Britain appears to be a nation on the verge of Norman-conquest mania. In July, the prime minister and the French president announced that the Bayeux tapestry – the epic 11th-century embroidery that depicts the 1066 conquest of England – would be loaned to the British Museum in 2026-27.

This makes new BBC drama series, King & Conqueror, which depicts the events leading up to the Norman conquest, extremely well timed. The credits of each episode feature the drama’s title overlaid on imagery from the Bayeux tapestry. But how does the drama compare to that most evocative textile account of the conquest?

I could write at length about how the BBC drama variously depicts and diverges from the tapestry’s version of events. And the extent to which King & Conqueror is consistent with 11th-century written and embroidered sources has been explored by historians elsewhere.

As an art historian who has researched the Bayeux tapestry, it is difficult not to regret the relative darkness and lack of colour in King & Conqueror’s depiction of the 11th century, an age which would in reality have been richly furnished, as the tapestry itself attests.

But it is satisfying to see that the narrative devices that are most effective in this new drama are those also included in tapestry. To varying degrees, both the tapestry and the drama are dramatised retellings of history, a reality most obviously signalled by fact that neither tell a perfectly linear account of the events.

In the tapestry sequencing for instance, Edward the Confessor’s funeral is stitched before his death, shocking the viewer with the pomp of a stately funeral before then depicting his deathbed. Similarly, in episode five of King & Conqueror, we see Harold and his wife Edith kidnapped, bound and held in a wagon under attack from archers. Then the chronology leaps backwards to explain that Harold and Edith have travelled on a diplomatic mission to Normandy, landed in Brittany by mistake, and then been taken hostage by bandits.

An unflinching portrayal of the brutality of battle is similarly used in both the BBC drama and the tapestry to maintain suspense, even when the outcome of the Battle of Hastings is well known.

Violence and fear

Blood and gore are dramatically present in King & Conqueror. But arguably, replacing benign patterns of birds and beasts on the margins of the tapestry with mutilated bodies is an even more arresting way to signal the violent disruption to life caused by medieval battle.

The scale of William’s violence off the battlefield is also more fully captured in the tapestry. In the final episode of the drama, William is shown ordering the plundering and burning of every village they pass through: “We move forward like the wrath of God.”

But the fear such an order would have struck in people of all classes is not so explicitly captured as it is in the tapestry, where the battle is preceded by the depiction of an anonymous woman and child fleeing their home as the Normans set it on fire.

In this sense, the tapestry also gives a greater sense of the effect of a conquering army had on ordinary women, than a drama more concerned with the main characters. So much so, that it makes the BBC’s sexed-up trailer shared on social media bewildering.

Suggestive clips of Harold and William are shown with the text: “Want to be served by a king? Or let him conquer you?” Anyone who had viewed the Bayeux tapestry and seen the fate of women portrayed there, would certainly not wish to conquered by William’s forces.

The porousness of the English Channel as a well-trodden diplomatic avenue is a similarly effective leitmotif in both the tapestry and the drama. Boats crossing the Channel are a frequent tableau in King & Conqueror, reaching a crescendo in the final episode, in which the scale of the Norman fleet with its sails raised resembles the white cliffs of Dover.

In the tapestry, boat crossings are shown with equal frequency, though the scale of the Norman fleet is even more evocatively captured by the depiction of its construction: men felling trees to make boats for the invading flotilla. A unprecedented number of boats in the tapestry are then seen crossing the Channel, their overlapping prows powerfully conveying the scale of the invading naval force.

History meets contemporary politics

It is here that the Bayeux tapestry, the BBC’s dramatisation, and contemporary politics intersect. On the day that followed the announcement of the Bayeux tapestry’s loan, Keir Starmer and Emmanuel Macron held a joint press conference in which they announced a bilateral policy engineered to respond to the increase in the number of migrants crossing the English Channel from France in small boats.

In King & Conqueror, the series ends with William’s coronation. However, the tapestry itself appears incomplete and terminates abruptly after the Battle of Hastings.

The current leaders of France and Britain have explicitly sought to frame their new policy as a continuation of the tapestry’s narrative, with Macron commenting:

The story is unfinished and nobody knows the end … But this is our work, our duty and our chance … to finish the tapestry and … take the same road as these warriors but with another state of mind … that together we will build a new … common history and create a new era based on culture, knowledge, respect, science and centuries of enlightenment, creations, and … friendship.

There is, of course, an irony to promoting Anglo-French bilateralism through an object that depicts the invasion and conquering of England by the Normans in 1066.

But there is also a poignant, unacknowledged paradox in referencing an object that so evocatively depicts boats crossing the Channel as a means of bolstering policies specifically designed to deter them, and the people they carry. Certainly, it is clear that some visual motifs remain as politically affecting today as they did in the 11th century.

This article is republished from The Conversation, a nonprofit, independent news organization bringing you facts and trustworthy analysis to help you make sense of our complex world. It was written by: Millie Horton-Insch, Trinity College Dublin

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Millie Horton-Insch receives funding from the Leverhulme Trust.