1939 look less like the beginning of a world war and more like the escalation of an ongoing global conflict. It was a war, above all, for domination over ‘Eurasia’, and it was not really over until 1953, by which time its most hotly contested zones in central and eastern Europe had been divided in two, with deadly, impassible borders dividing them. Ferguson concludes:

‘That we describe this cataclysmic world war as having begun in Poland on 1 September 1939 is thus merely a trick of the historical light – an illusion caused by our own parochialism.’

Other relevant but awkward questions that Ferguson poses are: Why should the Treaty of Versailles be blamed for so much, when the other post-1918 treaties imposed on Austria-Hungary (St Germain and Trianon) and the Ottoman Empire (Sévres) were, in terms of territory, much harsher? Why, if the arguments for appeasement were so strong in September 1938, did they cease to be so just a year later when the strategic position of the Franco-British alliance had significantly worsened?

Ipolyság became the first village to return to Hungary in 1938.

Hungary’s annexation of southern Slovakia took place suddenly and without consultation with Britain and France. This reduced Chamberlain to stating in the House of Commons that “we never guaranteed the frontiers as they existed. What we did was to guarantee against unprovoked aggression – quite a different thing.” Then, in the early hours of 24 August 1939 a comprehensive Nazi-Soviet non-aggression pact was signed in Moscow. Up until that point, Hitler’s treatment of the Austrian President Kurt von Schusnigg, the Czech President Emil Hácha and the British and French leaders had been characterised by trickery, bullying and constant piling on of pressure, to which they had responded with a mixture of gullibility, appeasement and weary resignation. Yet with his lifelong enemies the Bolsheviks, Hitler was attentive and respectful, though no less duplicitous.

At the beginning of 1939, when Hungary joined Japan, Germany and Italy in the Anti-Comintern Pact, the USSR broke off the tenous formal relations which had existed since 1934. But when Stalin decided on his non-aggression pact with Hitler, the Soviets were apprehensive and signalled their preparedness to make additional conciliatory gestures to guarantee their border with Hungary in the Carpathians. At the suggestion of the Soviets, diplomatic relations were restored in the autumn of 1939, and a year later the two countries signed a trade agreement. Then Hungary handed over two Communist leaders sentenced to life imprisonment (the Communist Party was illegal in Hungary in the interwar years), Mátyás Rákosi and Zoltán Vas. As a reciprocal gesture, the Soviets sent a special train with a guard of honour to Budapest, carrying fifty-six flags of the Hungarian Army captured by the Tsar’s forces during the suppression of the 1848-49 War of Independence (the celebration on the Danube is pictured above). However, this turned out to be a fleeting interlude of fraternity in the relations between Hungary and the USSR.

Through his Pact with Stalin, Hitler simply wrong-footed the Western Allies again. Despite his previously unwavering hostility to communism, he neatly sidelined the one country he took to be his most serious enemy. For his part, although Stalin had loudly condemned the Western appeasement of Germany before Munich, Stalin showed less enthusiasm for confronting Hitler once the Anglo-French capitalists had announced their guarantees of Polish, Romanian and Greek sovereignty following the Nazi occupation of Prague. However. such had been the rhetorical animosity between Nazi Germany and Soviet Russia that few diplomats or politicians were prepared for the sudden reversal of policy involved in the Non-aggression Pact.

At this point, Hitler seemed invincible. In June 1940 France collapsed and he was master of the continent, though Britain fought on alone. Hungary had to court the Nazis’ favour, though they often did so with misgivings. Hitler might offer a further revision of Trianon, the most coveted of which was regaining Transylvania. Hitler was concerned that Hungary might attack Romania, because he depended on it for oil, and it was already under threat from the Soviet Union now that it had lost French protection. In June 1940, after the fall of France, the Soviet Union moved, demanding the retrocession of north-eastern Romania and offering cooperation to Hungary. Pál Teleki and Horthy both hated the Soviets and ignored the approach, but they did mobilise the army, and public opinion was in an uproar about the possibility of regaining Transylvania. Hitler called Teleki and Csáky to Munich and told them he would find a solution. Again there was arbitration leading to the Second Vienna Award, on 30th August 1940. Transylvania was partitioned, with the northern part returned to Hungary. Admiral Horthy got on his white horse again and rode triumphantly through Kolozsvár and Márosvásárhely, to widespread celebration. This time Hungary obtained 43,000 square kilometres and 2.5 million souls, two-fifths of whom were Romanian, while the Romanians in the south retained 400,000 Hungarians. The ‘bill’ for this was tall; adhesion to the Axis Powers; allowance of German military transports through Hungary; and privileges for the German Hungarians. There would also be further measures against the Jews as well as allowance of extreme right ‘activities’.

The Second Vienna Award was put together in the summer of 1940. This agreement, again arbitrated by Ciano and Ribbentrop, gave a part of Transylvania back to Hungary in such a way that the ethnic ratio of the transferred population was more unfavourable because of the more complex location of the settlements: Hungarians comprised not quite 52%, while Romanians reached 42%.

Hungary’s Territorial Changes, 1938-41

The Soviet Union made use of Hitler’s Western offensive to occupy Finland and the Baltic states. However, the difficulties experienced by the Soviet army in attaining these objectives suggested that it posed no threat to Germany. Stalin’s anxieties about this, occasioned by the swift German conquest of France, showed in the alacrity with which he accepted their invitation in October 1940 for Molotov to visit Berlin for discussion on the way forward for the Pact. Since the summer of that year, Stalin had dared to think that the Germans may be planning to attack the Soviet Union. The coincidence of interests that had permeated the two meetings over the Non-Aggression Pact the previous year had all but evaporated. It had been replaced by suspicion. For the Soviets, anxiety rested on German intentions regarding the ‘buffer states’ – Hungary, Romania and especially Bulgaria. Hitler’s longstanding rhetoric about acquiring Lebensraum for German colonisation seemed to be becoming a reality. Added to this, the Soviets were almost as obsessed with ensuring that their ships had passage through the Dardanelles, the narrow straits between the Black Sea and the Mediterranean, controlled by Turkey.

From 1939 to 1941, Hitler seemed to favour Hungary’s neighbours, i.e. Slovakia, Romania and Croatia, which meant that Germany would no longer support Revisionist claims directed against these states. In the summer of 1939, when Hitler was about to engage in his final aggressive step on Poland’s borders, Hungary faced a conundrum. If it supported him, it would be ratting on an old ally, and a friendly associate. Moreover, Hungary’s annexation of Carpatho-Ruthenia gave the two countries a common border, a change that was celebrated on both sides of it. On the other hand, if Hungary stayed out she might lose the chance of a further revision of the Trianon frontiers; Hitler ranted to this effect on 8th August 1939, and Mussolini pressed the Hungarian government to follow Nazi instructions. Again, Teleki prevaricated, and a letter of his was disavowed by his own foreign minister. A decisive and surprising leap on the road to war in the east occurred on the 23rd of August when Hitler concluded his pact with Stalin. The two decided to partition Poland and by implication divide central-eastern Europe between them into zones of influence or occupation. When Germany attacked Poland on 1st September and Britain and France declared war two days later, Horthy knew that sea power would eventually prevail, and the British would win. However, the immediate German pressure was overwhelming, and Hungary allowed the Wehrmacht to use railways east of Kassa at least for goods. When Poland collapsed, 150,000 Poles took refuge in Hungary, from where most went on to fight in the West.

So, when Molotov left Moscow for Berlin in November 1940, he was tasked by Stalin with asking a series of questions about German intentions towards central-eastern Europe and the Balkans. Hitler, on the other hand, had very different aspirations for the Molotov meeting. Although he had called internally, in July, for an invasion of the USSR, this remained only one possible course of action, even if it was the one he most favoured. He also wanted to see if the Soviet leadership could be persuaded to leave the central-eastern states under German control, instead diverting their attention to the Persian Gulf and the Indian Ocean, snatching territory and influence from the British Empire. In later discussions with Ribbentrop on the same visit, however, Molotov continued to ask about German intentions on the partition of Poland as well as its policy towards Hungary and Yugoslavia. Like the Führer, Ribbentrop wanted to return to the ‘decisive’ question as to whether the Soviet Union was prepared to participate in the ‘great liquidation of the British Empire’ compared to which all other issues were considered by the Nazis to be insignificant, to be settled as soon as an overall understanding was reached. However, the Soviets were unwilling simply to leave the whole of central Europe, including the Balkans, to Germany. As a result, the relationship between Germany and the Soviet Union was clearly splitting apart. Hitler became convinced he was right to push forward with plans to conquer the USSR and take what he needed by force. Thus, the final formal directive for the invasion of the Soviet Union, Operation Barbarossa, was given on 18 December.

There remained one item on the revisionist agenda; the partly Hungarian ‘Vojvodina’, where there was also a German minority. It was now in Yugoslavia, which was a complication both Horthy and Hitler wanted to do without. Hitler wanted a Yugoslavia that would be aligned with the Axis and was also preoccupied with Britain. The Hungarians cultivated good relations with Belgrade, and a treaty was signed in December 1940, to the effect that there will be permanent peace and eternal friendship between the two parties. However, Hitler was drawn into the Balkans after all due to Italian blundering. Mussolini had attempted an invasion of Greece which was a disaster: he had to be rescued. Although Yugoslavia had joined the Tripartite Pact on 25th March 1941, there was a pro-British coup, followed by a German invasion. Teleki was informed that by joining this Hungary could have a further revision, and a German army delegation arrived in Budapest to arrange this.

Teleki had promised the British that he would not comply with German demands that were ‘irreconcilable with honour’, but on 1st April he voted for the reannexation of Vojvodina. The minister in London, György Barcza, sent a telegram to the effect that if Hungary went ahead, it would mean war. The British minister in Budapest, Owen O’Malley (pictured above), vigorously accused Horthy of underhand conduct, and Teleki came under tremendous strain. On 3rd April, he shot himself, having scribbled the following note to Horthy:

‘We have become breakers of our word… taken the side of scoundrels… the most rotten of nations.’

The gesture was late politically and ineffective, but absolutely genuine as a personal act. On hearing the news of his death, Winston Churchill said that an empty chair would be kept at the future peace conference for him. This pronouncement belongs among Churchill’s most noble moments, but at the 1946-47 Paris Peace Conference, not a word was spoken about the empty chair that Pál Teleki’s phantom was to occupy.

A Hungarian regional magazine cover featuring Teleki.

At the time of Teleki’s suicide, Horthy was unmoved, appointing the pro-German Bárdossy as his new premier. Hungary joined the invasion of Yugoslavia, which broke up. Horthy was warned that he could expect no favours from ‘a victorious Britain and the United States of America’ by breaking a newly signed treaty of eternal friendship. Out of this, Hungary did get another 11,500 square kilometres with another million inhabitants, just over a third of them Hungarians. By the Spring of 1941, Hungary had taken back about half of its lost territories, some eighty thousand square kilometres with 5.3 million people, of whom forty per cent were Magyar. But there was a considerable price to pay, as the country had now, in effect, surrendered its independence to Germany, long before it declared war in its support.

That same spring of 1941, British policy was suffering one disastrous setback after another. In March, the long-anticipated pro-allied Balkan front crumbled when Bulgaria, Hungary, and Romania joined the Axis powers; Turkey, withstanding all pressure, remained neutral. On 6th April, German troops poured into Yugoslavia and Greece, sweeping up the allied armies as they advanced and trapping ten thousand British troops. Three weeks later, the swastika flew over the Acropolis. By the end of May, German paratroops had overrun Crete. This was not a repetition of the ‘Norway fiasco’ that Churchill feared; it was a disaster of even greater magnitude, and it was compounded by the failure to exploit British military successes in North Africa, for on 3rd April Rommel began to drive the British army out of Libya. Churchill’s responsibility for the action was considerable. Later that year, he conceded that Greece had been an ‘error of judgment’. The humiliation of the rout cut deep and criticism was harsh.

In June 1941, the whole orientation of the war changed when the Germans attacked the USSR in ‘Operation Barbarossa’. Hungary was involved, though it had had surprisingly good relations with Moscow during the months of the Nazi-Soviet Pact. On 23 June, József Kristóffy, the envoy to Moscow, announced that Molotov was willing to recognise Hungary’s territorial demands on Romania; but Bárdossy suppressed the report, and took advantage of an unexplained episode when unidentified foreign aircraft dropped bombs on the town of Kassa. Thought by many historians to have been a plot between Hungarian and German staff officers to blame Moscow and declare war, it led to forty thousand men crossing into Galicia to join in the invasion of Soviet Ukraine. Initially, the offensive went well. Hungary also supplied Germany with grain and bauxite, for which it was not paid. By December 1941, however, the Germans were held at Moscow, and in the same week came the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor. Quite absurdly, Bárdossy declared war on the USA without consulting either Horthy or the cabinet.

On 23 July 1941, the day between the beginning of the treacherous German attack and the severance of diplomatic relations between the Soviet Union and Hungary, Soviet Foreign Minister Molotov, conversing in a tone uncommon in diplomacy, intimated to the Hungarian ambassador in Moscow and through him to Horthy and his supporters that the Soviet Union had no demands or requests – other than neutrality – to make of Hungary, and stood ready to support its claims to Transylvania. But Hungary was deceived by provocation into entering Hitler’s war with the Soviet Union and, consequently, with the Allied Powers, soon to be joined by the USA.

(to be continued… )

Gallery:

Is Hungary’s Appeasement of Putin Justified by its Past Experiences? III

Chapter Three – From Sarajevo to War & Revolutions, 1914-1919:

Archduke Franz Ferdinand favoured a policy of reconciliation with the Slavs in the Austro-Hungarian Monarchy. Because of this attitude, he was disliked both by the traditional ruling élite in Vienna and the Magyar bourgeois statesmen of Hungary. The Slavs within the empire, seeking union with the Serbs, also opposed him. Nevertheless, the Austrian government seized the opportunity of his assassination to charge the Serbian Government with complicity.

Ultimatums & Mobilisations:

In Viennese political and military circles, the assassination of Franz Ferdinand was mostly seen as a golden opportunity to settle old scores with Serbia and not to re-establish the prestige of the Monarchy. In Berlin, Kaiser Wilhelm II and his generals thought that since an armed confrontation between the Central Powers and the Entente was inevitable, it was better to fight it before Germany’s hard-won advantage in the armament race was completely diminished. They brought pressure on the Common Council of Ministers, especially Tisza, the Hungarian premier, who was worried both by the prospect of a Romanian attack and therefore by the plan for the annexations in the Balkans and elsewhere, urged by the bellicose Austrian Chief of Staff, Conrad von Hötzendorf and several political leaders both in Vienna and Budapest.

By mid-July 1914, a decision of sorts had been made about whether or not Austria-Hungary was going to war: the Austro-Hungarians, or at least the grouping around Berchtold, intended to seek a military resolution of their conflict with Serbia. Yet on all other issues, the policy-makers in Vienna had, as yet, failed to deliver coherent positions. There was still no agreement at the time Count Alexander Hoyos (Berchtold’s chef de cabinet) left for Berlin, on what policy should be pursued in Serbia after an Austrian victory. When he was asked there about Austria-Hungary’s post-war objectives, he responded with a bizarre improvisation: Serbia, he declared, would be partitioned between Austria, Bulgaria, and Romania. In reality, he had no authority to propose such a course of action, and no plan for partition had been agreed upon by his Austrian colleagues. He later explained that he had invented the policy because he feared that the Germans would lose faith in the Austro-Hungarians if they felt ‘that we could not formulate our Serbian policy precisely and had unclear objectives.’ (A. Hoyos, Meine Mission nach Berlin, in Fellner, Die Mission ‘Hoyos’, p.137. ) István Tisza, the Hungarian premier, was furious when he learned of Hoyos’s indiscretion; the Hungarians, even more than the political élite in Vienna, regarded the prospect of yet more angry South Slav Habsburg subjects with unalloyed horror. Vienna subsequently made it clear that no annexation of Serbian territory was intended. But Hoyos’s gaffe conveyed something of the chaotic way in which Austrian policy evolved during the crisis.

To alleviate the problem of the rural areas of the Habsburg lands, where military service in summertime created serious labour shortages at harvest time, the Austrian General Staff had devised a system of harvest ‘exeats’ that allowed men to return to their family farms to help with crops and then rejoin their units in time for their summer maneuvers. On 6th July, it was ascertained that troops serving in units at Agram (Zagreb), Graz, Pressburg (Bratislava), Craców, Temesvár, Innsbruck, and Budapest were currently on harvest leave and would not be returning to service until 25th July. It soon became clear, however, that it would be some time before military action could begin.

On 7th July, following Hoyos’s return from Berlin, it became clear that there was still no agreement among the principal decision-makers about how to proceed. Berchtold opened the Joint Ministerial Council by reminding his colleagues that Bosnia and Hercegovina would only be stabilised if the external threat from Belgrade was dealt with. If no action were taken, the monarchy’s ability to deal with the Russian-sponsored irredentist movements in its southern Slav and Romanian areas would steadily deteriorate. This was an argument calculated to appeal to Count Tisza, for whom the stability of Transylvania was a central concern. Tisza was not convinced, however, and in his reply to Berchtold, he conceded that the attitude of the Serbian press and the results of the police investigation in Sarajevo strengthened the case for a military strike. But first, he asserted, the diplomatic options needed to be exhausted.

There was general agreement that Belgrade had to be presented with an ultimatum, whose stipulations had to be firm, but not unfulfillable. Sufficient forces had to be made available to secure Transylvania against an opportunistic attack by Romania. Then Vienna would have to consolidate its position among the Balkan Powers: Vienna needed to seek closer relations with Bulgaria and the Ottoman Empire, in the hope of creating a Balkan counterweight to Serbia and ‘forcing Romania to return to the Triple Alliance’. (‘Protocol of the Ministerial Council for Joint Affairs convened on 7 July 1914.’) There was nothing in this to surprise anyone around the table. This was also the familiar view from Budapest, in which Transylvania occupied centre stage. But Tisza faced a solid bloc of colleagues determined to confront Serbia with demands they expected Belgrade to reject.

The Austrian ministers knew that a purely diplomatic success would have no value at all since it would be read as a sign of Vienna’s weakness and irresolution in Belgrade, Bucharest, St Petersburg, and the southern Slav areas of the monarchy. Time was running out for Austria-Hungary as with each passing year, the monarchy’s security position on the Balkan peninsula became increasingly fragile. The ministers agreed to accept Count Tisza’s suggestion that mobilisation against Serbia should occur only after Belgrade had been confronted with an ultimatum. But all of the ministers except Tisza believed that a diplomatic success, even one involving a ‘sensational humiliation’ of Serbia, would be worthless and that the ultimatum must therefore be framed in terms harsh enough to ensure a rejection, ‘so that the way is open to a radical solution by means of military intervention.’ This discussion and decision marked a watershed, washing away any chance of a peaceful outcome. Yet there was still no sign of precipitate action. The option of an immediate surprise attack without a declaration of war was rejected. Tisza, whose agreement was constitutionally necessary for a resolution of such importance, continued to insist that Serbia should first be humiliated diplomatically. Only after a further week did he give way to the majority view, mainly because he became convinced that failure to address the Serbian question would have an unsettling effect on Hungarian Transylvania.

Without positive knowledge of Serbian complicity in the Sarajevo assassination, a harsh ultimatum demanding, among other things, an official denunciation of the movement for Greater Serbia and the free involvement of Austro-Hungarian agents in investigating the case on Serbian territory, was dispatched to Belgrade on 23rd July. It soon turned out that the great powers of the opposite camp were also not anti-war. Serbia rejected the ultimatum two days later not on grounds of innocence, but because it was prompted to do so by her Entente supporters. Within two weeks of the Austro-Hungarian declaration of war on Serbia on 28th July, allied obligations combining nationalist and imperialist dreams involved nearly the whole of the European continent, and significant regions of the world, in war.

In the meantime, a measure of unanimity was achieved in Vienna over the course of action to be followed. At a further summit meeting in the city on 14th July, it was agreed that a draft of the ultimatum would be checked and approved by the Council of Ministers on the 19th and the ultimatum would be presented to the Belgrade government only on 23rd July. This date was chosen to avoid a state visit by President Poincaré to St Petersburg in the days before, Berchtold and Tisza agreeing,

‘… that the sending of an ultimatum during this meeting in St Petersburg would be viewed as an affront and that personal discussion between the ambitious President of the Republic and His Majesty the Emperor of Russia… would heighten the likelihood of a military intervention by Russia and France‘.

(Berchtold’s Report to the Emperor, 14 July 1914).

From this moment onwards, secrecy was of the greatest possible importance, both for strategic and diplomatic reasons. It was essential for the Austro-Hungarians to avoid any action that might give the Serbs prior notice of their intentions and thereby give them time to steal a march on the Monarchy’s armies. Recent appraisals of Serbian military strength suggested that the Serbian army would not be a trivial opponent. Secrecy was also essential because it presented Vienna’s only hope of conveying its demands to Belgrade before the Entente powers had the opportunity for joint deliberations on how to respond. Berchtold therefore ordered that the press be firmly instructed to avoid the subject of Serbia. In its official relations with Russia, the Austro-Hungarians went out of their way to avoid even the slightest friction; Szapáry, their ambassador to St Petersburg, was particularly assiduous in his efforts to tranquilise the Russian foreign ministry with assurances that all would be well.

Yet these efforts attempted to disguise the many oddities involved in the Austro-Hungarian decision-making process. Berchtold, disparaged by many of the ‘hawks’ in his administration as a soft touch, incapable of forming clear resolutions, took control of the policy debate after 28th June in a quite impressive way. But he could only do this through an arduous, painstaking, and time-consuming consensus-building process. The puzzling dissonances in the documents that track the formulation of the Austro-Hungarian position to go to war reflect the need to incorporate opposing viewpoints. The momentous possibility of the decision leading to a Russian general mobilisation and the general European war that would undoubtedly follow was certainly glimpsed by the Austro-Hungarian decision-makers, who discussed it on several occasions. However, it was never fully integrated into the process by which the options were weighed and assessed. In particular, no sustained attention was given to the question of whether Austria-Hungary was in any position to wage a war with one or more other great powers.

There are several possible reasons for this myopic vision. One was the extraordinary confidence in the strength of German arms, which, it was assumed, was sufficient to deter, and failing that, to defeat Russia. The second was that the hive-like structure of the Austro-Hungarian political élite was simply not conducive to the formulation of decisions through the careful balancing of contradictory information. The contributors to the debate tended to indulge in rhetorical statements, often sharpened by mutual recrimination, rather than attempting to view the diplomatic and military choices facing the Monarchy in the round. These failings reflected the profound sense of isolation in Vienna and Budapest. The notion that the statement of the twin capitals had ‘a responsibility’ to Europe was nonsense, as one political insider noted,

‘Because there is no Europe. Public opinion in Russia and France … will always maintain that we are the guilty ones, even if the Serbs, in the midst of peace, invade us by the thousands one night, armed with bombs’.

Memorandum by Berthold Molden for the press department in Vienna, cited in Solomon Wank, ‘Desperate Counsel in Vienna in July 1914: Berthold Molden’s Unpublished Memorandum’, Central European History, 26/3 (1993), pp. 281-310.

However, the most important reason for the perplexing narrowness of the Austro-Hungarian policy debate is surely that they were so convinced of the rectitude of their case and of their proposed remedy against Serbia that they could conceive of no alternative to it – even Tisza had accepted by 7th July that Belgrade was implicated in the crimes at Sarajevo and was willing in principle to countenance a military response, provided the timing and diplomatic context were right. Nor is it easy to see how the Austro-Hungarians could have made a less drastic solution work, given the reluctance of the Serbian authorities to meet Austrian expectations, the absence of any international legal bodies capable of arbitrating in such cases, and the impossibility in the current international climate of enforcing the future compliance of Belgrade. Yet at the core of the Austro-Hungarian response was a temperamental, intuitive leap, an act of attrition founded on a shared understanding of what the Habsburg Empire had been, was still, and must be in future, if it were to remain a great power.

Austria-Hungary presented an ultimatum with demands which threatened the very existence of Serbia as an independent state. The Austrian statesmen believed that war with the Serbs would almost certainly lead to a general European war and that the ruin of the Austrian Empire was inevitable if they were defeated. They decided to take the risk. Emperor Franz Josef first sought and obtained the assurance of support from the Kaiser. Although Serbia accepted almost all of the humiliating demands of the ultimatum, Vienna treated the Serbian reply as a rejection. In the end, Tisza gave way because he knew that ‘Greater Hungary’ had only come about due to Bismarck’s intervention. He told the Belgian Minister, ‘Mon Cher, Allemagne est invincible.’

The Uncontrollable Storm of War:

War with Serbia followed on 28th July, and Budapest had paroxysms of enthusiasm. Even Count Apponyi said in Parliament, ‘At last’; ‘végre’. The Russians did protect Serbia, and Germany went to war, provoking trouble with Russia’s ally France and then giving the British no choice by invading Belgium, the neutrality of which Britain had guaranteed. In the last three days of July, a freak storm hit the microclimate of hilly Buda and the plain of Pest, destroying roofs and smashing the plate-glass windows of the cafés on the Danube embankment and the Oktogon, as the recruits marched towards the mobilisation trains. The now ‘late’ Archduke Franz Ferdinand’s main adviser, Count Czernin, said two things: that minority problems were a bore, and that the only difference in Austria was that they had a peculiarly multifarious collection. The main priority, for him, was to avoid a war. In his post-war memoirs, he also said:

‘We were bound to die, we were at liberty to choose the manner of our death and we chose the most terrible.’

Ottokar Czernin, In the World War (1920), p.38.

As noted previously, in 1867 Kossuth had written an open letter to Deák, warning that, without control of her own foreign policy and without her own army, Hungary would be dragged into Austro-German adventures which were not in her interest. Almost half a century later, it seemed that he had been proved right. Yet at the time he was writing, Austria-Hungary’s relations with a not yet unified Germany seemed a far more equal and positive partnership, and Kossuth’s alternative, a Balkan federation, was unattractive. Since then, Germany had become the most successful country in Europe, overtaking Great Britain and even rivaling the USA. Her education system was widely acknowledged as one of the best in the world. German universities attracted Hungarians in great numbers, including István Tisza, who studied Law at Heidelberg. Hungary now belonged firmly in the German orbit, whatever a posthumous ‘protector’ might have said. As early as 1878, Gyula Andrássy had set up Hungary’s Austro-German alliance. By 1914 the German cause had become very popular throughout the country, and very few Hungarians opposed the war: they did not have to be ‘dragged’ to the front.

Indeed, few in Hungary recognised the dilemmas, the tensions, and the traps that the country faced on the eve of the war in all their depth. On one side of the divide, Endre Ady, the poet, was the greatest of those who did, and he singled out with characteristic acuteness his nemesis: István Tisza. In the troublesome summer of 1914, the ‘deranged man of Geszt’, as Ady called the PM, after the seat of the Tisza estate, hesitated for two weeks, but in the end, he gave his sanction to decisions commencing the war which ultimately demolished ‘historic’ Hungary.

There was a universal belief, which seems incomprehensible a century later, that the war, though possibly brutish at times, would be short, involving a cast of Hungarian heroes pulling on their hussar uniforms and galloping off to glories, like in one of Miklós Banffy’s novels. The generals knew differently of course, that with millions of men and thousands of guns in the field, it could be very costly and last a long time, but economists and bankers ruled this out. Few people foresaw how paper money would fuel the war effort, and when the Hungarian Foreign Minister was asked how long the Empire could fight, he estimated three weeks. There had been an exchange of letters between Conrad von Hötzendorf and his opposite number, Helmuth von Moltke since 1909, when the Bosnian Crisis had first put a war with Russia on the table. In these, Moltke had intimated that Germany would send most of its troops against Belgium and France, and the idea was that, at the same time, the Austro-Hungarian army would keep the Russians busy in Galicia (southern Poland). Another romantic illusion was that the cavalry could sweep over the Carpathians led by the Hussars. The Austrians even nominated a governor of Warsaw just as the war broke out. Of course, they recognised that they would also have to deal with Serbia, which would mean them keeping part of the army in the Balkans for the time being.

As Conrad wrote in his correspondence with Moltke, if Austria went to war with Serbia, it would send a large part of the army south. Still, if Russia intervened, Austria-Hungary would need most of its forces in the north-east, in Galicia. But what would happen if the Russians delayed intervention until these forces were committed to the Serbian Front? The Germans do not seem to have worried about this: after all, if Austria-Hungary took a proper role in the great battles to come with France and Russia, Serbia could always be sorted out later. The fact was that the Austro-Hungarians were trying to do too much, but due to imperial vainglory, they were not able to admit it. Their army, with forty-eight infantry divisions, was expecting to take on the Serbians’ fourteen and the Russians’ fifty. Conrad found a way around this by dividing the army into three groups. Group A, half of it, would go to Galicia; a ‘Minimal Balkan Group’, somewhat less than a quarter, would face Serbia; group B, the rest, four army corps in strength, two Hungarian and two Bohemian, would go south if Russia stayed out, north if it did not.

The Eve of the First World War

The truth was that the Austro-Hungarians did not want to fight Russia and found excuses not to do so. Berlin had told them to provoke a war with Serbia, but they delayed the presentation of their ultimatum for a month, and when the Serbians rejected it, took another three days before declaring war on 28th July. This enabled them to deploy Army Group B to the Serbian front, alleging that the Russian response was not clear. In the event, the Russian mobilisation was quite rapid, so when the Germans heard that their ally was proposing to fight a pan-European war by sending a large part of its army to a very secondary theatre, they were outraged, including the military attaché, Chief of the General Staff and the Kaiser himself. When the Austro-Hungarian army corps reached the Serbian border, it sat in tents while the Minimal Balkan Group, too small to do its job, was humiliatingly defeated by the Serbs. It then trundled across Hungary by train to Galicia and arrived just in time to take part in an enormous defeat. This was how poor military planning led to disastrous early outcomes for Austria-Hungary as it entered the war in July 1914.

For their part, the Germans were anxious to confine the war to Austria and Serbia but were surprised by the strength of Russia’s support for Serbia and by the speed of the Tsar’s mobilisation. There were, however, no statesmen left uncommitted to war, and certainly none capable of controlling the situation; Bethman-Hollweg, the German Chancellor, and Sir Edward Grey, British Foreign Secretary, both attempted unsuccessfully to stay the hand of Austria. The Kaiser sent a twelve-hour ultimatum to Russia demanding a suspension of mobilisation, but this was not answered in time, so he declared war on Russia immediately. France stood by her ally, Russia, and declared war on Germany. Austria-Hungary’s ambitious war aims were two-fold, neither of which was purely defensive. These were:

‘(a) To crush the Pan-Slav movement, which made the task of controlling the Austrian Slavs more difficult.

(b) To dominate the Balkans and, by crushing Serbia, to control the route to the Aegean port of Salonika.’

Irene Richards, et. al. (1938), A Sketch-Map History of the Great War and After, 1914-1935. London: Harrap., p. 18.

In Hungary, as elsewhere, the initial response to the outbreak of war was an outburst of patriotic enthusiasm. In parliament, which was prorogued and reconvened in November, the opposition Independence Party leader, Count Mihály Károlyi spoke of suspending political debate, hoping for democratic concessions in return for supporting the war effort. A similar motivation resulted in similar attitudes among the extra-parliamentary Social Democrats and even the national minorities, causing few headaches to the belligerent government in the early phases of the war. As in the West, Soldiers set out to the Eastern front amidst cheerful ceremonies, in the hope of returning victorious, as Wilhelm II said, ‘by the time the leaves fall’.

The War on the Eastern Front:

However, the war plans of the Central Powers were thwarted. Germany failed to inflict a decisive defeat on France in a lightning war and was therefore unable to lend sufficient support early enough to the Austro-Hungarian Monarchy for the containment of the Russian advance and the breaking of Serbia. Especially given the unexpectedly rapid Russian mobilisation, the forces of the Monarchy were not equal to coping with these tasks simultaneously. Although Belgrade was occupied in December 1914, the Russian army posed a direct threat to Hungarian territory. Over half of the initial Austro-Hungarian fighting force of 1.8 million died, was wounded, or fell into captivity during the first stages of the war on the fronts in Galicia and Serbia.

The Hungarian cavalry, splendidly arrayed, made a magnificent sight as it cantered across the Galician plains, but it soon ran out of fodder and returned with the hussars leading their horses on foot. The only cavalry engagement took place at Jaroslawice) when the two cavalry divisions decided to re-enact the Napoleonic Wars with a lance-and-sabre engagement which ended inconclusively. They were forced to abandon the chief city of Galicia, Lemburg (Lviv) on 3rd September. The old professional Habsburg army was almost destroyed during these first few weeks, losing about half a million men. But conscripts flowed in, and there was enough devotion to the imperial cause to keep the army in the field. This was particularly the case in Hungary, where nationalism was still strong, and there was no trouble among the non-Magyar recruits, who were mainly Croats, but even included some ‘loyal’ Serbs. Gradually, however, Austria-Hungary was being pulled into a bigger German vortex.

Conrad’s pre-war fears were coming true, for there was worse to come on the Eastern Front. It would have made sense if Austria-Hungary had offered to get out of the war following the defeat of Serbia the following autumn. The Western powers had no interest in destroying the Habsburg Monarchy at this point, for its destruction could only profit either Russia or Germany. One prominent figure in the Monarchy did guess how it would all end. This was Professor Tomás Masaryk, the leader of a small Czech progressive party, who in the winter of 1915 tried in vain to persuade the British that Czech independence might help their cause. Hungary did not have a Masyryk, however, and the only prominent figure who might have reacted in this way was Count Mihály Károlyi, who had been in France since the outbreak of the war. Otherwise, Hungary remained solidly behind the war and, with the control of food supplies within the empire, was able to assert itself and state money was being showered on arms factories in Hungary. A new crest was designed for the Empire in 1915, giving more prominence to the Hungarian insignia, and the non-Hungarian half of the empire was officially renamed Austria. Meanwhile, as Austro-Hungarian confidence revived, so did resentment at German domination, in particular in the wrangling between the two powers over the future of Poland, in which Hungary had a clear territorial stake.

By the Spring of 1915, the type of attritional warfare that was becoming typical of the First World War was centred on the foot soldiers in the trenches armed with machine guns, and dependent on heavy artillery bombardment. This was the reality on both fronts. Until the entry of the USA into the war in April 1917, the sides were roughly equal, and the military balance was, if anything, slightly in favour of the Central Powers. Turkey hoped to avenge itself on Russia for losses suffered during the previous century, and Bulgaria was ambitious to expand further into the Balkans. Both joined the Central Powers, Turkey in the autumn of 1914, and Bulgaria in 1915, which finally helped the Monarchy to put down Serbia. By then, the Austro-Hungarian army had somewhat recovered from its earlier losses. With some German assistance, it was capable of significant success against its former allies that had now joined the side of the Entente. These included Italy, which was promised territorial acquisitions in the South Tyrol, the Adriatic, and Africa in the secret treaty of London in 1915, declaring war on the Central Powers in the following month.

At the same time, there was another field of diplomacy in play: besides propaganda directed at the hinterland of hostile countries, which naturally affected the ethnic minorities of Austria-Hungary, the Western allies gave shelter to the national committees of émigré politicians and encouraged their campaigns for the dismemberment of the Monarchy and the creation of ‘national’ states. The Yugoslav Committee, led by the Croatian Frano Supilo and Ante Trumbic, was established in London on 1st May 1915, with the programme of uniting Serbia and the South Slav inhabited territories of the Monarchy in a single, federative state (their Serbian counterparts, meanwhile, envisaged the future of the same territories as a centralised state governed from Belgrade); the leader of the Czech émigrés in Paris, Tomás Masaryk and Eduard Benes urged the creation of a Czecho-Slovak state including Carpatho-Ukraine and linked with a corridor to the future South Slav state to separate the Germans and Hungarians from each other. The Romanians, with claims to Transylvania as well as other parts of Hungary east of the River Tisza, emerged relatively late, founding the Committee of Romanian National Unity in Paris only in the latter stages of the war. A powerful Russian advance in the summer of 1916 on the eastern front prompted Romania to invade Transylvania. However, this offensive had collapsed within weeks, and in December 1916, the Austro-Hungarian army occupied Bucharest.

Until relatively late in the course of the war, the support given by the Entente powers to the high-blown demands of the national committees was largely tactical, and until the Spring of 1918, they contemplated various alternatives to the ‘destruction of Austria-Hungary’, as called for by Masaryk and Benes in 1916. They preferred (as did the representatives of the Czechs, the Ukrainians, and the South Slavs in the Austrian parliament convened in May 1917) a federal reorganisation of the Monarchy with wide-ranging autonomy granted to the nationalities, until it became clear that German influence over Austro-Hungarian policies was too great to negotiate a separate peace with it, and they convinced themselves that it could not be expected to play the traditional role of a counterpoise in the European balance of power any longer.

In the bloody battles fought on the slopes of the Alps and along the River Isonzo, the forces of the Monarchy fought with great determination and inflicted a decisive setback on the Italians at Carporetto in November 1917. However, the Congress of Oppressed Nations held in Rome in April 1918 served to weaken the cohesion of the Central Powers, with the recognition of the Czecho-Slovak and South Slav claims to sovereignty. Then, in the period between Russia’s falling out of the war, sealed by the Peace of Brest-Litovsk on 3rd March and the arrival of American troops on the western front in the summer, the military balance seemed, temporarily, to turn back in favour of the Central Powers. In reality, however, the multinational empire was on the brink of utter exhaustion by this time. Its economic and military resources had been under great strain since the first setbacks on the eastern front, which had also undermined the morale of the civilian population. In four years, Hungary sent somewhat over a third of the nine million soldiers of the monarchy to the eastern front, but among the casualties, half of the more than one million dead and nearly half of the two million prisoners came from the Hungarian half of the empire. Soldiers sent home increasingly exasperated letters, and in 1917 desertion, disobedience, and even mutiny were already endemic in the army.

A battlefield scene – painting by László Mednvánszky (1852-1919). Like all European countries, Hungary welcomed World War One with almost wholehearted enthusiasm. Its people became aware only slowly of the savagery of modern mechanised warfare. In their poems, Endre Ady and Géza Gyóni from up close, being on the fronts, began to stir up sentiment with the authenticity of the horrible events experienced personally against the war.

From behind the lines, the soldiers received reports of food shortages, inflation, requisitions, rationing, black marketeering, and general unrest. The general strike of 1918 involved half a million workers in all the major cities of Hungary. By this time, the traditional means of police, gendarmerie, and censorship were increasingly ineffective in suppressing the growing pacifist sentiment and the demands for social and political reform. The majority of the government party realised what the consequences of defeat would be for Hungary, whatever policies were adopted by that time. A moderate opposition, led by the younger Andrássy and Apponyi agreed that the war aims and the alliance policy ought to be maintained, but thought that well-considered reforms, instead of repression, would ensure the much-needed internal consolidation. Finally, a secessionist group of the Independence Party led by the increasingly influential Károlyi, from mid-1917 closely cooperating with radical democrats like Jászi, the Social Democratic Party, and a group of Christian Socialists, campaigning for universal suffrage and ‘peace without annexations’. Even amidst all the domestic turmoil, the military solution looked deceptively good until a few months before the end of the war: Austro-Hungarian armies were still deep in enemy lands, with the war aims apparently accomplished. It was only after the last great German offensive in the West had collapsed in August 1918, that the Entente counter-offensive started there as well as in the Balkans, that the Monarchy’s positions on all fronts became untenable. On 28th September, the Common Council of Ministers heard Foreign Minister István Burián’s brief and unequivocal verdict: ‘That is the end of it.’

Endings & Beginnings:

On 2nd October, the Monarchy solicited the Entente for an armistice and peace negotiations, based on Wilson’s fourteen points. But having recognised the Czecho-Slovak and South Slav claims, Wilson was no longer in a position to negotiate based on granting the ethnic minorities autonomy within an empire whose integrity would be maintained. By this time, the Monarchy was collapsing into chaos. By the first half of October, all the nationalities had their national councils, which proclaimed their independence, a move which now enjoyed the official sanction of the Entente; on 11th October, the Poles, and between the 28th and the 31st the Czechs, the Slovaks, the Croats, and the Ruthenes seceded, followed on 20th November by the Romanians. Finally, the provisional assembly in Vienna declared Austria an independent state. This, in turn, changed the face of Hungary beyond all recognition. Paradoxically, the dissolution of the historic Kingdom of Hungary, one of the greatest shocks the country suffered in terms of its economic resources, political influence, and self-confidence, also created the opportunity for a new beginning. The situation held out the promise of overhauling the ossified social and political structures and institutions that were partly responsible for the dissolution.

The election of Mihály Károlyi as president of the republic (16th November, 1918). Károlyi was a landowner and liberal, then a Social Democrat. He was the leader of the nation after the collapse of the nation during the transitional period after the fall of the monarchy. towards the end of 1918; he had received very limited powers from Habsburgs and handed them over to the Communists.

When 300,000 Hungarian former prisoners of war returned home in 1918, having seen what the Bolsheviks could do firsthand, their minds turned to the possibility of beginning a Red Revolution in their own country. At the beginning of November, they were joined by comrades from the Italian front where they had been given a humiliating armistice at the Villa Giusti near Padua. In Budapest, after brief resistance and a few casualties, great demonstrations caused a change in government. Tisza had already admitted on 24th October that the war was lost, and his rival, Mihály Károlyi, came to the fore, as the obvious opposition candidate. On 25th October, a National Council was set up, and when a crowd of its supporters moved on the Vár, there was a shooting, leaving three dead and seventy wounded. The new King/Emperor (since his uncle’s death on 21st November 1916), prevaricated, and the Palatine Archduke József appointed Károlyi as Prime Minister on 31st October. For a time, the atmosphere in Budapest was euphoric in what became known as the Aster Revolution, coming on All Saints’ Eve, when the custom was to wear a button-hole, which now became a revolutionary symbol. The Astoria Hotel became its centre, from where some soldiers drove to the house of István Tisza and shot him in front of his wife and niece. With an epidemic of Spanish influenza striking the capital and order breaking down, a deputation of high aristocrats, including an Eszterházy and a Szechényi, went to the King and asked him to abdicate. On 13th November, he stepped down from public affairs.

Lines of Demarcation – Neutral zones (November 1918-March 1919)

Károlyi faced another, immediate problem of an allied invasion. On the last days of the war, Romania had again invaded and was advancing into Transylvania, where it was met by local Romanians who intended to unite the country with those in Moldovia and Wallachia. In the southern provinces, there was similar disaffection among the Serbs and the Croats, aiming to set up the new Slav state (‘Yugoslavia’) under the Serbian king. Károlyi was unable to establish armistice lines because he had allowed the army to demobilise and disintegrate. So he went to see the Entente commander in Belgrade, Louis Franchet d’Esperey, announcing himself as head of the Workers’ and Soldiers’ Council, which drew the famous response, “You’ve fallen that low, have you?” The only force offering resistance to the Romanians was the Székely Division, but it got no support from Budapest since it was viewed as counter-revolutionary. Only one Hungarian success was achieved, at Balassagyarmat, and that was despite Károlyi’s orders for the Széklers to stand down. By the following March, the Allied occupation had taken more Hungarian land, and the shrunken borders of post-Trianon Hungary were already beginning to take shape. Károlyi had hoped that long overdue radical reforms might stabilise the situation and that his nationalities’ secretary, Oszkár Jászi would be able, through federalisation, to retain the loyalty of the non-Magyar minorities. But the Czecho-Slovaks and Serbs were already establishing their own independent states, and Jászi got nowhere. Károlyi was discredited and forced to resign, and his government was replaced, from March to July 1919, by Béla Kun’s Soviet-style Republic.

Left: Baross tér, 1st May 1919: The pyramid erected over the Baross Statue – A watercolour by Albert Baky (1868-1944). Right: Don’t hesitate! – A poster by Jenő Erbits (1893-?). When the Soviet Republic recruited a new army to face the assault of intervening Czech and Romanian forces, mobilisation posters were created in the distinctive graphic style that developed within the workers’ movement, which later became known as ‘socialist realism’.

Aside from the insurmountable domestic hurdles Kun faced, he had great problems with the allies. In April, General Smuts, the South African member of the British War Cabinet, steamed into the Eastern Station in Budapest and stayed for twenty-four hours. Harold Nicolson, his Foreign Office aid, observed the city he had known before the war as a child in his father’s cramped accommodation on Andrássy Boulevard when his father had been posted there by the FO. The cramped nature of the apartment, he said, had robbed it of the ‘stately ease’ of its environs.

Harold Nicolson and Vita Sackville-West at a flower show in Sevenoaks, Kent, 1914.

On 3rd April, Harold woke up to find their train resting in a siding at the Keleti Palyaudvár, encircled by Red Guards with ‘fixed bayonets and scarlet brassards’. Smuts insisted on conducting the negotiations from the wagon-lit, as to have done otherwise would have implied recognition of the new régime. Harold had last visited the city in 1912 when it was still in its heyday. It rained continuously throughout the day, and – to add to the gloom – there was also an energy crisis – with supplies of gas and electricity at a premium. The negotiations centred on whether or not the Bolsheviks would accept the Allies’ armistice proposals, lines that would commit them to considerable territorial losses, particularly to the Romanians. They hesitated all day, and in the interval, Harold decided to reacquaint himself with Pest. Later in his diary, he wrote: ‘The whole place is wretched – sad – unkempt.’ The Communists laid on scenes for him, tableaux such as the gathering of middle-class figures in the Hungaria Hotel, Budapest’s leading hotel, supposedly taking tea undisturbed. He was not deceived, however, especially since the Red’s own headquarters were in the hotel on the Danube Embankment. Red Guards with bayonets patrolled the hall, but in the foyer what remained of Budapest society ‘huddled sadly together with anxious eyes and in complete, ghastly silence,’ sipping their lemonade ‘while the band played.’ They left ‘as soon as possible … silent eyes search out at us as we go.’

Later that evening Kun returned to the train’s dining car and handed Smuts his answer. Smuts responded, ‘No gentlemen, this is a Note which I cannot accept. There must be no reservations.’ Although prepared to offer minor concessions, Smuts’ terms of reference were uncompromising. Kun had first to agree to the occupation by the Allies of a neutral zone separating the Bolsheviks from the Romanian army; if he complied, the Allies would be prepared to raise the blockade strangling their régime. He desperately needed allied recognition of his government, but he inserted a clause into Smuts’s draft agreement that the Romanian forces should withdraw to a line east of the neutral zone, in effect to evacuate Transylvania. Smuts would not countenance such a deal. He made a final appeal to reason. But the Bolsheviks, ‘silent and sullen’, proved obdurate. Smuts, behaving with ‘exquisite courtesy’, bid the Bolshevik leaders ‘goodbye’.

Smuts had formed the opinion that the Kun episode was ‘just an incident and not worth taking seriously’. On the day after he completed his account, The Allies authorised the Romanians and Czechoslovaks to move forward, whereupon Kun organised a ‘Red Army’ of his own, which did retake towns in Slovakia, including Kassa (Kosice), but his forces were eventually overwhelmed and in late July he had to resign in failure. On 1st August, Béla Kun fled the capital in the face of the invading Romanian armies. Central Hungary, and even Győr in the west, remained occupied by the Romanians, who looted comprehensively and were only stopped when they threatened the precious exhibits of the National Museum. The Romanians eventually left when a provisional government was established in Budapest, with the help of the British and a counter-revolutionary organisation led by ‘White’ officers that met at the Britannia Hotel in Pest. This comprised representatives of the old ruling cliques including Count Gyula Károlyi, Count István Bethlen, and Admiral Horthy, the latter becoming ‘Regent’.

For the world’s leaders gathered in Paris, the spectre of Bolshevism was truly haunting Europe: it threatened widespread starvation, social chaos, economic ruin, anarchy, and a violent, shocking end to the old order. It was small wonder, then, that Béla Kun’s strike for communism triggered many anxious moments for the Supreme Council at the Paris Conference, but this was not as much of a ‘trump card’ as it was for Germany when it came to securing good terms at Paris, as the difference between the two treaties proved. In Germany, by the end of 1918, the Communist revolution had been stopped, and a parliamentary republic was soon proclaimed at Weimar. The key to this was that the Social Democrats were in charge, and used the Freikorps on their own terms. In Hungary, the reactionaries made the running, leading to Admiral Horthy’s ‘white horse putsch’ of November 1919. By the time of Trianon, Béla Kun’s brief experiment was long over, but Hungary was paying the price for his brief but violent insurrection, in blood and land. In 1927, Harold Nicolson refused a posting to Budapest on the grounds that he had been too involved in defining Hungary’s frontiers at Paris, and, more jokingly, on the ‘social’ grounds that he could ‘neither shoot nor dance’ (Norman Rose, 2005; Harold Nicolson, pp. 6, 96-98, 153; extracts from letters and diaries).

Harold & Vita at the Paris Peace Conference, 1919

Conclusion: To what extent was Hungary ‘dragged into’ the War by her allies?

Germany was anxious to confine the war to Austria and Serbia, and Italy did not become an active member of the Triple Alliance until 1915 when it declared war on France. Apparently, there were, however, no statesmen in either Austria-Hungary or Germany who were capable of controlling the situation, either before or during the July Crisis; Bethman-Holweg, the German Chancellor tried to stay the hand of Austria, without success, and the Prime Minister of Hungary, István Tisza, prevaricated as long as he could, before giving in to the pressure from the Imperial Council to back the ultimatum against Serbia. There were also longer-term causes going back to the 1870s, like the treatment of the minority nationalities, which were determined by the imperial partners, of whom Hungary took the hardest line with Serbia, Romania, and the other Slav nations. Hungary, of course, had more to lose from the growth of Pan-Slav nationalism. Clearly, however, the Alliance as a whole underestimated the speed and strength with which Russia would come to the aid of its ally, Serbia, turning a regional conflict into a world war. So while Hungary became tangled up in a complex web of Balkan rivalries, it was not a victim of Great Power machinations, but rather of its own sins of omission and commission.

Appendix: Maps of Hungary & The Great War:

1. Austria-Hungary – Ethnic Diversity & Divisions:

Franz Josef’s empire was a denial of the fashionable 19th-century doctrine of national self-determination. His subjects spoke at least twelve languages and adhered to four major religions – Catholicism, Protestantism, Orthodoxy, and Judaism. The Habsburgs had long recognised that ‘nationalism’ was their deadly enemy, but even an enemy based on loyalty to a dynasty rather than a national ideal could not avoid the issue of language rights. Although some Habsburg dominions possessed clear linguistic majorities, such as the overwhelmingly German-speaking provinces in the Alpine West or the Hungarian-speaking villages of the plains, most parts of the empire contained a mixture of peoples and faiths.

This was particularly the case in the counties in the Southern Danubian countries from the Danube’s bend in Hungary to its delta on the Black Sea. The inset map above illustrates the close relation between the relief of the Carpathian Basin and the distribution of the ethnic groups. The Magyars occupied the Hungarian Plain, the Germans were in the Alpine lands, and the Slavs were in the highlands surrounding the Plain. Further south, on the Macedonian Plain, there was a confused ethnic mix. The River Danube was interwoven with the lives of all these ethnic groups. Complicated as the main map above appears, it is only a simplified representation of the mixture of ‘races’ inhabiting the Danubian area. In each area were peoples other than those shown; only the majorities are shown, and in the case of Macedonia and part of Transylvania even this becomes impossible. In 1789 these peoples were grouped into two empires, either the Austrian (Habsburg) Empire or the Turkish (Ottoman) Empire.

In the Austrian Empire, Germans were predominant in Austria, where the rise of Habsburg power in the German lands had been due to the strategic importance of Vienna, the guard of the Danube gateway into Western Europe against the Turks. When the Habsburgs built up their empire, the other natural routes of expansion were through the Moravian Gate into Poland (Galicia), over the low Alpine passes into Italy; down the Danube through Hungary to the Black Sea, with offshoots towards Salonika and the Aegean, and towards Constantinople (Istanbul) and the Bosphorus. The Magyars to the east of Vienna were only second in importance to the Germans and were given many concessions, including their own Diet. The Northern Slavs consisted of Czechs, who had once been independent in the Kingdom of Bohemia and Moravia, the Slovaks, Ruthenians (Ukrainians), and Poles (in Galicia and Besarrabia, acquired at the first partition of Poland in 1772); the Southern Slavs consisted of Serbs, Croats and Slovenes. Romanians were also Slavs, but originally of Western European origin.

As the 19th century progressed, the Habsburgs’ Slav subjects began asserting their identity through new national literature, music, and political organisations. Vienna’s difficulties with Budapest over Hungarian rights to self-rule made dealing with other peoples still more complicated. Although Hungarian liberals demanded that the ‘crownlands of St Stephen’ should enjoy autonomy within the empire, they were not happy to extend equal political and linguistic rights to their large Slovak, Romanian, or Serb minorities.

2. The Habsburg Empire, 1849-68:

It has been said that if the Austrian Empire had not existed it would have been necessary to invent it. The Austrian control of this great area brought together many peoples whose interests were bound together by the Danube, including many Jewish people and some Muslims. Communities of Turks were scattered throughout the empire, and Macedonia contained Greeks, Bulgars, Albanians, Serbs, and Turks. Throughout the nineteenth century, the various Slavic peoples sought to challenge or overthrow the Austrian authorities and set up separate national states. The weakness of Austria after the 1866 war with Prussia compelled Vienna to give ‘equality’ to the Magyars, but left the Slavs unsatisfied. The Serbs and Romanians within the Austrian empire wished to join those without. For the rise of the nations in the Balkans, see the maps below.

3. Southern Hungary – the Dissolution of the Military Frontier, 1873-82:

In 1789, the Mohammedan Turks had possessed loose control over a range of Christian peoples – Greeks, Bulgarians, Serbians (more numerous than in Austria), Romanians, and Albanians. The border between Christian Europe and the Muslim Ottoman Empire – the Military Frontier – was one of the great political fault lines of Europe. It was established by the Habsburgs in Croatia in the mid-16th century to guard the Habsburg lands against Ottoman incursion and then greatly expanded after 1699 following the expulsion of the Ottomans from most of Hungary by Prince Eugene. By the mid-19th century, with the Ottoman Empire in terminal decline, Hungarian demands for the return of the frontier lands to civilian administration increased and from 1873 the Military Frontier was accordingly parcelled out to Hungary and Croatia-Slavonia.

By 1882, the “Military Frontier” had been put under civilian administration. Mutual fear of disintegration kept Vienna and Budapest together after 1867, despite petty disputes about the title of the common army (Imperial or Royal according to where it was stationed) and the language of command.

4. Sketch-Map Histories – The Armed Camps:

By the last decade of the nineteenth century, dynastic ties and fear of unrest had served to draw together the Great Powers to promote an essentially stable order across Europe through a multifaceted series of diplomatic alliances and alignments. This was the apogee of the European nation-state system. But whatever its apparent stability, the system was permanently threatened by Germany’s growing primacy among the Continental powers and by instability in the Balkans. One of the most striking characteristics of pre-world war Europe was its division into two rival alliances of opposing powers.

By 1914, Austria-Hungary was Germany’s only reliable ally. In the crisis after the murder of Archduke Ferdinand, Germany could not afford to abandon her even at the risk of a general European War. Furthermore, if war did come, the Kaiser’s generals wanted it sooner rather than later: the German army was increasingly certain that could defeat both France and Russia simultaneously.

The Dual Entente of 1894 between France and Russia came about after Russia and France found themselves isolated while Central Europe was united in the Triple Alliance. By then, Germany’s expanding military strength caused France and Russia to become nervous allies. Overcoming a dislike for each other’s forms of government, they came closer together between 1894-1904 for mutual defence against their common rivals.

THE ALLIANCE SYSTEMS AFTER 1892

The Entente Cordiále of 1904 marked a dramatic shift in Great Britain’s thirty-year policy of splendid isolation from continental conflicts and alliances: at the beginning of the twentieth century, it appeared dangerous to remain friendless in Europe in the light of the rapid growth in Germany’s naval power. Imperial issues had added to Britain’s estrangement from both Russia and France for a century or more. At first, the obvious partner for Britain had seemed to be Germany, but the Kaiser’s ‘Great Navy’ policy posed a threat to Britain as a naval power. This forced the British into the arms of France. Imperial issues were settled amicably and an understanding with both France and Russia, The Triple Entente was reached in 1907. This guaranteed mutual defence in the case of a German attack. In Berlin, these measures of alleged self-defence were viewed more as a strategy of ‘encirclement’ of Germany. Facing declared enemies to the west and the east, Germany drew closer to Austria, whose strained relations with Russia finally cracked with the annexation of Bosnia-Hercegovina in 1908.

These alliances, though defensive in aim, created suspicion and uneasiness and led to the piling up of armaments. Moreover, a quarrel between any two states involved the rest; the dispute between Russia and Austria-Hungary tended to bring about a dispute between France and Germany. Meanwhile, no one could agree on the fate of the Christian populations of the Balkans beyond a pious regret that they should have to remain under Muslim rule. However understandable the failure to grasp the Balkan nettle at Berlin in 1878, the problems of the region’s numerous ethnic, nationalist, religious, and imperial rivalries were to fester unchecked into the twentieth century to everyone’s disadvantage.

After 1901, when Germany had finally rejected British ‘overtures’, successive crises arose which heralded the approaching Great Power struggle. The crises concerned the Franco-German rivalry in North Africa and the Russo-Austrian rivalry in the Balkans. The chief storm centre in Europe was in the Turkish Empire, growing steadily weaker and forced to rely more and more upon Germany, the Sultan’s new ally. The Kaiser had shown his interest in Turkey in 1898 by his visit to the Sultan when all of Europe was horrified by the massacre of its Armenian subjects and by his announcement to extend German protection to the Muslim peoples of the Middle East. He had gained concessions for railway development under German direction – a prelude to his dream of a Berlin-Baghdad railway. This Drang Nach Osten conflicted with the aspiration of the Balkan peoples who endeavoured to secure their independence.

5.) The Balkan Wars of 1912 and 1913:

The ‘new’ Balkan states were united only by their hostility towards the Ottoman Empire, which in 1912 still held Albania and Macedonia. Taking advantage of its weakness, Greece, Serbia, and Bulgaria formed a ‘Balkan League’ which attacked and defeated Turkey. This First Balkan War of 1912 gravely threatened the interests of Germany and Austria-Hungary, but the Great Powers agreed that the war should be kept localised. The anti-Ottoman alliance hoped to divide the Sultan’s European territories between them, and a conference was summoned in London in 1913 to settle the division of the territory which Turkey had been forced to surrender. It was mediated by the Great Powers and chaired by Britain, but it left everyone dissatisfied. The map above (left) shows the conflicting claims of the successful Balkan allies.

The great Aegean port of Salonica was coveted by all three victors. In the event, the Greek army had reached it just hours before the Bulgarians, who were left resentful when the London Conference confirmed that it as a Greek possession. But Bulgaria was compensated with a large tract of land from the Black Sea to the Kavala on the Aegean, including Adrianople. The province of Macedonia, with a mixed population of Slavs, Turks, Jews, and Greeks, was claimed by all three states, each with varying degrees of justice and all indifferent to the wishes of its inhabitants. The conquest by the three nations confirmed its division between Serbia, Bulgaria, and Greece. The Treaty of London also confirmed the creation of the independent principality of Albania, a development resented by both Greece and Serbia. Serbia wanted a port on the Adriatic at Albania’s expense and feared moreover that an independent Albania would make her substantial Albanian minorities in Kosovo and Macedonia restive. Greece laid claim to northern Epirus (i.e. southern Albania), basing its claim on the Greek Orthodox community there. Threatened by hostile neighbours, Albania was pushed into looking first to Austria-Hungary and then to Italy for protection. Austria, supported by Germany, intervened to prevent Serbia from securing access to the sea through Albania. This was the second successful attempt by Austria to curb the Pan-Slav movement. War was averted only through the influence of Germany and Britain.

However, resentment at the Treaty of London quickly developed into a new war. Serbia was compensated by accession to territories in Macedonia at the expense of Bulgaria, who objected and reopened the war, this time against her former allies and a ‘new’ rival to the north, Romania. Determined to right the wrongs done to it in London, Bulgaria attacked its erstwhile allies, Greece and Serbia. Bulgarian military optimism was soon shown to be misplaced. The Greeks and Serbians, aided by Romania and Turkey, who swiftly realised the opportunity the Bulgarian offensive presented, had little difficulty in repulsing it. Bulgaria was overwhelmingly defeated by the new alliance against it, and Serbia annexed large territories at her expense. The greatly enlarged and strengthened Serbia aroused the deep resentment of Austria. Greece kept Salonica and took western Thrace. Resentful Bulgaria was confined to a barren stretch of the Aegean coast while Turkey recovered Adrianople in Thrace, maintaining a foothold in Europe. Romania, a non-combattant in the first Balkan War, received southern Dobruja for her efforts in the second. Once again, only Germany’s restraining influence, combined with Italy’s refusal to cooperate prevented an immediate attack. Instead, the Central Powers waited for a better reason to intervene to curb Serbia’s ambition.

6.) The Eve of the First World War – a Summary:

The boundaries between the Great Powers changed little in the century after the Congress of Vienna (1815). Germany, although now unified, Austria-Hungary, and Russia still shared largely the same frontiers established at Vienna, and most contemporary observers could be forgiven for regarding them as permanent. But, in practice, the emergence of small states on the periphery of the Powers, allied to tensions created by conflicting aspirations for autonomy and independence on the part of the many ethnic groups within the Austro-Hungarian and Russian empires, marked the beginning of a process that threatened the territorial integrity of these empires.

Whatever its problems with nationalism, Russia at least had a majority ethnic group. Austria-Hungary lacked even this. The ‘Magyars’ made up half the population of the Kingdom of Hungary, the other half were Slovaks, Romanians, Serbs, and Croats as well as two million Germans. In the Austrian part of the empire, Germans amounted to only 35% of the population. Czechs, Poles, Slovenes, Italians, and several smaller groups made up the remainder. The very principle of national self-determination which had justified the unification of Germany was a threat to its Habsburg ally.

It was in the Balkans that nationalist aspirations were to prove the most volatile. Newly independent Serbia, Bulgaria, and Greece all saw the decline of the Ottoman Empire as an opportunity to extend their territories at the expense of the Turks. At the same time, Austria-Hungary and Russia both sought to increase their influence in the region. With Britain’s abandonment of its role as the protector of the Ottoman Sultan, a policy originally intended to contain Russian ambitions, the way was left open for Serbia, Bulgaria, and Greece in 1912 to attack the Turks. Dividing the spoils proved harder, as the maps above have demonstrated. More threateningly still, however, was the involvement of Austria-Hungary and Russia. While the former feared the destabilising effect Serbia might have on its large South Slav population, especially in Bosnia-Hercegovina, the latter was determined to resume her role as protector of Orthodox Christians in the region – if necessary against Catholic Austria-Hungary rather than Muslim Turkey.

With Austria-Hungary and Russia members of the Triple Alliance and the Triple Entente respectively, their rivalry in the Balkans increasingly threatened to suck the whole of Europe into conflict. Austria-Hungary’s declaration of war against Serbia in July 1914 following the Serbian-sponsored assassination in Sarajevo the previous month was the spark that lit the conflagration. Russia ordered a general mobilisation, and Germany responded in kind on 1st August, then declared war on Russia and France three days later. The following day, the Germans invaded Belgium, determined to smash the Triple Entente by drawing Britain into the war.

The Aftermath of the First World War:
Source; Norman Stone (2019)

Despite the defeat of Germany and her allies in the autumn of 1918 and the signing of a string of peace treaties in Paris between the victorious allies and the defeated states in 1919 and 1920, it was several years before the boundaries of the new Europe were clearly established. Revolution and civil war plunged Russia, Germany, and much of what had been Austria-Hungary into chaos. The Europe that emerged was radically different. Russia and Germany had shrunk dramatically; the Austro-Hungarian and Ottoman empires had disappeared, and a host of smaller states had appeared. In Russia, a communist government now ruled in place of the Tsar. The civil war that followed the 1917 Bolshevik revolution in Russia found counterparts in Hungary (1919), as well as in Germany. The Paris Peace Settlement of 1919-20 left every post-war in central Europe with internal problems and potential border disputes. It proved easier to break up multi-national empires than to replace them with ethnically homogeneous states. Czechoslovakia and Yugoslavia both had substantial Hungarian minorities, and Romania too had a large Magyar population, concentrated in Transylvania.

Central-Eastern Europe in 1925

Sources:

Christopher Clark (2012), The Sleepwalkers: How Europe Went to War in 1914. London: Penguin Books.

Norman Stone (2019), Hungary: A Short History. London: Profile Books.

László Kontler (2009), A History of Hungary. Budapest: Atlantisz Publishing House.

Martyn Rady (2020), The Habsburgs: The Rise and Fall of a World Power. London: Allen Lane/ Penguin Random House.

István Lazar (1990), An Illustrated History of Hungary. Budapest: Corvina Books.

Norman Rose (2005), Harold Nicolson. London: Jonathan Cape/ Pimlico.

George Taylor (1936), A Sketch-Map History of Europe, 1789-1914. London: George G. Harrap.

Irene Richards (1938), A Sketch-Map History of the Great War and After, 1914-1935. London: George G. Harrap.

András Bereznay, et. al. (2001), The Times History of Europe: Three Thousand Years of History in Maps. London: HarperCollins.

Is Hungary’s Appeasement of Putin Justified by its Past Experiences? II

Chapter Two: All Roads Led to Sarajevo – How Austria-Hungary Went to War in 1914:

The Trigger:

On 28th June 1914, the heir to the Austrian and Hungarian thrones, Archduke Franz Ferdinand, paid a visit to Sarajevo, the capital of Bosnia, which had been occupied by Austria-Hungary in 1878, and annexed by Emperor Franz Josef in 1908. The visit was intended to display grandeur to the citizenry of the province, but Franz Ferdinand was not on good terms with its Governor, Oskar Potiorek, of Slovene origin, who had been given the job as consolation for not being Chief of the General Staff because the archduke had preferred Conrad von Hötzendorf in that role. Potierok disliked social events and loathed his own chief of staff, Colonel Böltz, and hardly communicated with him. Security for the visit was handed over to a firm of Budapest private detectives. Seven young Serb conspirators picked up training and weapons in Belgrade, and one of them, Gavrilo Princip, succeeded in assassinating the archduke. Although the object and victim of the attack, together with his wife, Franz Ferdinand himself was one of the few men in the empire who foresaw what disasters would come from a Great War and had he survived, he would certainly have refused to take the empire in one. But killed he was, in an extraordinary chapter of accidents which have been pawed over repeatedly ever since.

Princip, too young to be executed, was imprisoned in the fortress of Theresienstadt, where he died before the war ended. The prison psychiatrist asked him if he had any regrets. He answered, ‘If I had not done it, the Germans would have found another excuse.’ He was probably right in this judgment. Looking back through the prism of two world wars, we may judge that both began with ridiculously disproportionate causes, or rather ‘catalysts’. The tensions that had evolved over four or five decades were released by a trigger. Still, by then Franz Josef and his ministers and advisors in Vienna could see no other answer to the South Slav problem than a demonstration of might against the radical nationalists. Only Franz Ferdinand and his staff disagreed, but ironically, the assassin’s bullets at Sarajevo removed that particular objector to war.

Chess-players & Sleep-walkers:

A British Delegation in Paris. Britain became linked to the Franco-Russian Alliance through the Entente Cordiale (1904).

To properly contextualise the causes and catalysts of 1914, it is necessary to retrace the steps of all the participants over half a century or more. After the ejection of the Austrians from Italy in 1859 and Germany in 1866, the Balkan region became by default the pre-eminent focus of Austro-Hungarian foreign policy. This narrowing of focus coincided with an era of growing volatility across the Balkan peninsula. The underlying problem was the waning of Ottoman authority in south-eastern Europe which created and exposed a zone of tension between the two remaining great powers with an interest in the region. Russia and Austria-Hungary felt historically entitled to exercise hegemony in areas where the Ottomans withdrew. The House of Habsburg had traditionally been the guardian of Europe’s eastern gate against the Turks. In Russia, the ideology of pan-Slavism asserted a natural commonality of interest between the emergent Slavic (especially Eastern Orthodox) nations of the Balkan peninsula and the patronage of St Petersburg. The Ottoman retreat also raised questions about the future control of the straits controlling the access to and from the Black Sea, an issue of acute strategic importance to Russian diplomats. At the same time, the emerging Balkan states had conflicting interests and objectives of their own. Christopher Clark (2011) has characterised the Austro-Russian rivalry as like chess players hoping with each move to cancel out or diminish the opponent’s advantage (p. 78).

Until 1908, cooperation, self-restraint, and the demarcation of informal spheres of influence ensured that the dangers implicit in this state of affairs were contained. In the revised Three Emperors’ League treaty of 1881 between Russia, Austria-Hungary, and Germany, Russia undertook to ‘respect’ the Austro-Hungarian occupation of Bosnia-Hercegovina authorised in the 1878 Treaty of Berlin and the three signatories agreed to ‘take account’ of each other’s ‘interests in the Balkan peninsula’. Further Austro-Russian understandings in 1897 and 1903 reaffirmed the joint commitment to the Balkan status quo. The complexity of Balkan politics was such, however, that maintaining good relations with Austria-Hungary was not enough to ensure tranquillity. During the reign of the Austrophile, Milan Obrenovíc, Serbia remained a docile partner in Vienna’s designs, acquiescing in its claims to regional hegemony. Vienna, in return, supported Belgrade’s claim to be recognised as a kingdom in 1882 and promised diplomatic support if Serbia chose to expand south into Ottoman Macedonia. As the Austro-Hungarian foreign minister, Count Gustav Kálnoky von Köröspatak, informed his Russian counterpart in the summer of 1883, that good relations with Serbia were essential to the success of the empire’s Balkan policy.

In 1883, the King of Serbia created a commotion in Vienna by proposing to abdicate and allow the empire to annex his kingdom. At a meeting in the Austrian capital, he was dissuaded from this course of action and sent back to Belgrade. Kálnoky later explained to President Taaffe that a flourishing and independent Serbia suits our intentions… better than the possession of an unruly province. (Memorandum cited in Bridge, From Sadowa to Sarajevo, p. 149.) Only months later, however, King Milan suddenly and unexpectedly invaded neighbouring Bulgaria, Russia’s client state. The resulting conflict was shortlived because the Serbian army was easily beaten back by the Bulgarians, but great power diplomacy was required to prevent this temporary incursion from ruffling the feathers of the Austro-Russian détente. Milan’s son, however, declared intemperately and publicly in 1899 that the enemies of Serbia are the enemies of Austria-Hungary, raising eyebrows in St Petersburg and causing considerable embarrassment in Vienna. But he was also tempted by the advantages of a Russophile policy; by 1902, after the death of his father, King Alexandar was energetically suing for Russian support; he even declared to a journalist in St Petersburg that the Habsburg monarchy was ‘the arch enemy of Serbia’. There was therefore little regret in Vienna at the news of Alexandar’s premature death, although the politicians there were as shocked as everyone else by the brutality with which he and his line were exterminated.

Only gradually did it become clear to the Austrians that the regicide of June 1903 marked a real break. The foreign ministry in Vienna hastened to establish good relations with the usurper, Petar Karadjordjevic, whom they mistakenly viewed as an Austrophile. Austria-Hungary became the first foreign state to formally recognise the new Serbian régime. But it soon became clear that the foundations no longer existed for a harmonious relationship between the two neighbours. The management of political affairs passed into the hands of men openly hostile to the dual monarchy and the policy-makers in Vienna studied with growing concern the nationalist statements of the Belgrade press, now freed from government restraints. In September 1903, the Austrian minister in Belgrade reported that relations between the two countries were ‘as bad as possible’. Vienna rediscovered its moral outrage at the regicide and joined the British in imposing sanctions on the Karadjordjevic court. Hoping to profit from this loosening of the Austro-Serbian bond, the Russians moved in, assuring the Belgrade government that Serbia’s future lay in the west, on the Adriatic coastline, and urging them not to renew their long-standing commercial treaty with Vienna.

At the end of 1905, these tensions broke out into open conflict with the discovery in Vienna that Serbia and Bulgaria had agreed on a ‘secret’ customs union. Austria-Hungary’s demand early in 1906 that Belgrade repudiate the union proved counter-productive; among other things, it transformed the Bulgarian union, which had been a matter of indifference to most Serbs, into a major platform of Serbian national opinion. The general outlines of the 1906 Crisis have been set out above. Still, it is worth noting here that what worried the politicians in Vienna was not so much the commercial significance of the customs union, but the political logic underlying it. What if the Serbo-Bulgarian trade alliance were merely the first step in the direction of a ‘league’ of Balkan states hostile to the empire and receptive to promptings from St Petersburg? It is easy to write this question off as prompted by Austro-Hungarian paranoia, but the policy-makers of the dual monarchy were not far off the mark: the customs union was, in fact, the third of a sequence of secret alliances between Serbia and Bulgaria, of which the first two were already clearly anti-imperial in orientation; a Treaty of Friendship and a Treaty of Alliance, signed in Belgrade in 1904. Vienna’s fear of Russian involvement in these was well-founded, as it turned out. St Petersburg was now clearly working towards a Balkan alliance, notwithstanding the Austro-Russian détente and the disastrous war with Japan. On 15 September 1904, the Russian ambassadors in Belgrade and Sofia were secretly and simultaneously presented with copies of the Treaty of Alliance by the foreign ministers of Serbia and Bulgaria respectively.

One difficult aspect of the Austro-Hungarian Balkan policy was the deepening inter-penetration of domestic and foreign issues. These issues were most likely to become entangled in the case of those minorities for whom there was an independent ‘motherland’ outside the boundaries of the empire. This included the three million Romanians in the Duchy of Transylvania. Due to the nature of the dual monarchy, there was little Vienna could do to prevent the oppressive Hungarian cultural policies from alienating the neighbouring Romanian kingdom, a political partner of great strategic value in the region. Yet it proved possible, at least until 1910, to insulate the empire’s relations with the kingdom from the impact of domestic tensions. The government of the kingdom, an ally of Austria and Germany, made no effort to foment or exploit ethnic discord in Transylvania. However, this could not be said for the Kingdom of Serbia after 1903 and its relations with the disparate Serbs within the empire. Just over forty per cent of the population of Bosnia-Hercegovina were Serbs, and there were large areas of Serbian settlement in Vojvodina in southern Hungary and smaller ones in Croatia-Slavonia. However, no such sovereign external nation-state existed for the Czechs, Slovenes, Poles, Slovaks, and Croats.

After the regicide of 1903, Belgrade stepped up the pace of irredentist activity within the empire, focusing particularly on Bosnia-Hercegovina. In February 1906, the Austrian military attaché in Belgrade, Pomiankowski, summarised the problem in a letter to the chief of the General Staff. He declared that it was certain that Serbia would number among the empire’s enemies in a future military conflict. The problem was less the attitude of the Serbian government and more the ultra-nationalist orientation of the political culture as a whole. even if a ‘sensible’ government were in control, Pomiankowski warned, it would be in no position to prevent the all-powerful radical chauvinists from launching ‘an adventure’. More important than Serbia’s ‘miserable army’ however, was:

“The fifth-column work of the Radicals in peacetime, which systematically poisons the attitude of our South Slav population and could, if the worst came to the worst, create very serious difficulties for our amy”

Pomiankowski to Beck, Belgrade, 17 February 1906, cited in Günther Kronenbitter, Krieg im Frieden, Die Führung der k.u.k. Armee und die Grossmachtpolitik Österreich-Ungarns 1906-14 (Munich, 2003), p.327.

The ‘chauvinist’ irredentism of the Serbian political forces came to occupy a central place in Vienna’s assessments of its relations with Belgrade. By the summer of 1907, the Austrian Foreign Minister, von Aehrenthal conveyed a sense of how relations had deteriorated since the regicide. Under King Milan, the Serbian crown had been strong enough to counteract any ‘public Bosnian agitation’, but since the events of 1903, everything had changed. It was not just that King Petar was too weak to oppose the forces of ultra-nationalism, but rather that he had begun to exploit the national movement to consolidate his own position. For their part, the empire’s diplomats left the king in no doubt that Austria-Hungary regarded its occupation of Bosnia-Hercegovina as ‘definitive’. In the summer of 1907, the Foreign Minister instructed his envoy to Belgrade not to be put off by the usual official denials, such as:

‘The Serbian Government strives to maintain correct and blameless relations, but it is in no position to hold back the sentiment of the nation, which demands action, etc. etc.’

Cited in Solomon Wank (ed.), Aus dem Nachlaus Aehrenthal, 1885-1912, Graz, 1994.

This official instruction captures the salient features of Vienna’s attitude to Belgrade: a belief in the primordial power of Serbian nationalism, a visceral distrust of its leading statesmen, and a deepening anxiety over the future of Bosnia, concealed behind its natural air of imperial superiority.

Thus, the stage was set for the annexation of Bosnia and Hercegovina in 1908. There had never been any doubt, either in Vienna and Budapest or in the capitals of the other great powers, that the occupation of 1878 was intended to be permanent. In one of the secret articles of the renewed Three Emperors’ Alliance of 1881, there had been an explicit statement that Austria-Hungary had the right to annex these provinces at whatever moment she shall deem opportune and this claim was repeated at intervals in the Austro-Russian diplomatic agreements. Nor was it contested in principle by Russia, though St Petersburg reserved the right to impose conditions when the moment for a change of status arrived. The advantages of a formal annexation were obvious enough: It would allow Bosnia and Hercegovina to be integrated more fully into the political fabric of a provincial parliament. It would create a more stable environment for inward investment and, most importantly, would signal to Belgrade and the empire’s minority Serbs the permanence of Austria-Hungary’s possessions.

Yet, in 1905 the empire found itself dogged by bitter infighting between the Austrian and Hungarian political élites over the administration of the armed forces. By 1907, Aehrenthal had begun to favour a tripartite solution to the monarchy’s problems; the two dominant power centres within it would be supplemented by a third entity incorporating the southern Slavs (Croats, Slovenes, and Serbs). This was a proposal that enjoyed a considerable following among the southern Slav élites, especially the Croats, who resented being divided between Cisleithania, the Kingdom of Hungary, and the province of Croatia-Slavonia, also ruled from Budapest. If only Bosnia-Hercegovina were fully incorporated into the structure of a reformed trialist monarchy, Aehrenthal’s hope was that this third entity would provide an internal counterweight to the irredentist activities of Belgrade.

The clinching argument for annexation was the Young Turk Revolution that broke out in Ottoman Macedonia in the summer of 1908. The Young Turks forced the Sultan in Constantinople (Istanbul) to proclaim a constitution and the establishment of a parliament. They planned to subject the Ottoman imperial system to a root-and-branch reform. Rumours circulated to the effect that the new Turkish leadership would shortly call general elections throughout the Ottoman Empire, including the areas occupied by Austria-Hungary, which currently possessed no representative organs of their own. Hoping to capitalise on the uncertainties created by these rumours, an opportunist Serb-Muslim coalition emerged in Bosnia calling for autonomy under Turkish suzerainty. The danger was now that an ethnic alliance within the province might join forces with the Turks to push the Austro-Hungarians out.

To forestall such complications, Aehrenthal moved quickly to prepare the ground for annexation. The Ottomans were bought out of their nominal sovereignty, and the Russians had no objection to the formalisation of Austria-Hungary’s status in Bosnia-Hercegovina provided St Petersburg received something in return. The Russian foreign minister, Alexandr Izvolsky, supported by Tsar Nicholas II, proposed that the annexation should occur in exchange for Austria-Hungary’s support for improved Russian access to the Turkish straits. Izvolsky and Aehrenthal were both after the same thing: gains that would be secured through secret negotiations at the expense of the Ottoman Empire and in contravention of the Treaty of Berlin. Despite these preparations, Aehrenthal’s announcement of the annexation on 5th October 1908 triggered a major European Crisis. Izvolsky denied ever having reached an agreement at Schloss Buchlau in Moravia and subsequently denied that he had been advised in advance of their September meeting. He demanded a formal conference to clarify the status of Bosnia-Hercegovina, but Aehrenthal continued to evade this demand while the crisis dragged on for months and escalated as Serbia, Russia and Austria-Hungary mobilised and counter-mobilised their armies. The situation was only resolved by the ‘St Petersburg Note’ of March 1909, in which the Germans demanded that the Russians at least recognise the annexation and urge Serbia to do likewise. Chancellor Bülow warned that if they did not do this, events would ‘take their course’. This hinted not just at the possibility of an Austrian war on Serbia, but, more importantly, at the possibility that the Germans would release the documents proving Izvolsky’s complicity in the original annexation deal. Izvolsky immediately backed down.

Aehrenthal has traditionally carried much of the blame for the annexation crisis, but this may not be an accurate assessment. Certainly, the foreign minister’s manoeuvres lacked transparency. He used the tools of the old diplomacy; confidential meetings, the exchange of pledges and secret bilateral agreements, rather than attempting to resolve the annexation issue through a round table conference involving all the signatories of the Treaty of Berlin. This made it easier for Izvolsky to claim that he, and by extension Russia, had been hoodwinked by the ‘slippery’ Austro-Hungarian minister. Yet the evidence suggests that the crisis took the course that it did because Izvolsky lied most extravagantly to save his job and reputation.

Russian & Turkish Dimensions:

The Russian foreign minister had made two serious errors of judgement. He had assumed, firstly, that London would support his demand for the opening of the Turkish Straits to Russian warships. He had also greatly underestimated the impact of the annexation on Russian nationalist opinion. According to one account, he was initially perfectly calm about the annexation when the news came through to Paris on 8th October. It was only during his stay in London a few days later, when the British proved uncooperative and he heard of the press response in St Petersburg, that he realised his error, panicked, and began to reconstruct himself as Aehrenthal’s dupe.

In any case, the Bosnian crisis represented a significant turning point in Balkan geopolitics. It devastated what remained of Austro-Russian readiness to collaborate on resolving Balkan questions; from this moment onwards, it would be much more difficult to contain the negative energies generated by the internecine conflicts among the Balkan states. It also alienated its closest neighbour and ally, the Kingdom of Italy. There had long been friction between the kingdoms, especially over minority rights in Dalmatia and Croatia-Slavonia, and political rivalry in the Adriatic was a further bone of contention. The annexation prompted calls for Italy to be compensated, kindling Italian resentments to a heightened pitch of intensity. In the last years before the outbreak of the Great War, it became increasingly difficult to reconcile Austro-Hungarian and Italian objectives along the Adriatic coast. The Germans were initially noncommital on the annexation question, but they soon rallied to Austria-Hungary’s support, which had the desired effect of dissuading the Russian government from attempting to extract further capital out of the annexation crisis. However, in the longer run, it reinforced the sense in both St Petersburg and London that Austria was the satellite of Berlin, a perception that would play a dangerous role in the crisis of 1914.

In Russia, both the government and public opinion interpreted the annexation as a brutal betrayal of the understanding between the two powers, an unforgivable humiliation and an unacceptable provocation in a sphere of vital interest. In the years that followed the crisis, the Russians launched a programme of military investment so substantial that it sparked a European arms race. There were also signs of a deeper Russian political involvement with Serbia. In the autumn of 1909, the Russian foreign ministry appointed Nikolai Hartwig, a fiery fanatic in the old Slavophile tradition, to the Russian embassy in Belgrade. Once in office, Hartwig worked hard to push Belgrade into taking up a more assertive position against Vienna, sometimes exceeding the instructions of his managers in St Petersburg. Therefore, The annexation crisis further worsened the relations between Vienna and Belgrade, exacerbated by political conditions inside the dual monarchy. For several years, the Austro-Hungarian authorities had been observing the activities of the Serbo-Croat coalition, a political faction that had been emerging from within the Croat Diet at Agram (Zagreb), capital of Hungarian-ruled Croatia-Slavonia, in 1905. After the diet elections in 1906, the coalition secured control of the Agram administration, embracing a ‘Yugoslav’ agenda seeking a closer union of the South Slav peoples within the empire, and fought long battles with the Hungarian authorities over issues such as the requirement that all state railway officials should be able to speak Magyar. What really worried the Austro-Hungarians was the suspicion that some or all of the deputies of the Agram administration might be operating as a fifth column for Belgrade.

Escalating Eastern Tensions & Equilibrium:

During the crisis of 1908-9, these apprehensions escalated to the point of paranoia. In March 1909, just as Russia was backing down from a potential confrontation over Bosnia, the Habsburg administration launched an astonishingly inept judicial assault on the Serbo-Croat coalition, charging fifty-three mainly Serb activists with treason for plotting to detach the South Slav lands from Austria-Hungary and join them to Serbia. The treason trial at Agram dragged on for eight months, quickly collapsing into an unmitigated public relations disaster for the government. All thirty-one convictions handed down were subsequently crushed on appeal in Vienna. Quite naturally, these events led to a worsening of diplomatic relations between Vienna, Belgrade and St Petersburg during 1910-1912. Aehrenthal died suddenly from leukaemia in 1912, leaving behind a legacy of bitter personal animosity, especially with Izvolsky, which was identified by the quality press in Vienna, in the aftermath of the Bosnian crisis, as an impediment to the improvement of relations between Austria-Hungary and Russia. After Aehrenthal’s death, Forgách left Belgrade a staunch Serbophobe, remaining on the scene as one of a cohort of officials who helped shape the policies of the Austro-Hungarian foreign ministry. Miroslav Spalajkovic served as the Serbian minister in Sofia and was subsequently transferred to the Serbian legation in St Petersburg. Here his task would be to interpret the intentions of the Tsar and his ministers to the government in Belgrade. Nikolai Hartwig, the new Russian minister, had become Spalajkovic’s close personal friend during his time in Belgrade and subsequently developed an intimate relationship with the Serbian Prime Minister, Nikola Pasic. It was a key factor in the July Crisis of 1914 that so many of its individual actors had known each other for so long. Beneath the surface of many of the key rivalries lurked long-term personal antipathies.

Vienna could, in theory, offset Serbian hostility by seeking better relations with Bulgaria. But pursuing this option also involved finding a way around the border dispute between Bulgaria and Romania. Cosying up to Sofia brought the risk of alienating Bucharest, which was undesirable due to the large Romanian minority in Hungarian Transylvania. If Romania were to turn away from Vienna towards St Petersburg, the minority issue might become a question of regional security. Hungarian politicians and diplomats warned that a ‘Greater Romania’ would pose as great a threat to the dual monarchy as a ‘Greater Serbia’. However, in March 1909, Serbia formally pledged that it would desist from further covert operations against Austro-Hungarian territory and maintain good neighbourly relations with the empire. In 1910, Vienna and Belgrade even agreed on a trade treaty ending the Austro-Serbian commercial conflict. A twenty-four per cent rise in Serbian imports during that year bore witness to improving economic conditions. Austro-Hungarian goods began to reappear on the shelves of shops in Belgrade, and by 1912, the dual monarchy was once again the main buyer and supplier of Serbia. But despite assurances of goodwill on both sides, a deep mistrust continued to affect relations which was difficult to dispel. Although there was talk of an official visit by King Petar to Vienna, it never happened. Citing royal ill-health, the Serbian government moved the visit from Vienna to Budapest, then postponed it and then put it off indefinitely in April 1911. Yet later the same year they pulled off a highly successful visit to Paris.

Behind the scenes, the work to redeem Bosnia-Hercegovina continued. Narodna Odbrana, a Serb cultural organisation, proliferated after 1909 and spilt over into the two provinces. The Austrians stepped up their monitoring of Serbian agents crossing the border while Dragomir Djordjevic, a reserve lieutenant in the Serbian army, combined his ‘cultural work’ with the management of a covert network of Serb informants. He was spotted returning to Serbia for weapons training in October 1910. In a report filed on 12 November 1911, Forgách’s successor in Belgrade as Austro-Hungarian minister, Stefan von Ugron zu Abránfalva, notified Vienna of the existence of an association supposedly existing in officer circles that was currently the subject of press comment in Serbia. At this point, ‘nothing positive’ was known about the organisation, except that it called itself the Black Hand and was chiefly concerned with regaining the influence over national policies that the army had previously enjoyed. Press rumours to the effect that the Black Hand had drawn up a hit list of politicians to be assassinated in the event of a coup against the current government. It appeared that the conspirators planned to use legal means to remove the ‘inner enemies of Serbdom’, and ‘turn with unified force against its external foes’. The Austro-Hungarians recognised that Narodna Odbrana aimed at the subversion of Habsburg rule in Bosnia and ran networks of activists in the Habsburg lands. They presumed that the roots of all Serbian irredentist activity within the empire led back to the pan-Serbian propaganda of the Belgrade-based patriotic networks, but their understanding of the precise nature of the links between these networks and the Black Hand was poor. Nevertheless, the key elements that would shape Austro-Hungarian thought and action following the events at Sarajevo were all in place by the spring of 1914.

The Balkan Wars destroyed Austria-Hungary’s security position on the Balkan peninsula and created a bigger and stronger Serbia. The kingdom’s territory expanded by over eighty per cent. During the Second Balkan War, the Serbian armed forces under their supreme commander General Putnik displayed impressive discipline and initiative. The Habsburg government had often adopted a dismissive tone in its discussions of the military threat posed by Belgrade. In a telling metaphor, Aehrenthal had once described Serbia as a ‘rascally boy’ pinching apples from the Austrian orchard. A General Staff report of 9th November 1912 expressed surprise at the dramatic growth in Serbia’s striking power. Improvements to the railway network, the modernisation of weaponry and a massive increase in the number of front-line units, all financed by French loans, had transformed Serbia into a formidable combatant. Moreover, Serbia’s strength could only be strengthened by the 1.6 million who lived in the territories conquered in the two Balkan Wars. In a report of October 1913, the empire’s military attaché in Belgrade, Otto Gellinek observed that while there was no need for immediate alarm, no one should underestimate the kingdom’s military prowess. Henceforth, it would be necessary when calculating the dual monarchy’s defence needs to match all Serbian front-line units man-for-man with Austro-Hungarian troops.

The question of how to respond to the deteriorating security situation in the Balkans divided the key decision-makers in Vienna and Budapest. Should Austria-Hungary seek some sort of accommodation with Serbia, or contain it by diplomatic means? Should Vienna strive to mend the ruined entente with St Petersburg? Or did the solution lie in military conflict? It was difficult to extract unequivocal answers from the multi-layered networks of the Austro-Hungarian state. The dualist constitution required that the Hungarian prime minister be consulted on questions of imperial foreign policy and the intimate connection between domestic and foreign problems ensured that other ministers and senior officials also laid claim to a role in resolving specific issues. So open was the texture of the imperial system that even quite junior figures – diplomats, for example, or section heads within the foreign ministry – might seek to shape imperial policy by submitting unsolicited memoranda that could on occasion play an important role in focusing attitudes within the policy-making élite. Presiding over it all was the Emperor, whose power to approve or block the initiatives of his ministers was still absolute. But this was a largely passive rather than a proactive role – he responded to, and mediated between the loosely assembled power-centres of the political élite. Against the background of this polycratic system, three figures were especially influential: the chief of the Austrian General Staff, Fieldmarshal Lieutenant Franz Baron Conrad von Hötzendorf; the heir to the Habsburg throne, Archduke Franz Ferdinand, and the joint foreign minister from 1912, Count Leopold von Berchtold.

Under the energetic supervision of a gifted head of personal staff, Major Alexander Brosch von Aarenau, the Military Chancellor was reorganised along military lines; its military information channels served as a cover for political data-gathering and a network of friendly journalists pummeled political opponents and attempted to shape public debates. Processing ten thousand pieces of correspondence per year, the Chancellory matured into a political ‘think tank’, a power centre within the system that some saw as a ‘shadow government’. An internal study of the operations of this ‘think tank’, concluded that its chief political objective was to hinder any ‘possible mishaps’ that could accelerate the ‘national federal fragmentation’ of the Habsburg Empire. At the heart of this concern about political fragmentation was a deep-seated hostility to the Hungarian élites who controlled the eastern half of the empire. The Archduke and his advisers were outspoken critics of the dualist political system forged in the aftermath of Austria’s defeat at the hands of Prussia in 1866. This arrangement had, in Franz Ferdinand’s eyes, one fatal flaw: it concentrated power in the hands of an arrogant and politically disloyal Magyar élite, while at the same time marginalizing and alienating the other nine Habsburg nationalities. Once installed with his staff at the Lower Belvedere, Captain Brosch von Aarenau built up a network of disaffected non-Magyar intellectuals and experts, and the Military Chancellery became a clearing house for Slav and Romanian opposition to the oppressive minority policies of the Kingdom of Hungary.

The archduke made no secret that he intended to restructure the imperial system after he acceded to the throne. His key objective was to break or diminish Hungary’s hegemony in the eastern part of the monarchy. For a time, Franz Ferdinand favoured strengthening the Slavic element in the monarchy by creating a Croat-dominated (and Catholic) ‘Yugoslavia’ within the empire. It was his association with this idea that aroused the hatred of his Orthodox Serbian enemies. By 1914, however, it appears he had dropped this plan in favour of a far-reaching transformation by which the empire would become a ‘United States of Great Austria’, comprising fifteen member states, many of which would have Slav majorities. By diminishing the status of the Hungarians, the archduke and his advisers hoped to reinforce the authority of the Habsburg dynasty while at the same time rekindling the loyalties of the lesser nationalities. Whatever one thought of this programme, and obviously Hungarians didn’t think much of it, it did identify the archduke as a man of radical intentions whose accession to the throne would bring an end to the habit of muddling through that seemed to paralyse Austrian policy in the last decades before 1914. It also placed the heir to the throne in direct political opposition to the reigning sovereign. The Emperor refused to countenance any tampering with the dualist Compromise of 1867, which he regarded as the most enduring achievement of his own early years in office.

Franz Ferdinand’s most influential ally was the new Habsburg foreign minister, Leopold Count Berchtold von und Ungarschitz, Fratting und Pullitz. Berchtold was a nobleman of immense wealth, an urbane, patrician representative of the landed class that still held sway in the upper reaches of the Austro-Hungarian administration. By temperament cautious, even fearful, he was not an instinctive politician. His willingness to follow a diplomatic career had more to do with his loyalty to the Emperor and to Foreign Minister Aehrenthal than with an appetite for personal power or renown. His reluctance when invited to accept posts of increasing seniority and responsibility was unquestionably genuine. He believed that harmonious relations with Russia, founded on cooperation in areas of potential conflict such as the Balkans, were crucial to the empire’s security and maintaining peace in Europe. He derived great personal pride from being able to play a crucial role in St Petersburg in the consolidation of good relations between the two powers. When Aehrenthal departed for Vienna, Berchtold gladly accepted the post of ambassador, confident in the knowledge that his own views of the Austro-Russian relationship were entirely in step with those of the new minister in Vienna. It was a shock to his system, therefore, to find himself on the front line when Austro-Russian relations took a drastic turn for the worse in 1908.

The Bosnian Crisis & Balkan Wars, 1908-13:

The first eighteen months of Berchtold’s new posting had been relatively harmonious, but the Bosnian Crisis destroyed any prospect of further collaboration with the Russian foreign minister and undermined the policy of détente. Berchtold deeply regretted Aehrenthal’s willingness to risk Russian goodwill for the sake of Austro-Hungarian prestige. In a letter to the minister of 19th November 1908, Berchtold offered an implicit critique of his former mentor’s policy. In light of the pathological escalation of pan-Slav-influenced Russian national sentiment, he wrote, the continuation of the Austro-Hungarian Balkan policy would inevitably have a further negative impact on our relationship with Russia. Recent events had made his work in St Petersburg ‘extremely difficult’, so he closed his letter with a request to be recalled once the situation returned to normal. He remained in St Petersburg until April 1911, but his spell of recuperation was to last only ten months. On 19th February 1912, the Emperor summoned him to Vienna and appointed him Aehrenthal’s successor as minister for foreign affairs. His policy, announced to the Hungarian delegation on 30th April 1912, would be ‘a policy of stability and peace, the conservation of what exists, and the avoidance of entanglements and shocks.’

The Balkan Wars of 1912-13 would test this commitment to breaking point. In the attempt of the Serbian government to secure a swathe of territory connecting their country’s heartland with the Adriatic coast. Successive Serbian assaults on northern Albania triggered a sequence of international crises. The result was a marked deterioration in Austro-Serbian relations. This hostility was reinforced in the autumn of 1913 by dark tidings from the areas conquered by Serbian forces. The Austrian Consul-General Jehlitschka in Skopje submitted reports of atrocities against the Muslim populations of ten villages. These were not spontaneous acts of brutality, he concluded, but rather a cold-blooded and systematic elimination or annihilation operation that appeared to have been carried out on orders from above. Austria-Hungary’s minister in Belgrade was amused to see leader articles in the Viennese press advising the Serbian government to go easy on the minorities and win them over with a policy of conciliation. Such advice, he observed in a letter to Berchtold, might well be heeded in ‘civilised states’. But Serbia was a state where ‘murder and killing have been raised to a system.’ At the very least, these reports underscored in Vienna’s eyes the political illegitimacy of Serbian territorial expansion.

Nevertheless, even a local war between Austria and Serbia did not appear likely in the spring and summer of 1914. The mood in Belgrade was relatively calm that spring, reflecting the exhaustion following the Balkan Wars. The instability of the newly conquered areas and the civil-military crisis that racked Serbia during May gave grounds to suspect that the Belgrade government would be focusing mainly on tasks of domestic consolidation for the foreseeable future. In a report sent on 24th May 1914, the Austro-Hungarian minister in Belgrade, Baron Giesl, observed that although Serbian troop numbers along the Albanian border remained high, there seemed little reason to fear further incursions. Three weeks later, on 16 June, a dispatch from Gellinek, military attaché in Belgrade, struck a similarly placid note. Although the Serbian army was being kept at a heightened state of readiness, there were no signs of aggressive intentions towards either Austria-Hungary or Albania. All was quiet on the southern front.

Yet, on the diplomatic front, the Matscheko Memorandum, drawn up by a senior Foreign Office section chief in consultation with Forgách and Berchtold and passed to the foreign minister’s desk on 24th June, was not an optimistic document. Matscheko notes only two positive Balkan developments: signs of a rapprochement between Austria-Hungary and Bulgaria, which had finally awoken from the Russian hypnosis, and the creation of an independent Albania. Everything else was negative. Serbia, enlarged and strengthened by the Balkan Wars, represented a greater threat than ever before, Romanian public opinion had shifted in Russia’s favour, raising the question as to whether it would break formally with the Triple Alliance and align itself with Russia, and Austria was confronted at every turn by a pro-Russian policy – in Paris, for example. Now that Turkey was no longer a European power, the only purpose behind a Russian-backed Balkan League could be the ultimate dismemberment of the Austro-Hungarian Empire itself, at least in its eastern and southern parts.

The memorandum focused on four key diplomatic objectives. First, the Germans must be brought into line with Austrian Balkan policy – Berlin had consistently failed to understand the gravity of the challenges Vienna faced on the Balkan peninsula and would have to be educated towards a more supportive attitude. Secondly, Romania should be pressed to declare where its allegiances lay. The Russians had been courting Romania, hoping to gain a new ally against Austria-Hungary. If the Romanians intended to ally themselves with the Entente, Austria-Hungary needed to know as soon as possible, so that arrangements could be made for the defence of Transylvania and eastern Hungary. Thirdly, an effort should be made to expedite the conclusion of an alliance with Bulgaria to counter the deepening relationship between St Petersburg and Belgrade. Finally, attempts should be made to woo Serbia away from its confrontation policy using economic concessions. However, Matscheko was sceptical as to whether these would be enough to overcome Belgrade’s antipathy.

There was an edgy note of paranoia in the memorandum, in keeping with the mood and cultural style of the early twentieth-century Habsburg empire. But there was no hint in it that any of the imperial diplomats regarded war as imminent, necessary or desirable. On the contrary, the focus was firmly on diplomacy following Vienna’s self-image as the exponent of a ‘conservative policy of peace’. Only Conrad, who had been recalled to the post of chief of staff in December 1912, remained committed to a war policy. But his authority was on the wane and he soon became implicated in a military spy scandal which threatened to end his career. Franz Ferdinand was still the most formidable obstacle to a war policy. The archduke, Conrad was informed, would countenance ‘under no circumstance a war with Russia’; he wanted ‘not a single plum tree, not a single sheep from Serbia, nothing was further from his mind.’ After further angry exchanges at the Bosnian summer manoeuvres of 1914, Franz Ferdinand resolved to rid himself of his troublesome chief of staff. Had the archduke survived his visit to Sarajevo, Conrad would have been dismissed from his post. The ‘hawks’ would have lost their most resolute and consistent spokesman.

In the meantime, there were signs of an improvement in diplomatic relations with Belgrade. The Austro-Hungarian government owned a 51 per cent share of the Oriental Railway Company, an international concern operating on an initially Turkish concession in Macedonia. Now that most of its track had passed under Serbian control, Vienna and Belgrade needed to agree on who owned the track, and who should be responsible for the cost of repairing war damage. Since Belgrade insisted on full Serbian ownership, negotiations began in the spring of 1914 to agree on a price and conditions of transfer. They were still ongoing when the archduke travelled to Sarajevo.

Ten forty-five a.m., 28 June 1914. Franz Ferdinand and Sophie leave the Sarajevo Town Hall, He is wearing a plume of green ostrich feathers, and it’s their wedding anniversary. Five minutes later they were both dead.

The Widening Circles of Mistrust:

Meanwhile, a transition of profound significance was taking place in the big picture of the European alliance systems: Britain was gradually withdrawing from its century-long commitment to bottle the Russians back into the Black Sea by sustaining the integrity of the Ottoman Empire. To be sure, British suspicion of Russia was still too intense to permit a complete relaxation of vigilance on the Straits. Sir Edward Grey, British Foreign Secretary, refused in 1908 to accede to Izvolsky’s request for a loosening of the restrictions of Russian access to the Straits, notwithstanding the Anglo-Russian Convention signed the previous year. Meanwhile, underlying the disarray of the Triple Alliance was a development of far more fundamental importance. In the 1850s, a concert of powers had emerged to contain Russian designs on the Ottoman Empire – the result had been the Crimean War. This group had reconstituted itself in a different form after the Russo-Turkish War at the Conference of Berlin in 1878 and had regrouped during the Bulgarian crises of the mid-1880s, In the opening phase of the Italian war, the Ottoman Empire had sought a British alliance, but London, reluctant to alienate Italy, did not respond. The two Balkan Wars that followed then broke the concert beyond repair.

Right up until 1914, the Ottoman fleet on the Bosphorus was still commanded by a Briton, Admiral Sir Henry Limpus. But the gradual loosening of the British commitment to the Ottoman Empire created by degrees a geopolitical vacuum, into which Germany equally gradually slipped. In 1887, Bismarck had assured the Russian ambassador in Berlin that Germany had no objection to seeing the Russians as ‘masters of the Straits, possessors of the entrance to the Bosphorus and of Constantinople itself.’ However, after the departure of Bismarck in 1890 and the slackening of the traditional tie to Russia, Germany’s leaders sought closer links with Constantinople. Kaiser Wilhelm II made lavishly publicised journeys to the Ottoman Empire, and from the 1890s German finance was deeply involved in Ottoman railway construction, first in the Anatolian Railway, later in the famous Baghdad Railway, begun in 1903, which was supposed to connect Berlin via Constantinople to Iraq. The gradual replacement of Britain by Germany as the guardian of the Straits at this particular pre-war juncture was of momentous importance because it happened to coincide with the sundering of Europe into two alliance blocs. The question of the Turkish Straits, which had once helped to unify the European concert, was now ever more deeply implicated in the antagonisms of the bipolar system.

By the time the Ottomans sued for peace with the Italians in the autumn of 1912, the preparations for a major Balkan conflict were already well underway. At the time of the second Serbian invasion of northern Albania, with Conrad arguing, as usual, for war, Berchtold again agreed in general terms for a policy of military confrontation as did, unusually, Franz Josef. At this point, Franz Ferdinand and Tisza, for widely differing reasons, remained the only doves among the senior Austro-Hungarian decision-makers. The success of the ultimatum in securing the withdrawal of Serbian troops from Albania was itself seen as vindicating a more military style of diplomacy. This more militant attitude coincided with a growing awareness of the extent to which economic restraints were starting to limit Austro-Hungary’s strategic options. The partial mobilisations of the Balkan Wars had imposed immense financial strains on the monarchy. The extra costs for 1912-13 came to 390 million crowns, as much as the entire yearly budget for the Austro-Hungarian army, a serious amount at a time when the economy was entering a recession. Generally, the empire spent very little on its army; of the great powers, only Italy spent less. Austria-Hungary called up a smaller proportion of its population each year (0.27 per cent) than France (0.63 per cent) or Germany (0.46 per cent).

The years 1906-12 had been boom years for the empire’s economy, but very little of this wealth had been siphoned into the military budgets. The empire fielded fewer infantry battalions in 1912 than it had done in 1866, when its armies had faced the Prussians and Italians, despite a twofold increase in population over the same period. ‘Dualism’ was one reason for this, since the Hungarians consistently blocked military expansion, and the pressure to placate the minority nationalities with expensive infrastructural projects was another. To make matters worse, mobilisations in summer and/or early autumn seriously disrupted the agrarian economy, since they removed a large number of the rural workforce from harvest work. In 1912-13, the critics of the government could argue that peacetime mobilisations had incurred huge costs and disrupted the economy without doing much to enhance the empire’s security. Such tactical mobilisations were no longer an instrument the monarchy could afford to deploy. Hence the government’s flexibility in handling crises on the Balkan periphery was gravely diminished. Without the intermediate option of purely tactical mobilisations, decisions to advance would simply become matters of war or peace along extensive fronts.

A crucial precondition for these calculations was the refusal of the other powers – whether explicit or implicit – to allow Austria-Hungary to exercise its right to defend its close-range interests as a great power. The French and British were vague about the precise conditions under which a quarrel between Austria-Hungary and Serbia might arise. French foreign minister, Poincaré, made no effort to define such criteria in his discussions with Ivzolsky, yet pressed for aggressive action in the winter of 1912-13, despite there as yet being no Austrian assault on Serbia. The British foreign secretary, Sir Edward Grey, was a little more ambivalent and sought to differentiate: in a note to ‘Bertie’ in Paris, written on 4th December 1912, the same day as he issued a warning to Lichnowsky, the Russian foreign minister, Grey suggested that British reaction would depend upon ‘how the war broke out’:

‘If Servia provoked Austria and gave her just cause of resentment, feeling would be different from what it would if Austria were clearly aggressive.’

Grey to Bertie, London, 4th December 1912.

However, in an environment as polarised as central Europe in 1912-14, it was difficult to agree on what degree of provocation justified an armed response. The reluctance to integrate Austro-Hungarian security imperatives into the calculation was further evidence of how indifferent the other powers had become to the future integrity of the Dual Monarchy, possibly because they viewed it as the lapdog of Germany with no autonomous geopolitical identity, or because they suspected it of aggressive designs on the Balkan peninsula, or because they accepted the view that the monarchy had run out of time and must soon make way for younger and better successor states. One irony of this situation was that it made no difference whether the Habsburg foreign minister was a forceful character like Aehrenthal or a more emollient figure like Berchtold. The former was aggressive, the latter seemed subservient to Berlin. There was also a rose-tinted ‘Western’ view of Serbia as a nation of freedom fighters to whom the future had already been vouchsafed. In particular, the long-standing policy of French financial assistance continued. In January 1914, another large French loan, amounting to twice the Serbian state budget in 1912, arrived in Belgrade to cover Belgrade’s immense military expenditures. Pasic, simultaneously, negotiated a substantial military aid package with St. Petersburg, claiming (falsely) that Austria-Hungary was delivering similar goods to Bulgaria.

Grey adopted a latently pro-Serbian policy in the negotiations at the London Conference of 1913, favouring Belgrade’s claims over those of the new Albanian state, not because he supported the cause of a Greater Serbia but because he viewed the appeasement of Serbia as a key to the durability of the Entente. The resulting borders isolated half of the Albanian population outside the newly created Kingdom of Albania. Many of those who fell under Serb rule suffered persecution, deportation, mistreatment and massacres. Yet British ministers with links to the Serbian political élite at first suppressed and then downplayed the news of atrocities in the newly conquered areas. When this evidence mounted up, there were intermittent internal expressions of disgust, but nothing strong enough to modify a policy oriented towards ‘keeping the Russians on board’.

Eve of War – The Balkan ‘Trigger’:

Two further factors heightened the sensitivity of the ‘Balkan trigger’. The first was Austria-Hungary’s growing determination to check Serbian territorial ambitions. As already noted, decision-makers in Vienna gravitated towards more hawkish solutions as the situation in the Balkans deteriorated. The mood continued to fluctuate as crises came and went, but there was a cumulative effect: at each point, more key policy-makers aligned themselves with aggressive positions. The politicians also faced financial issues and the challenge of declining domestic morale. As the money ran out for peacetime mobilisations and anxieties grew about their effects on minority national recruits, Austria-Hungary’s repertoire of options narrowed, and its political outlook became less elastic. The last pre-war strategic review, the Matscheko Memorandum, prepared for Berchtold in June 1914, made no mention of military action as a means of resolving the many problems Austria faced on the peninsula.

The Second factor was Germany’s dependency on, and pursuit of, a ‘policy of strength’. This antagonised its neighbours and alienated potential allies, but as long as the policy continued to generate a deterrent effect to exclude the possibility of a combined assault by the opposing camp, the threat of isolation, though serious, was not overwhelming. By 1912, the massive scaling up of Entente military preparedness undermined the long-term feasibility of this approach. But if we conclude that Russia was looking for a preventative war with Germany, then the arguments for avoiding one in 1912, through politically costly concessions would have appeared much weaker. If there was no question of avoiding war, but only of postponing it, then it made sense to accept the war being offered by the antagonist at this point, rather than wait for a repetition of the same scenario under what would probably be much less advantageous circumstances. These thoughts weighed heavily on the German decision-makers during the ‘July Crisis’ that followed the assassinations at Sarajevo.

In the New Year of 1914, the Russian military journal Razvechik, widely viewed as the organ of the Imperial General Staff, offered a bloodcurdling projection of the coming war with Germany:

‘Not just the troops, but the entire Russian people must get used to the fact that we are arming ourselves for the war of extermination against the Germans and that the German empires must be destroyed, even if it costs us hundreds of thousands of lives.’

Cited in Hermann von Kuhl, Der deutsche Generalstab in Vorbereitung und Durchführung der Weltkrieges (Berlin, 1920), p. 72.

Semi-official verbal belligerence of this kind continued into the summer. What particularly alarmed policy-makers in Berlin was that this rhetoric was inspired by the Russian minister of war, Vladimir Sukhomlinov. A further article, We Are Ready, France Must Be Ready Too, appeared in the daily Birzheviia Vedmosti on 13th June and was widely reprinted in the French and German press. It sketched an impressive scenario of the immense military machine that would fall upon Germany in the event of war: the Russian army, it boasted, would soon number 2.3 million men, whereas Germany and Austria-Hungary would have only 1.8 million between them. In addition, thanks to the rapidly expanding strategic railway network, mobilisation times were plummeting. However, Sukhomlinov’s primary purpose was not to terrify the Germans, but to persuade the French government of the scale of Russia’s military commitment to the alliance and to remind his French counterparts that they too must carry their weight. All the same, its effect on German readers was disconcerting. One of these was the Kaiser, who splattered his translation with the usual spontaneous jottings, including the following:

‘Ha! At last the Russians have placed their cards on the table! Anyone in Germany who still doesn’t believe that Russo-Gaul is working towards an imminent war with us … belongs in the Dalldorf asylum!’

Wilhelm II, marginal notes to the translation of the same article, ibid., doc. 2, p. 3.

The German Foreign Secretary, Gottlieb von Jagow, believed that although Russia was not yet ready for war, it could soon ‘overwhelm’ Germany with its vast armies, Baltic Fleet and strategic railway programme. General Staff reports from 27th November 1913 to 7th July 1914 provided updated analyses of the Russian strategic railway programme, accompanied by a map on which the new arterial lines, most with numerous parallel rails, reaching deep into the Russian interior and converging on the German and Austro-Hungarian frontiers, were marked in stripes with brightly coloured ink. Intertwined with these concerns about Russia were doubts about the strength and reliability of Germany’s alliance with Austria-Hungary.

But then, at the end of June, came news of the events in Sarajevo, which were bound to have serious implications for Serbia. The independent kingdom was protected by Russia, and only Germany could help Austria-Hungary in that case. On the 5th of July, the Germans urged their allies to mobilise. They did so because they saw this as the last moment at which they could deal with Russia, and the diary of the German Chancellor’s secretary spells it out: if war now, we will win; if later, not. These diaries of the diplomat and philosopher, Kurt Riezler, Chancellor Bethmann’s closest advisor and confidant, convey the Chancellor’s thinking on 6th July 1914:

‘Russia’s military power growing swiftly, strategic reinforcement of the Polish salient will make the situation untenable. Austria steadily weaker and less mobile…

‘The Chancellor speaks of weighty decisions. The murder of Franz Ferdinand. Official Serbia involved. Austria wants to pull itself together. Letter from Franz Joseph with enquiry regarding the readiness of the alliance to act.

‘It’s our old dilemma with every Austrian action in the Balkans. If we encourage them, they will say we pushed them into it. If we counsel against it, they will say we left them in the lurch. Then they will approach the western powers, whose arms are open, and we lose our last reasonable ally.’

Karl Dietrich Erdmann (ed), Kurt Riezler; Tagbücher, Aufsatze, Dokumente (Göttingen,1972), diary entry, 7 July 1914, pp. 182-3. See also Clark’s note, p. 643.

During a conversation with Riezler the following day, Bethmann remarked that Austria-Hungary was incapable of ‘entering a war as our ally on behalf of a German cause’. (ibid., p. 182) By contrast, ‘war from the east’, born of a Balkan conflict and driven by, in the first instance, Austro-Hungarian interests, would ensure that Vienna’s interests were fully engaged. ‘If war comes from the east, so that we enter the field for Austria-Hungary and not Austria-Hungary for us, we have some prospect of success’. (ibid., diary for 8 July, p. 184). This argument mirrored exactly that of the French policy-makers, that a war of Balkan origin would engage Russia fully in a joint enterprise against Germany. Neither the French nor the German policy-makers trusted their respective allies to commit fully to a struggle in which their own country’s interests were not principally at stake. Now the Germans felt able to tell the Austrians to provoke a war. The Austrian Crown Council deliberated, and the Hungarian premier, István Tisza, alone, spoke against it. The Romanians, he said, would come in, and, in any case, the Empire did not need any more Slavs, such as would accrue if Serbia were crushed.

To be continued…(sources to be listed at the end of the next chapter/appendix).