Desmond Seward (1935–2022)

Recently, scientists discovered Richard III's body. They still have not found his soul.

That is the only possible conclusion we can draw from the ongoing conflicts between anti-Richard and pro-Richard historians ("traditionalists" and "revisionists"). An honest historian has to confess that the data is conflicting. Yes, Richard certainly set aside his nephews on grounds that were flimsy (but at least arguably legal). Yes, they disappeared, and they almost certainly died during Richard's show more watch.

On the other hand, Richard seems to have tried harder than almost any other English monarch to be a good king -- certainly his reign was less oppressive than Henry Tudor's. He seems to have been genuinely religious. Other than the events of his usurpation, he appears to have been a genuinely good man.

So how should we judge Richard? Almost certainly, as in the Biblical example, he was a mix of iron and clay.

Desmond Seward won't even grant the clay, let alone the iron. His Richard seems to be comprised of the sweepings of dungheaps. Seward freely admits that his is the most extreme anti-Richard biography of recent decades. (At least until Alison Weir wrote her novel disguised as a history.) Seward has reached a conclusion, and he will always interpret the data to support that conclusion even when it doesn't.

This is not to say that scholars should not write traditionalist biographies. This is a genuine debate, and there is a real need for good traditionalist examinations of the case. Charles Ross's biography of Richard is a brilliant example. But Ross is fair. Seward is not.

That probably should be enough said. But there is one more thing to think about. The two most traditionalist biographies of the last half century are those by Seward and Weir. And both made their livings not as academic historians but as writers of popular histories. The kind of history, it appears, designed to appeal to those who want fireworks and certainty rather than caution and uncertainty. show less

I’ve been interested in France’s Bourbon kings for some years now and, overall, I enjoyed this biography, which is aimed at the general reader.

After opening with the bloodlines that lead to the founding of the Bourbon Dynasty, each subsequent chapter focuses on the respective monarchs.

I was already quite familiar with Henri IV, and he’s a colourful individual, but the section on him in this book was the least engaging. Owing to the limited space in a biography of this scope, the author show more was by necessity compelled to condense a lot of material. As a result, you get a lot of dates, names, titles, and battles thrown at you, and I found it somewhat tedious.

The next section on Louis XIII is much more entertaining. I only knew the basics about him before reading this, so I found out a lot of things I didn’t know, such as his mother beating him regularly and treating him like dirt during his childhood, which mentally scarred Louis throughout his life.

The next section covers Louis XIV’s illustrious reign. This king I did previously know a lot about, so not that much info was new to me; however, it still makes for engaging reading. One thing I did learn was that champagne wasn’t fizzy until the early 1700s.

I did spot one factual error in this part: in referring briefly to the Affair of the Poisons, the author mentions that it started with Madame de Brinvilliers's arrest in 1679, when in reality she was arrested and executed in 1676.

Next up is pleasure-loving Louis XV, of whom it turned out I didn’t know as well as I thought I did until reading this book. For instance, I never knew he suffered from shyness – I always thought he was plain selfish. He wasn’t shy on his wedding night, when – aged 15 – he made love to his older wife SEVEN times! He was an interesting man, even if he wasn’t the most effective king.

Louis XV’s section also features his most noteworthy mistress Madame de Pompadour, whom I’ve been fascinated by for years. I’ve read her memoirs and a bio about her, and Mr Seward also recognises her worth. I like how, in general, the author shows compassion for the people he’s writing about, such as referring to Madame de Pompadour as “the poor woman” when she was seriously ill.

Another fascinating consort appears in Louis XVI’s section, namely Marie-Antoinette, who’s story I know very well. Both she and Louis XVI are the French rulers whom I'm most familiar with out of all France’s monarchs. Louis was a kind and generous *man* but a weak and ineffective *king*. He called his subjects his “children” and strove to do right by them, and in return the bastards murdered him. I’ve read about this several times, and it never fails to deeply sadden me.

Same applies to Marie-Antoinette. Yes, at first she was frivolous, but as soon as she became a mother, she changed. She was never cruel, though, unlike the people who were obsessed with blackening her name, making her the most hated person in France. The “Let them eat cake” line is an example of the many lies told about her – no way would she have said that. My heart aches every time I read about her final years, as it did again in this bio.

Her son Louis XVII, who features in the next short section, had it significantly worse. This poor boy, who never got to rule, was treated worse than any animal when he was aged between eight and ten. I didn’t know much about him until a read a bio about him last year. Desmond Seward covers the basics, which is enough to convey the abject misery that this formerly cheerful little boy was subjected to. His final two years are heartbreaking to read about.

Next, we’re on to less depressing times with Louis XVIII. He was a cold man but an effective king; however, he couldn’t be as effective a ruler coming in after the Revolution as he would’ve been before it. Had Louis XVI abdicated in favour of Louis XVIII, it’s arguably that the Revolution would’ve been averted, or at least not have been as bad, with the Bourbon Dynasty coming out of it on top. This is a king who’s usually overshadowed by Napoleon, though for my tastes, as brilliant a general as Napoleon was, I prefer reading about Louis XVIII.

The last ruling Bourbon was Charles X, of whom I knew very little before reading this bio, except for when he was known as the Comte d’Artois during Louis XVI’s reign. He comes across as an easy-going guy, and a decent king, though the times were against him. It’s a sad end to the Bourbon Dynasty, but at least he abdicated, as opposed to being murdered.

Finally, we have a short section on someone I’d never heard of: “Henri V”. His title is in quote marks because he never ruled. The same applies to poor Louis XVII, but this time it was different. No more come-backs were on the cards, and nobody except for a few hopefuls like Henri himself believed in another Bourbon restoration. This section in theory could’ve been cut without making any difference to the book’s main topic, but it makes for an interesting epilogue.

The one thing I dislike about the book is that occasionally we get untranslated French, like:

“He described him as ‘un des gentilhommes du monde le plus franc et mieux intentionné et le plus attaché à la personne de M. le Protecteur’.”

Or:

“In 1638 he wrote pathetically to the Cardinal, ‘la créature est toujours en mauvaise humeur contre moi.’”

Although I’m pro-language learning, when I read a book written in English, I expect it to be just that, otherwise I’m locked out of the narrative, which is something a good author should never allow to happen.

Apart from the above criticism, “The Bourbon Kings of France” was on the whole a very good read. A little dry at times, perhaps, but it features a very engaging subject matter. show less

One-sided.

A lot of history books get tarred with that brush, but it is more than usually relevant to Desmond Seward's book about the Wars of the Roses. Covering a civil war almost always brings the danger of tilting toward one side or the other, but Seward's approach makes balance even harder to find.

Seward doesn't really give a history of England from 1455 to 1487; he gives biographies of five characters, trying to use these to tell the story of the Wars.

The problem is, five characters is show more an odd number. That means he will inherently lean more toward one side than the other.

And Seward makes it worse. Three of his characters are Margaret Beaufort, the mother of the future King Henry VII; Cardinal Morton, later Henry's Archbishop of Canterbury; and the Earl of Oxford, who is believed to have been the chief general at the Battle of Bosworth that put Henry on the throne. Not only does that give us three Lancastrians, it gives us three fanatical Lancastrians. Or, rather, one fanatical Lancastrian (Oxford) and two fanatical Tudors.

To represent the other side, the Yorkists, we have William, Lord Hastings, who was King Edward IV's drinking buddy (more or less) and Jane Shore, Edward's mistress. One of whom (Hastings) was executed by King Richard III and the other degraded. So, while Yorkists, they were both enemies of the last Yorkist king.

And Shore was, at most, an infant when the wars began, and several of the others still quite young. It is an inherently biased portrait; we get very little direct information about Richard Duke of York, the father of Edward IV the first Yorkist king. This is made worse by the fact that Seward, as his book on Richard III shows, has a very strong axe to grind. There were plenty of neutrals in the Wars, or characters who changed sides, or characters who were Yorkist and survived. You wouldn't know it from Seward.

All this might be forgivable if the result were easier to follow. But all the bouncing around between characters is very confusing. This history is neither fair nor very interesting.

Desmond Seward has written very good popular histories; I very much enjoyed his book on the Hundred Years' War. But his books on the Wars of the Roses are simply not a good place to learn about perhaps the most complicated political period in English history. show less

Napoleon's Family explores the powerful and often turbulent relationships within the family of Napoleon Bonaparte, showing how his rise to power transformed not only France but also the lives of his relatives. The book examines the ambitions, rivalries, and political influence of the Bonaparte family during one of the most dramatic periods in European history.

One of the book’s main strengths is its detailed portrayal of the Bonaparte siblings and their involvement in Napoleon’s empire. show more Rather than focusing solely on Napoleon himself, the author highlights how his brothers and sisters were placed into positions of power across Europe and how their personal ambitions sometimes supported—or undermined—his rule. This broader perspective helps readers better understand the political dynamics of the Napoleonic era.

The book also does an excellent job of presenting the family members as complex individuals rather than simply historical figures. Their struggles with loyalty, jealousy, power, and public expectations add emotional depth to the narrative. Readers gain insight into how Napoleon attempted to control both his empire and his family, often with mixed results.

The writing style is informative and engaging, blending historical facts with personal stories and political analysis. Some sections may feel dense because of the large number of names, relationships, and historical events discussed, especially for readers unfamiliar with European history. However, the detailed research adds credibility and richness to the story.

Overall, Napoleon’s Family is a fascinating historical work that provides a deeper look into the people closest to Napoleon Bonaparte and the influence they had on his reign. The book offers valuable insight into the connections between family, politics, and power, making it an excellent choice for readers interested in European history, biography, and the Napoleonic period. show less