An Extraordinary 500-Year-Old Shipwreck Is

Rewriting the History of the Age of Discovery

In the frigid Baltic Sea, archaeologists probing the surprisingly well-preserved remains
of a revolutionary warship are seeing the era in a new way

The timbers of a 500-year-old ship rest on the floor of the Baltic Sea. Scholars and
divers are studying the legendary wreck.

Brett Seymour
By Jo Marchant

At the southern edge of Sweden, not far

from the picturesque town of Ronneby,
lies a tiny island called Stora Ekon.
Sprinkled with pine trees, sheep and a
few deserted holiday cottages, the low-
lying island is one of hundreds that shelter
the coast from the storms of the Baltic
Sea. For centuries, the spot was a
popular anchorage point, but the waters
are now mostly quiet; the most prominent
visitors, apart from the occasional
pleasure boat, are migrating swans.
Guibert Gates
For a few weeks in May, however, a new
island intruded on this peaceful scene: A
square wood raft topped with two
converted shipping containers just a few
hundred feet from Stora Ekon’s
shoreward coast. The floating platform
was busy with divers and archaeologists,
here to explore what lies beneath the
waves: the wreck of a ship called
Gribshunden, a spectacular “floating
castle” that served as the royal flagship of
King Hans of Denmark more than 500
years ago. Historical sources record how
the ship sank in the summer of 1495,
along with a large contingent of soldiers
and Danish noblemen, although not the
king himself, who was ashore at the time.

Shipwrecks from this period are

exceedingly rare. Unless a ship is buried
quickly by sediment, the wood is eaten
away over the centuries by shipworm,
actually a type of saltwater clam. But
these organisms don’t survive in the
fresher waters of the Baltic, and
archaeologists believe that much of Hans’
vessel and its contents are preserved.
That promises them an unprecedented
look at the life of a medieval king who was
said to travel with an abundance of royal
possessions, not only food and clothing
but weapons, tools, textiles, documents
and precious treasures. More than that,
the relic provides a unique opportunity to
examine a state-of-the-art warship from a
little-understood period, when a revolution
in shipbuilding and naval warfare was
reshaping geopolitics and transforming
civilization. What Gribshunden
represents, researchers think, is nothing
less than the end of the Middle Ages and
the birth of the modern world.

At the edge of the raft, Brendan Foley, an

archaeologist from Lund University in
Sweden, and his chief safety officer, Phil
Short, are getting ready to dive. Despite
the springtime sun, a cold wind blows.
Because the water temperature is below
50 degrees, the divers are wearing
drysuits and heated underwear that will
allow them to work for two hours or more.
After extensive planning and a long
pandemic delay, Foley is visibly eager to
enter the water. “I’ve been waiting for this
moment for two years,” he says. He steps
off the deck with a splash and makes an
OK sign before disappearing from view.
King Hans of Denmark Tarker / Bridgeman Images

The story of Gribshunden is preserved in

several “Chronicles,” narrative histories
written in northern Europe in the 16th
century, and in an eyewitness account by
a young nobleman who survived the
disaster. The accounts describe how King
Hans, who reigned over Denmark and
Norway from 1481 to 1513, sailed east
from Copenhagen in the summer of 1495
toward Kalmar, Sweden, to attend a
political summit. Europe was then
emerging from the Middle Ages into the
Renaissance. Dukes and kings ruled from
giant castles, and every nobleman’s
wardrobe included a suit of armor. In Italy,
Leonardo da Vinci was starting work on
The Last Supper. In Poland, Nicolaus
Copernicus was beginning his studies in
astronomy.

Across the Baltic Sea, Denmark, Norway

and Sweden had been ruled together
under an agreement called the Kalmar
Union for close to 100 years, but Sweden
had broken away, and rebels there, led by
a nobleman named Sten Sture, sought
independence. Hans was on a mission to
quell the dissent and revive the union by
 becoming king of Sweden, too. According
to the accounts, Hans took a suitably
regal fleet of 18 ships, led by
Gribshunden, which carried his courtiers,
noblemen, soldiers, even a royal
astronomer.

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BUY

But many of them never arrived: Hans’

flagship sank while anchored just north of
Stora Ekon. A 16th-century account of
Hans’ life, only recently translated from
Latin, suggests the ship’s store of
gunpowder accidentally ignited, causing a
fire that consumed the ship so quickly that
many on board perished in the smoke and
flames. Others threw themselves into the
water and drowned. The source adds that
the fire occurred while the king was
attending a meeting of supporters,
probably on Stora Ekon. Other sources
record the treasures that sank with the
ship: “clothes, precious things, seals and
letters,” and “silver, gold, charters and the
king’s best stores.”

Local divers came across the wreck’s

protruding timbers in the summer of 1971,
unaware of its historical significance, and
they collected the curious lead balls they
found nearby as souvenirs. One of the
divers finally alerted local archaeologists
to the wreck in 2001, after he found
strange, hollowed-out logs resting on the
seafloor: carriages, researchers realized,
that once held cannons. This was no
fishing boat or trading vessel, it turned
out. It was a centuries-old warship of a
type never before seen.

In northern Europe, boats were long built

by riveting together overlapping planks to
make a waterproof shell. Viking longships,
with their rounded hulls and single,
square sails, used this “clinker”
construction method. In southern Europe,
by contrast, there was a tradition of
“carvel” construction, in which hull planks
were placed edge to edge. In the 15th
century, carvel planking spread north,
becoming the design of choice for kings
and noblemen throughout Europe. Carvel-
built hulls gained their strength from the
internal ribs, or skeleton, which also made
it easier to build larger ships that could
carry extensive cargo, crew and stores.
And crucially, in contrast to clinker
vessels, they could accommodate gun
ports, which meant that heavy guns could
be carried deep inside the hull without
toppling a ship. “Scandinavian ships were
beautiful and elegant and sailed to
Iceland and Greenland,” says Filipe
Castro, a nautical archaeologist
previously based at Texas A&M
University. “But when the opportunity to
put guns on them came along,” he
continued, they proved inadequate.

By the end of the 15th century,

shipwrights in Portugal and Spain were
combining northern and southern features
to build heavily armed, uniquely large
vessels that could cross oceans, spend
months or even years at sea, and extend
awesome military force. These were the
“space shuttles,” as Castro calls them,
that carried the explorers of the Age of
Discovery: Christopher Columbus on his
Spanish-sponsored voyage across the
Atlantic in 1492; the Portuguese admiral
Vasco da Gama, who sailed 12,000 miles
around Africa, arriving in India in May
1498; and Ferdinand Magellan, who
embarked on the first circumnavigation of
the Earth (completed after his death in
1522). They allowed for “a new
globalization through colonization and
exploitation,” writes Johan Rönnby, a
maritime archaeologist at Sweden’s
Sodertorn University. “The looting and
transportation of gold, spices, sugar and
many other goods across the oceans
changed the world forever.” Or, as Foley,
puts it: “This was the enabling technology
for European domination of the planet.”
Gribshunden belonged to the first generation of ships to cross oceans and reach distant lands.
The large vessels combined rounded, Nordic-style hulls constructed from ribs and planks in
ways pioneered by shipwrights in Spain and Portugal. Above, a page from an illuminated copy
of a medieval narrative known as Froissart’s Chronicles, illustrated in the 1470s, shows the
French Navy at sea. Scholars believe that the warship at center closely resembles
Gribshunden. They make particular note of the gun ports, heraldic banners and shields, and the
sculpted figurehead. Left, King Hans of Denmark. British Library / Granger, NYC

But no example of these carvel-built

“ships of discovery,” Iberian or otherwise,
had ever been found intact, a deficit
Castro describes as “one of the big holes
in our puzzle.” Specialists have had to
infer their design from artist
interpretations and a few surviving
miniature models, and had only the
murkiest understanding of how this
revolutionary technology spread through
Europe.

That was about to change. In 2013, Niklas

Eriksson, an archaeologist and expert in
medieval ships at Stockholm University,
inspected the wreck off Stora Ekon. The
Swedish historian Ingvar Sjöblom had
speculated that the wreck was
Gribshunden, based on its age and
location, but others, including Eriksson,
were skeptical. “I thought it can’t be,” he
told me.

But when he saw the wreck himself he

was amazed. The hull was larger than
reported—nearly 100 feet long—and
there were remains of elevated, built-up
areas, known as castles, that protruded
out at the bow and stern. Moreover, the
construction of the hull suggested the ship
could only have belonged to the king. A
chronicle of the life of Sten Sture, the
Swedish rebel, described the long-lost
Gribshunden as a rare “kraffweel,” or
carvel, and what Eriksson realized during
his dive was that the wreck’s hull planks
were laid edge to edge. It really was
Hans’ royal ship: one of these pioneering
vessels had been hiding in the shallow
green waters of Sweden all along.

When Foley first learned about the wreck,

he didn’t believe it either. “I thought if it
was important, I’d have heard of it
already,” he says, sitting in a makeshift
office on the dive platform. On the table is
an espresso machine he proudly tells me
is the same model featured in The Life
Aquatic, Wes Anderson’s irreverent
homage to the marine explorer Jacques
Cousteau.

Foley is a 52-year-old American with a

genial manner and a sense for the
dramatic. He trained with the
oceanographer Bob Ballard, who
discovered the Titanic, and he now
specializes in exploring underwater
vessels of all types, from planes to
submarines. He spent several years
excavating a first-century B.C. cargo ship
near the Greek island of Antikythera that
sank with clay vessels, coins, bronze and
marble artworks, and, most famously, a
sophisticated mechanical device
described as the world’s oldest
“computer.” Before he came to Stora
Ekon, he had been working for the U.S.
military, recovering the remains of
servicemen from crashed World War II
bombers, one off Croatia and another off
Sweden.

His journey to Stora Ekon began in 2017,

after he joined his wife, Maria Hansson, a
Swedish geneticist based in Lund, from
Massachusetts, where Foley had worked
at MIT and the Woods Hole
Oceanographic Institution. When his new
colleagues told him about Gribshunden,
he assumed they were hyping a local
attraction. Then he attended a meeting
with Rönnby, Eriksson and colleagues
from the National Museum of Denmark in
Copenhagen. “They were telling me about
the wreck, and I said, Are you kidding
me? The only known example of a ship of
discovery, the first example of a purpose-
built warship—and it’s sitting in just nine
meters of water?!”
One facet of the Gribshunden project is a comprehensive study of the wooden barrels in the
ship's hold. Dendrochronology reveals not only when the trees were cut, but where they grew.
Chemical and biological analysis may determine the contents of the barrels. Here, Brendan
Foley lifts a box containing wooden barrel components from the water, while archaeologists
Paola Derudas and Marie Jonsson stand by. Klas Malmberg

The site had already been mapped, and a

few artifacts salvaged, including a giant,
fearsome figurehead, carved to resemble
a monster swallowing a screaming man.
But, partly because of the cost, only
limited excavations had been carried out.
Foley formed a consortium of Swedish
and Danish institutions and secured
funding from the Crafoord Foundation,
founded by the entrepreneur behind Tetra
Pak, a multinational food packaging
conglomerate, to explore further. In 2019,
Foley conducted an initial excavation with
Rönnby, who had led several previous
studies of the wreck. Foley has been
trying to return ever since. Days before
work was set to begin this spring, two
members of the research team informed
Foley they couldn’t join (one was
recovering from Covid, another had his
visa rejected). Then Foley found himself
in the hospital facing emergency surgery
for gallstones. “I almost called it off,” he
says.

Instead, with his doctors’ approval and

orders to follow a strict diet, he went
ahead. The international group of experts
he’s assembled has set up a white
scaffold on the seabed to define their
excavation trench, choosing a site near
the stern—an educated guess about
where the royal quarters were located.

Down on the seabed, Foley and the other

divers work in pairs—an archaeologist
with a dive specialist. They sift through
layers of debris, including firewood and
smashed barrels. Farther down,
everything is encased in a fine black
sediment that “jiggles like jello,” Foley
says. To remove it, the archaeologists
use trowels or paintbrushes and suck up
the resulting debris clouds into the hose
of a dredge pump—like a giant vacuum
cleaner—to keep the water clear. (Later,
they sift through the “dredge pile” to make
sure they don’t overlook any items of
interest.) They also record every stage of
the excavations by taking hundreds of
photographs and videos that Paola
Derudas, a data specialist from Lund
University, builds into 3-D virtual maps of
the site. At the ship’s stern, ghostly
timbers, covered in marine growth, jut
upward out of the silt. Elsewhere, the hull
has split open and fallen outward,
resulting in a jumble of planks that lie
scattered in the green light. “It’s a
beautiful mess!” says Mikael Björk, an
archaeologist from Sweden’s Blekinge
Museum. But once you get to know it,
“you get a sense of the ship,” he says.
“You can feel the story.”
Three-dimensional models of the wreck site, composed of 4,000 individual images, were
updated each day to track the excavation’s progress. Paola Derudas, Lund University; Images
by Brett Seymour

Artifacts recovered in 2019 hinted at the

ship’s luxurious cargo: a concreted lump
of silver coins, high-quality chain mail,
and a fine alder wood tankard incised with
a crown symbol. Now, over the course of
three weeks, the divers unearth a panoply
of additional items. A louse comb, plainly
made from wood, attests to everyday life
on a cramped ship that probably housed
more than 150 souls. But there are signs
of riches as well: more silver coins, a
delicately stitched red-and-black suede
slipper, and stores of exotic spices,
including peppercorns, cloves and an
enormous stash of saffron that when first
uncovered “dyed the water red,” says
archaeologist Marie Jonsson, of
Denmark’s Viking Ship Museum, who
found it.

Even more unexpected is the discovery of

several panels of elaborately decorated
birch bark. One is embossed with a
detailed peacock design; another shows
an enigmatic beast that resembles a
unicorn and still holds traces of gold paint.
Eriksson suggests that the king, who
received audiences on board during his
travels, would have made sure his
chambers were sumptuously decorated
with textiles and tapestries. “I think it was
very fancy on board this ship.”
1/6

Riveted brass rings from the neckline or sleeves of a hauberk, or mail armor shirt, worn by a
soldier. Hundreds of the rings have been found. Magdalena Caris

These extravagances were not only for

Hans’ personal comfort. “The king
amassed on his flagship everything and
everyone to impress the Swedish
noblemen waiting in Kalmar,” Foley says.
Of course, Hans didn’t rely on soft power
alone. The riches on display were backed
up by the threat of violence.

Two hours after Foley and Short enter the

water they emerge with a small collection
of new artifacts. Foley holds up what
looks like a giant wooden fork. “Nice back
scratcher!” jokes Björk. The oversized
item is soon identified as a linstock, used
in naval warfare to hold the burning fuse
when lighting a cannon. A carved symbol
on the handle—two vertical strokes and a
slanted horizontal—may be an owner’s
mark. The prongs are charred from use.
Brendan Foley, chief archaeologist, and Phil Short, dive specialist, recover an oak gun carriage
—the tenth found so far. Others remain in place. Klas Malmberg

It is one of several items that attest to

Gribshunden’s military might. The iron
cannons themselves have mostly rusted
away, but nine wooden gun carriages
have previously been recovered, and
Foley’s team soon adds a tenth. These
range from five to nine feet long and
would have held swivel guns in the ship’s
bow and stern castles, as well as along
both sides of the deck. The
archaeologists also discover a 13.5-foot-
long gun carriage that is far larger than
any other previously found. For the time,
says Foley, it was “enormous”—too large
to have been positioned across the ship
without blocking the deck. He suggests it
may be an early example of what’s known
from later warships as a “stern chaser,”
used to fire off the back.

One historical source suggests that

Gribshunden sailed with 68 guns, and
based on the finds so far this could be
accurate. That means the ship
represented a revolution not just in ship
design but in naval warfare. Medieval sea
battles were essentially land battles
carried out on a ship—the aim was to
board an enemy vessel and fight hand to
hand with swords and spears. But the
wide-scale transition to larger, carvel-
plank ships, combined with the invention
of explosive artillery, enabled purpose-
built warships fitted with huge cannons
and ports that could support massive
guns. That led, during the 16th century, to
ships that could destroy enemy vessels
and battled almost exclusively from a
distance, with a design that persisted with
few changes until the 19th century.

But the early history of these purpose-

built warships is “surprisingly poorly
understood,” says Kay Smith, an
independent expert who previously
worked at the Royal Armories at
England’s Tower of London. To discover
Gribshunden is “absolutely amazing,” she
says. The guns on board were essentially
wrought-iron tubes, built from hoops and
staves like a barrel, which sat in wooden
beds and were lit via powder chambers at
the rear. Despite the enormous stern
chaser, no gun ports have yet been
found, and Smith notes that the other
guns are still relatively small: for shooting
combatants rather than sinking ships. “It’s
 a key find for our understanding of how
ships and armaments were developing.”

The gun carriages recovered from the ship are the earliest examples of naval artillery ever
found, and shed new light on the transition to modern combat. Marie Jonsson

The next day, Foley emerges from his

dive with a broad smile. “We found
something that has never been recovered
before,” he calls from the water. A few
minutes later, relaxing on deck with a mug
of steaming coffee, he explains that deep
in the trench, just above the ship’s hull, he
uncovered an intact crossbow, more than
three feet long. “Showroom quality,” he
gushes. “I mean, it’s still got the bow
string! It’s got all the decorations. I’ve
never seen anything like it.” He puts down
his coffee, runs to the edge of the deck
and does a victory somersault into the
sea.

Weapons experts are similarly thrilled.

Guy Wilson, of the Royal Armories, who
specializes in early hand weapons, says
that dated examples of crossbows from
this period are practically nonexistent.
The new find appears to be of a relatively
advanced design and will be crucial for
understanding the development of this
quintessential medieval weapon. In fact,
the team seems to have stumbled across
what Foley describes as “a small arms
locker.” By June, they recover no fewer
than four complete crossbows, as well as
components from several others, plus
numerous wooden arrows, known as
quarrels, with their wood, leather or
feathered flights intact. The team also
recovers the wooden stock from an
arquebus, or early handgun, as well as
the suggestively carved handle of a
“bollock dagger,” popular among sailors
and used for penetrating an opponent’s
armor. “To have another dated example
of European arms technology, 50 years
before the Mary Rose”—a warship
belonging to Henry VIII that sank in 1545
—“is very exciting,” says Wilson. “It’s
going to be amazingly important.”

The items will take years to study. Wilson

points out that it took three decades to
complete the analyses of the artifacts
recovered from the Mary Rose. Already,
though, Gribshunden is providing a
glimpse of warfare on the cusp of
transition, as hand weapons gave way to
powerful artillery and, with that, the
capacity to wage war from a distance—a
distinctly modern power that still shapes
conflict today.

The sun sparkles on the water, and two

swans make a synchronized landing on
the waves outside the floating office.
Foley opens up his laptop and focuses on
detailed scans and graphs on his screen.
It’s here, as much as on the seabed, that
the science gets done, he says. In
addition to the excavation, Foley is
collaborating with material scientists,
chemists, geologists and others to
analyze artifacts he recovers as well as
those previously salvaged from
Gribshunden but never studied. CT scans
of silver coins found in 2019 reveal they
are Danish. Intriguingly, however, little
else is. Scans of chain mail uncovered the
name of a 15th-century metalworker from
Nuremberg, Germany. Isotope analysis
shows the lead cannonballs are also
German. Meanwhile, dendrochronology,
the analysis of tree rings in wood, shows
that storage barrels came from ports
across the Baltic, from Sweden to Poland
to Latvia. Combined with the exotic
spices, the findings show that Hans was
“a surprisingly cosmopolitan king,” Foley
says. Eriksson agrees. “Gribshunden
shows just how global medieval Denmark
was during this time,” he says.

Perhaps most surprising is an analysis,

published this summer, of oak timbers
from the ship itself, showing that it wasn’t
Danish either. The trees were felled in the
early 1480s, matching the ship’s
presumed date of construction. (The ship
was first mentioned in a 1486 letter
written by Hans while on board.) But its
timbers evidently came from hundreds of
miles away, along the river Meuse, and it
 was likely built where the Meuse meets
the sea, in what’s now the Netherlands.
The implication is that after Hans came to
power he wanted a pioneering, world-
beating ship, but he didn’t yet have the
resources or know-how to build it himself,
so he ordered it from specialists abroad.

A rendering of Gribshunden circa 1495. Mats Vänehem

Despite its likely origin in a Dutch

shipyard, however, a new analysis has
revealed surprising details about the
ship’s construction. The broader switch to
carvel planking happened in different
ways in different regions: Dutch
shipbuilders, for example, built the hull
first and added the internal ribs later,
whereas the Iberians constructed the
frames first using specialized gauges and
molds. The Iberian method—which was
itself borrowed from the Italians, who
learned it from the Byzantines—required
sophisticated mathematical knowledge,
but it was ultimately more efficient, giving
ship designers greater control over the
shape of the finished vessel; it was no
accident that these vessels came to
dominate global exploration.

This year, Rönnby and his colleague Jon

Adams, a maritime archaeologist at
England’s University of Southampton,
examined detailed measurements of the
hull’s timbers, and the early results
suggest the hull was built according to the
frame-first Iberian style—something no
scholar expected. Castro, who was not
involved in the study, says that seeing this
ship design so far north at this time would
be “exciting and important,” evidence of a
“porous” world “where knowledge was
traveling a lot faster and residing in more
places than we previously thought.” And it
means that “shipbuilding in the Baltic was
not that far behind, if it was behind at all.”
Like the famous explorers and conquerors
of the Iberian peninsula, northern Europe
was “ready to build ships that could carry
guns and sail into the horizon.”

This shipbuilding effort underscores Hans’

ambitions as king, says Per Seesko, a
researcher at the Danish National
Archives. Records show that, before it
sank, Hans had sent Gribshunden as far
as England, to negotiate fishing rights,
and possibly farther afield. When he
sailed to Kalmar with Gribshunden, it was
the equivalent, Foley says, of bringing “a
nuclear-powered aircraft carrier”: a
projection of political and military might
and, Hans hoped, proof that he was
Sweden’s rightful king. For audiences
used to smaller, traditional longboats, the
sight of it must have been jaw-dropping.
And when it sank, it was more than an
embarrassment, or an economic blow, or
a tragedy for the lives lost on board—“it
was a military setback.”

Afterward, Hans continued on to Kalmar

without his flagship, but his rival, the
Swedish leader Sture, was delayed, and
Hans, perhaps nervous about the
comparison between Sture’s military
resources and his own now-depleted
fleet, didn’t wait for him. He returned
home without the Swedish crown. Two
years later, he conquered Stockholm by
force, but he soon lost the country again.
He spent the rest of his reign fighting to
get it back. In 1523, Sweden won outright
independence from Hans’ son, Christian
II.

Scholars such as Seesko and Foley like

to play a parlor game about what might
have happened if Gribshunden hadn’t
sunk. “It was a turning point in history,”
says Foley. “You might have had this
Danish Nordic state emerge as a great
power,” a united Scandinavia to rival
England under Henry VIII. There’s no
telling how the map of Europe would have
come to look. Even today the European
Union might be balanced by a separate
northern force.
Gribshunden's figurehead, recovered in 2015, protruded from the stem, and was carved to
resemble a sea monster swallowing a screaming man. Ingemar Lundgren / Blekinge Museum

There are also hints that Hans had bigger

ambitions than control of the Baltic. A
16th-century letter reveals that Hans’
father, Christian I, dispatched his own
northern voyage of discovery, financed by
the Portuguese, that may have followed a
route past Greenland into the North
Atlantic that we know the Vikings traveled
centuries earlier when they temporarily
settled in North America. Some historians
read the evidence as showing that, 20
years before Columbus arrived in the
Americas, Christian’s ship reached “cod
country”: Newfoundland.

Seesko says that Hans “would have been

aware” of his father’s explorations, and
Foley believes that Hans may well have
had ambitions to cross the Atlantic. “We
have this dynamic, forward-looking,
ambitious king,” he says. If Hans had
conquered Sweden in 1495, perhaps he
might have pushed even farther. “Hans
was trying to do something new,” Foley
says. “He was trying to empire-build.”
Rather than being built like a ship of
discovery, then, meant to project power
among his rivals in the region, perhaps
Hans intended for Gribshunden to be a
ship of discovery itself, with a mission to
reach across the northern Atlantic toward
an unknown world.

It’s another day on the temporary island.

The cold wind has gone and the water is
as calm as a mirror. It’s time for another
dive, and Foley’s head is full of what else
might be hidden in the sediment. King
Hans’ writing desk? The earliest known
gun port? Human bones, from crew or
 noblemen trapped on board as
Gribshunden sank? The joy of this wreck
is that “we never know what’s going to
come up,” Foley once told me. “Every day
there is something new.” He adjusts his
mask and steps into the water. Bubbles
rise as he descends half a millennium
back in time.

https://www.smithsonianmag.com/history/extraordinary-500-year-old-shipwreck-rewriting-
history-age-discovery-180978825/