By invoking Henry VIII, Mr Corbyn clearly lost his head

Was 2016 the year of bad historical analogies? Anyone who disagreed with someone else was called Hitler. Brexit and Trump constantly reminded their critics of the Thirties, even though then and now are completely different worlds. I blame this on the dominance of 20th-century history in schools and culture. The History Channel is all Nazis and UFOs.

So I ought to have been happy that Jeremy Corbyn this week reached back to the 1500s to accuse Theresa May of hiding behind “Henry VIII and the divine rights of the power of kings” to avoid giving Parliament a say on Brexit. But no. I’m too much of a nerd to tolerate that level of historical illiteracy.

Where did Corbyn go wrong? A generous interpretation is that he meant to talk about Charles I, who did fancy himself an absolutist, and got the wrong king. But I fear the sad truth is that Corbyn really does think Henry was the British Hitler (there we go again). Henry clearly needs new PR.

For the record, Henry VIII did not reduce Parliament. He elevated it. He used statute during the Reformation as a tool to shift power from the Church to the English crown. From 1529 to 1536, Parliament determined religious doctrine, appropriated wealth, disinherited royal heirs and emerged as omnicompetent within the realm. Once established, its authority was hard to ignore. Even Mary I had to use Parliament to enact her counter-reformation. And when Charles I tried to put Parliament in its place, the poor man lost his head.

This is not to say that Henry was a proto-democrat: Parliament largely served his will. But nor was he a dictator as we understand it today. Such a concept did not exist in the 1500s. A monarch could be called tyrannical if he or she abused their power – but very few people questioned their right to hold those powers in the first place. Most of what Henry did made sense in the context of his age. He needed a legal male heir and his first wife, Catherine, failed to provide one. He needed a new wife and the Pope refused to play ball. So he broke with Rome. The Reformation was triggered by a tension between theological principle and political need. And although, as a Catholic, I regret and resent Henry’s revolution, I can accept that he was, in part, trying to avoid the dynastic catastrophe of the Wars of the Roses.

Why is there so little sympathy for Henry today? A shift in the way we read history. I was raised by Protestant schoolmasters on a Victorian view of Henry VIII as the hero who divorced us from Europe and turned us into a self-governing empire. This was buttressed by the work of modern historians such as Geoffrey Elton, who charted the creation of the modern state under Henry. But a new generation of late-20th-century historians – including Elton’s own pupil, David Starkey – argued that an obsession with Parliament neglected the role of the royal household and court. Lust, vanity and intrigue, they said, defined the Tudors.

This new emphasis upon personality did not always favour Henry because, bluntly, he could be a pig. Anne Boleyn, whom he had beheaded, was rediscovered as an abused wife, a compassionate Protestant, even a proto-feminist. Starkey himself has complained that Henry “became absorbed by his wives”, and has blamed this on “feminised history” – on women writing for female audiences.

Certainly every age reads history with the prejudices of the present, which is why there’s such variance in attitudes towards Henry between generations. Today’s political consensus leans towards liberal democracy and gender equality – so Henry has been repackaged as a monster. Hence when Labour politicians dig into the recesses of their memory to find an example of a despot, they find Henry hiding with his axe.

Again, as a Catholic, I should welcome this. But allowing contemporary attitudes to shape historical memory is sloppy. I can condemn Henry for what he did to his family; for using the Church as a political pawn and persecuting both Catholics and Protestants who didn’t toe the line. But don’t charge him with something he didn’t do.

Corbyn’s error is a reminder that history is too complex to be crow-barred into political debate. It’s that depth of detail and evolving understanding that makes it so fascinating a subject.