Holbein and a Tudor World in Miniature: A Marriage Made in Heaven.

 

Holbein, miniature painting, identity and wealth: a guest post by L B Hathaway

I was lucky enough recently to find myself quite alone in gallery 643 of the Metropolitan Museum (the Met) in New York.

As crowds rushed past on their way to ogle the deserved glory that is the Rembrandts, the palm-sized portrait of an Official from the Court of Henry VIII (the Portrait of a Man in a Red Cap), sat unnoticed in its display-case. But to its now-unknown sitter, it may have represented the most costly investment of his life.

It was painted in 1534 by Hans Holbein, the German artist whose growing reputation and unnervingly-brilliant talent meant that by 1534, on his second stay in England, he was the hottest painter in town. He was much in demand, being taken up especially by the Boleyn faction at Court. Holbein started to paint miniatures (or ‘limning,’ as it was known) in around 1532, quickly surpassing Lucas Horenbout, the ‘Kings Own Painter,’ in artistic genius.

The Portrait of a Man in a Red Cap is bigger than a miniature, but is still tiny, and it is painted in ‘miniature’ style. Stylistically, it is closest to a pair of paintings of Court Officials by Holbein now in the Kunsthistorisches Museum in Vienna. Traditionally, historians have argued that the pair in Vienna represent Susanna Horenbout and her English husband, John Parker, and that the man in the Portrait of a Man in a Red Cap is in fact Susanna’s brother, the famous ‘King’s Painter’ himself, Lucas Horenbout. Whilst this opinion has been advanced over the last hundred years, recent publications have now thrown doubt on all three of these sitter’s identities. It is safe to say there is a lack of any corroborating evidence for Lucas Horenbout to be identified as the sitter of the painting in the Met with any degree of certainty. All that can be said for certain is that the sitter of a Portrait of a Man in a Red Cap is a man who worked for Henry VIII in some capacity at Court.

Assuming the portrait is not of Horenbout, I wondered at the possible motivation for commissioning the exquisite and expensive portrait. Tudor portraits famously contain all manner of contemporary symbolism to convey messages, most lost on us today. But we do know that Tudor portraits were commissioned for delicate negotiations such as engagements, as in the case of Holbein’s Jane Small in London’s Victoria and Albert Museum, or to advertise wealth.  Often, miniatures were used to broker and seal marriage deals, most famously of course in the case of Holbein’s gorgeous miniature of Anne of Cleves of 1539. Despite the image’s appeal, Henry VIII later dubbed its unfortunate sitter the ‘Flanders Mare’, stating he had been misled by the painting.

The portability of a painting, usually in an integrated frame, was therefore crucial, and the painting in the Met is thought to have originally had a protective fitted ‘cover’ for preserving the painting and aiding its transport.

Conjecture and a sheer absence of any facts in this case allows me to guess at the possibility that this young Court Official was announcing in the costliest, showiest terms that he had available to him that he had ‘made it’ at Court; that he was a ‘good catch.’ As indeed he may have been; King Henry VIII famously rewarded his officials handsomely, far more than other noblemen would have paid to their retainers. To an official who worked hard, and well, there was also the promise of promotion, lodgings, ‘bouche’ of Court, and the right to receive tips or perks (unused food or clothing, for which there was always an eager market.) To hold a job at Court was seen as prestigious, and secure. There was even a certain expectation of a pension in old age.

If this Official was doing well enough to engage Holbein to capture his likeness, then he would indeed have made a promising marriage-match for some hopeful family. We can imagine the painting being sent out, carefully wrapped, to Kent or Surrey perhaps, or even further afield.

If, in the unlikely event that this was commissioned by the Official for himself, then he commissioned well. For, unless he was attached permanently to one of Henry VIII’s great palaces, he would have found himself on the move a great deal; Henry VIII’s Court was famously an itinerant one, and in the 1530s the Court was averaging thirty moves to different houses and palaces per year. One can only imagine the repacking and packing the Court Officials found themselves involved in, a staggering feat that sometimes saw up to 3,000 people on the move at once; a truly portable Court. Such a painting (with its clever size and protective cover) would have been handy, when, at a  moment’s notice (as could happen in times of political unease or plague,) a Courtier found himself having to throw his belongings into his knapsack or trunk, ready for another journey.

This painting is of course too large to be listed among the tiny miniatures painted by Holbein to be worn as a type of jewel, given as a sign of love. Legend has it that an irate Anne Boleyn tore a jewel from the neck of her supplanter, Jane Seymour, and found within it a miniature of the King, given to Jane by the King himself. And while it does not have the pathos of Horenbout’s tiny painting of a declining, night-cap-wearing Henry Fitzroy, Duke of Richmond, or the mystery and intrigue of any of the miniatures of Henry VIII’s wives (the identity of some of which are still the subject of debate), I am sure that to the man who commissioned it, and possibly to the person who received it, the Portrait of a Man in a Red Cap was a rare jewel indeed.

L.B.Hathaway

LB Hathaway is a Cambridge-educated  British writer. Her Tudor thrillers, Cape Scarlett and The Night Crow (set at the Court of Henry VIII) will be released in 2014 as the first two novels of a Trilogy.

Her non-fiction book Henry VIII: The Roaming King – the Tudor Court on the Move will be released at the end of 2014.  For questions or quotations in support of the above, please contact her on: 

Hathaway_lb@yahoo.com or follow her on twitter- @LBHathaway

"Tudor", a new Family Saga.

“Tudor: The Family Story.”

Leanda de Lisle
Chatto and Windus
29 August 2013
978 0701185886

Having read de Lisle’s “The Sisters Who Would be Queen,” I was keen to read her version of the Tudor story and I wasn’t disappointed. This new book is a must for all enthusiasts of the era, a sweeping family saga that takes us from the arrival of Owen Tudor at court in the 1420s, all the way through to the end of the dynasty. It is, as it says, the account of a family’s fortunes, detailing their fluctuating position over two centuries. There is a lot of material to cover here but de Lisle does not allow the reader to lose focus. She sweeps us through with crisp prose, whilst finding opportunities for the memorable anecdotes and colourful details that such a wide-ranging work requires to prevent it spreading too thinly. De Lisle’s style is very accessible and balances clear explanation with a commentary aimed at that those already familiar with the era, so would appeal to those already well-read in the area as well as those coming to the subject afresh. It is popular and scholarly at the same time.

I particularly enjoyed the section on Owen Tudor’s history, as this was an area I knew less about and is not usually included in studies of the Tudors as a ruling dynasty; they are sometimes presented as springing into existence in 1485 and it is interesting to see the role they played during the wars of the roses. In fact, I would have been happy if De Lisle had pushed her research back even further and given us more detail about their Welsh origins. I was also interested to learn more about the illegitimate son Owen fathered later in life, David Tudor, and his support of Henry VII. It is also refreshing to see the story of the family told with a positive emphasis on the role played by Margaret Beaufort, who has all too often been a recent casualty of fictional and non-fictional portrayals, reduced to a caricature of the pious and meddling woman. Here, she is very much a driving force, sympathetically drawn as a mother influencing her only son.

The book also explores the way the family tree branches out, including information on the less well studied members of the Tudor clan and where they fit into the story. De Lisle has made it something of a speciality of hers to illuminate the lives of those family members on whom the spotlight of history did not fall, reminding the reader that birth, inheritance and gender are matters of accident and that being part of this illustrious family was not just difficult for those whom it propelled on to the throne. The portrayal of Mary I can also sometimes descend into oversimplification but this book gives the context in which her character was shaped and the process by which she became the woman and queen known to us as “Bloody Mary.” The final chapters on Elizabeth were also vivid and memorable, concluding the work with her deathbed scene.

 

In the Footsteps of Anne Boleyn.

In the Footsteps of Anne Boleyn

Sarah Morris and Natalie Grueninger
Amberley Publishing
15 September, 2013
ISBN 978-1-4456-0782-6

 

Anne Boleyn remains one of the most controversial and thought-provoking figures of Henry VIII’s court. As a sophisticated beauty, her rise to fame ruffled many feathers amongst the supporters of Catherine of Aragon and challenged the expectations of queenship. The tempestuous marriage that followed, the birth of her daughter and her shocking death at the hands of her husband, on blatantly trumped-up charges, have rightly earned her a following dedicated to studying her life and defending her name. Many good books have been published on Anne in recent years; biographies, novels and studies of the way she has been portrayed in popular culture but this is the practical guide that the Queen’s devotees have been waiting for. With Morris’s and Grueninger’s meticulous research in your hands, it is possible to step even closer to the real Anne Boleyn.

Taking a biographical approach, this book walks the reader gently through the differing locations of Anne’s life. Following the authors’ lead, it allows you to become fully immersed in what survives of the England she knew as well as recreating a sense of it in the past. Including maps and visitors’ information, it is easy to plan your own itinerary from these pages, as the authors literally tell you where to park and how far to walk, what to see and where to go next. They share their own experiences of meeting people along the way; what to see, where to eat and where to stay; and they prove to be considerate, informed and dedicated guides. Plus, the authors repeatedly go off the beaten track to explore less well known locations, beyond the usual Castles associated with Anne and Henry. Their own extensive travels give the text an immediacy and accessibility often lacking in more academic studies, all the more remarkable for Grueninger being based in Australia. Most of all, this book sings with the passion of its writers; just within the first few pages you can feel how much they both enjoyed researching and writing it.

If you can’t get to England or undertake the full Anne experience, this book also allows you to travel from the comfort of your armchair. The level of detail given of the buildings, surroundings and objects is vivid enough to be pictured, and provokes the reader to want to find out more. The very useful section on the Boleyn treasures includes websites and information about how to access these manuscripts and images; it would form an excellent basis for readers to take their enjoyment of Anne further. The authors use a wealth of primary sources to vividly recreate Anne’s world through the eyes of her contemporaries, in letters, records and accounts as well as drawing on the work of more recent historians. Plus there are two very full sections of images, many previously unpublished, from the authors’ own collections. It is usefully divided into small sections, with easily navigable headings, making it an ideal book to dip in and out of, a veritable Aladdin’s cave of gems about Anne. I particularly enjoyed the section about the progress of 1535, as an area often explored in less detail.

It is hard to find anything new on Anne these days, however In the Footsteps of Anne Boleyn fills a definite gap in the market. It provides the reader with a different kind of Anne experience, facilitating a greater sense of ownership of the Queen and her life, making more of a direct personal connection between reader and subject. And you couldn’t hope for better guides than Morris and Grueninger. If you have any interest in Anne Boleyn at all, you will not regret buying this stunning new book.

 

If you enjoyed In the Footsteps of Anne Boleyn, you may also enjoy these other new additions:

The Anne Boleyn Papers
Elizabeth Norton
Amberley, August 2013

The Anne Boleyn Collection II: Anne Boleyn and the Boleyn Family.
 Claire Ridgeway
Createspace, September 2013

The Creation of Anne Boleyn.
Susan Bordo
UK edition, Oneworld, January 2014

 

Interview with Amy Licence

Read my interview with Mimi Moore on her interesting website "The Royal Firm": full of stories about the royals past and presents- definitely worth exploring-

 http://theroyalfirm.com/2012/11/11/author-amy-license-gets-in-bed-with-the-tudors/

Henry VIII: the Celibate Years ?

 

The romance of Henry VIII and Anne Boleyn has endured in the popular imagination. Its details are well known, from the arrival of the young, unconventionally attractive Anne, with her foreign upbringing, through to the passionate letters he sent her at Hever Castle and their secret marriage six years later. Presenting himself as a lover in the chivalric tradition, as “Sir Loyal Heart,” Henry’s devotion to Anne before their wedding is unquestionable, as was his desire to father a son to inherit his throne, long after his first wife Catherine of Aragon had failed to bear one. But did that devotion automatically mean he did not look at another woman? As I have argued in my recent book “In Bed With the Tudors,” featured in the Daily Express (26/9/12- see link below), we are anachronistically applying modern standards of romance to the past if we think it does.

Catherine’s menopause occurred around 1525, the year of her fortieth birthday. Henry himself was five and a half years her junior and had already indulged in extra-marital affairs, most famously with Elizabeth “Bessie” Blount, who bore him a son and with Mary Boleyn. Anne’s older sister may have conceived a daughter by the King but the evidence for this is inconclusive. Such behaviour was expected at the time although, most often, men at court sought satisfaction elsewhere. Upper class men would not be condemned for seeking sexual gratification with lower class women, who were seen as more physically pleasing than their aristocratic wives. This made an interesting division, along class lines, of women who were primarily seen as for procreation and others who were purely for pleasure. Gentlemen of Henry’s court would have little trouble finding available females, either in the corridors of power at Westminster or Greenwich or Whitehall, or else in the brothels, or stews on the Southbank. Henry’s courtiers, in particular, Sir William Compton, helped facilitate his affairs, possibly arranging meetings in his London home. Henry also possessed a wealth of small properties and hunting lodges where such liaisons would have been easy.

 

 

 The behaviour of Thomas Culpeper is also explainable in this context. As the cousin and lover of Henry's fifth wife, Catherine Howard, Culpeper met his death late in 1541. However, he already had committed worse offences than possible adultery with the Queen. As a young man he had desired a woman he had casually encountered, then raped her when she refused him and murdered her husband. For this he was pardoned, which seems inexplicable to us now and difficult to accept as consistent with the teenage Queen's love for him. However, in the context of sexual relations between the classes, Culpeper's actions indicate a sense of entitlement to possess women of lower station no matter what. Happily, this does not seem to have been the norm. It is a case of modern sensibilities clashing uncomfortably with the realities of the past.

 

These sexual expectations were actually out of synch with the image Henry VIII desired to project. There appears to be a tension between the sexually active man and the ideal romanticised lover of jousts and court masques. He was notoriously secretive about his affairs, in comparison with other European leaders of the day, or perhaps because of them. His great rival Francis I of France was well known for his many conquests and his subsequent infection with the horrific syphilis. Henry, in contrast, tried to conceal the existence of his lovers and his encounters with them, making them harder to trace. This may have been out of respect for his first wife, who was greatly upset by Henry’s first affair with Anne, sister of the Duke of Buckingham early in the marriage while Catherine was pregnant. Henry did take a more modern approach to the women he slept with; his wives were chosen by romantic criteria, as he wanted a companionate partnership, rather than the union of dynastic expediency his parents had entered into. This did not place him above conforming to the sexual expectations of his era though. In a further departure from past tradition, his weddings were conducted in secrecy. He did not favour vast court celebrations, opting instead for simple and small occasions, often taking place early in the morning in the chapels of his palaces, with a few witnesses. The only exception was his ill-fated union with Anne of Cleves, which proved that such old-style arranged marriages were not for him.

 

 

When Henry fell in love with the entrancing Anne Boleyn in around 1527, all this changed. It would have to, if he was to make her his wife. At first, the pair was discreet but soon, Henry’s infatuation became obvious to everyone, including Catherine. The court held at Blackfriars examined the royal marriage but failed to provide the King with the decisive answer he needed; the Pope could not be more help, dreading Henry’s letters and remaining loyal to his aunt, who happened to be Catherine of Aragon. The Queen was removed from court in 1531 and rusticated to various houses in the country but refused to grant Henry the divorce he wanted. Henry and Anne’s liaison was the subject of rumour and gossip throughout Europe but it appears that Anne maintained his interest by withholding her affections, gradually realising she had the opportunity to become his wife, instead of just his mistress.

 

 

However, as I suggest in “In Bed with the Tudors,” (Amberley 2012), something about this doesn’t add up. Henry admitted to Cardinal Campeggio that he hadn’t slept with Catherine since 1526. Anne Boleyn did not submit to him until late in 1532.  It is really possible that Henry VIII was celibate for those six years? I think this is a ludicrous assumption, although historians have largely accepted this as fact. Although Henry was in love with Anne, this should not be confused with modern concepts of romance or fidelity. We know it was expected that men would have other sexual partners: at this time the marriage oath only required the fidelity of the wife. To condemn this as a double standard would be anachronistic and unrealistic. Clearly aristocratic women did have sexual relations for pleasure and many made second marriages based purely on affection, as in the case of Mary Boleyn. Many took lovers at court; some them may have slept with the King.

 

 Although Henry was in pursuit of a legitimate son, these six years represented a significant part of his dwindling fertility. In 1527, he could not have known how long the process would take but as the years passed, was he really true to the construct of romantic chivalry he liked to project and stay celibate all that time ? Considering that he used the motto of “Sir Loyal Heart” to profess devotion to his first wife, while indulging in affairs, it does not seem that romantic devotion necessarily precluded encounters with receptive women of the lower classes. He famously claimed that he was "a man like any other," so we should expect consistency in this area too. In 1537, while Jane Seymour was pregnant, Henry “claimed” a lower class woman he saw on one of his rides and rumours of illegitimate children dating from the period suggest an oral tradition of the King’s promiscuity. Even for Anne, Henry’s romantic veneer was soon tarnished.  Early in their marriage, when Anne was upset at Henry’s infidelity, he told her that she should hold her tongue as her betters had done. This suggests Anne was unaware of any liaisons Henry may have had in the years 1527-32, or that she attributed them to his frustration and hoped they would cease after the ceremony. These possibilities may dispel the romantic image of Henry’s court as projected in the popular imagination but it should not damage Henry’s reputation nor his genuine desire of Anne. It merely redefines concepts of loyalty and romance in line with sixteenth century standards, instead of twenty-first century ones.

 

Link to the Daily Express article, 26/9/12:

http://www.express.co.uk/entertainment/view/348340/What-really-went-on-in-Henry-VIII-s-bedroom-

 

 

Fifty Shades of Lady Jane Grey

Sexual Pleasure, Opportunity and Pornography in Tudor Times.

                                        A surviving selection from Raimondi's I Modi

What did the Tudors get up to in bed ? Or out of it ? While the answer may seem obvious, the sexual practices of five centuries ago were not necessarily the same as those today. The basic act remains the same, as testified by the proliferation of Tudor births and continuation of the human race, but the choice of partners, location, timing and issues of sexual etiquette, may indicate historical differences.

As might be expected also, experiences in England did not necessarily match those in Europe. The court of Francis I of France, Henry VIII’s great rival, was renowned for its debauchery, while Henry himself was consistently discreet and secretive about his liaisons. In 1524, the Italian Marcantonio Raimondi published “I Modi,” an explicit, illustrated manual of 16 different sexual poses. These were based on a series of paintings for a Mantuan palace but provoked condemnation because they were publicly available, rather than confined to the privacy of the walls of the Palazzo Te. It provoked such a scandal that Raimondi was imprisoned by the Pope and almost all copies were destroyed. This highlights key aspects of sixteenth century sexuality, in terms of its acceptability, exclusivity and the survival of printed material. In England, lewd images appear to have been used more as a deterrent, coupled with a religious message, as in sexual depictions of naughty pilgrims, or a literary satire, as found in Chaucer, rather than for overt sexual purposes. Arguably, the evidence of a culture of temporary sexual images, is unlikely to have survived anyway and, then as now, the discrepancy between the idealised and the reality, is difficult to measure.

One key difference between past and present views of sex was that of pleasure. Technically, this was defined at every level by men. Of course, we are looking back through the feminist lens, but that does not mean that women in the past were not sexually active or fulfilled. That fulfilment may have come about within specific perimeters, though. Women were considered to be desirous of sexual activity at all times; to deny them it could cause them extreme ill-health and even prove fatal. Virginal females would suffer the terrible green sickness alluded to by Shakespeare,  with vapours rising from the womb and causing dizziness or fitting; the obvious cure was marriage, as an end to lawful sexual satisfaction. In the modern mind, it creates a comic impression of rampant predatory females seeking to alleviate their symptoms whenever or wherever possible. Some of the contemporary cures outlined in leechbooks and medical works of the era suggest that for some medieval and Tudor males, this was considered a real danger. It also sheds light on the nature of medieval and Tudor attacks upon unpopular or transgressing women; slurring their sexuality, often in connection with witchcraft practices, was a predictable method of  attack.

 The exercise of female sexuality lay within male hands, metaphorically and literally. A man had to be wary of women using witchcraft or subtle means of seduction in order to get them into bed. The reason for this was partly religious, derived from their inheritance from Eve but also physiological. As "imperfect men", their wombs required the balancing presence of a male member and seed in order to be complete; their imperative was to produce children and this necessitated the sexual act. It was up to the man to resist and control these impulses in their wives and dependent females. Suitable marriages should be made for daughters, sisters and other relatives, for the benefit of their health. The female orgasm was understood in the context of this “completion” of a woman by a man; female pleasure was deemed essential for conception to take place. In this sense, the Tudors appear more enlightened than the Victorians, in promoting the enjoyment of both parties, even if the patriarchal definition and control of the act appears rather draconian to a modern reader. However, the reverse side of this could produce dire consequences for women. In cases of rape, men could claim to be “incited” to act by a desperate female, while any act of violation that resulted in pregnancy immediately invalidated itself. If a woman had conceived, she must have enjoyed herself, therefore no rape had taken place. Few cases of rape appear in the late Sixteenth century Assize court records and these are usually of minors or spinsters. Successful convictions for the violation of a married woman, or of a man’s own wife, hardly ever appear. In the 1558 case heard by the East Greenwich Assizes, William Norris was indicted for the rape of Edmund Dalton’s wife Joan, but frustratingly, the verdict is illegible!

The age of consent in Tudor times was fourteen for girls and twelve for boys, although this was not enforced by any law. Few eyebrows were raised when the children of the aristocracy were betrothed at the ages of three or four, or were raised in the households of their in-laws. Consummation would not take place until the pair had reached puberty, although this, like fertility, could differ vastly. Equally strange partnerships were made at the other end of the age bracket: one of Elizabeth Wydeville's brothers married a wealthy Duchess in her eighties, when he was only in his twenties. History does not record what happened on their wedding night. Question marks also surround the consummation of some notorious teenage marriages. Did Catherine of Aragon sleep with her first husband, Prince Arthur ? Some historians are convinced she did, while others are equally convinced otherwise. Only two people knew for sure. The closest we can come to the truth is Catherine’s later admission that they shared a bed on about seven occasions but that “full” consummation had not taken place, assuming the virginal fifteen-year-old was fully versed in these areas. Perhaps there was some sort of foreplay or fumbled teenage attempts at intercourse that barely constituted the act. After all, they had reason not to believe they had time on their side: neither could have known Arthur would die only six months later and Catherine would go on to marry Henry VIII.

Lady Jane Grey and Guildford Dudley, two other naïve teenagers, were married on 21 May 1553. Jane was then pronounced Queen on 9 July, hardly giving them any time to discover their sexuality, if the marriage was consummated at all. There is also the first marriage of Anne Neville, Queen of Richard III, which was probably consummated when she was left a widow at fourteen in 1471, as was the match of Henry VIII’s illegitimate son Henry Fitzroy to Lady Mary Howard in 1533, also aged fourteen. Then there was the widowed virgin Christina of Denmark, whom Henry VIII wanted to marry in 1538. The teenager refused him, rumoured to have said that if she had two heads, she would gladly spare him one. However, as a rule, remarriage for those widowed in their teens was considered vital for their health. Christina took a second husband at the age of twenty and bore him three children.

Sex was also dictated by the cycles of the year. For the religious Tudor, certain dates were off limits, such as Sundays, saints’ days and the forty days of Lent: those who transgressed were supposed to do penance and not receive communion. But just how could a priest know, looking out over the faces of his flock, exactly what they had been up to the night before? Sex during menstruation was frowned on as this was supposed to produce children who were red-haired and puny and “depraved” practices between man and wife could result in birth abnormalities. Restraint was counselled, but in reality, withdrawal and folkloric methods of birth control were employed, although as the baptismal records attest, restraint was often thrown to the wind! The relaxation of the usual routine could promote sexual encounters.

Fairs and festivals provided many couples with an opportunity for intercourse, when the carnival attitude and possible higher consumption of alcohol fuelled behaviour. Listed in the Essex Assize court records, in 1582, the promiscuous and pregnant Susan Babye lay with a John Fletcher at Witham fair and a William Dagnett on Lady Day. She then went on to sleep with Richard Howe at Midsummer, when the warm longer nights allowed for outdoor encounters. In 1589, Alse Mathews had sex with a servant named Davie Cox at a gate in a field, at the Feast of Pentecost. Agnes Parette and John Eavens of Earl Colne slept together twice at the start of the harvest season; by the end of it they were probably too tired ! Parish records in Essex confirm that fewer live births took place nine months after the harvest period, during May and June. The peak time for conception was early summer, with the highest percentage of births following next spring, in March and April. The cycles of the church and land certainly had an impact on when the Tudors had sex!

For the unmarried, finding the opportunity posed a problem. Sleeping habits were determined by class and dictated sexual practices. Tudor spouses of high class did not usually share beds. It was a sign of status that a Lord and Lady had their own household under the same roof, which meant separate bedrooms. The Lord would usually take the initiative and visit his wife in her chamber for sex, before returning to his own bed. However, this seems rather formal and it is pretty unlikely that the rule was always followed; encounters must have taken place in other locations such as hunting lodges, inns or whenever opportunities arose. Perhaps they were even initiated by women and perhaps some men even enjoyed this!! The high concentration of servants in Tudor households made for little privacy but lower down the social scale, there may have been fewer prying eyes.

Undoubtedly sex took place in shared spaces, such as the dormitories of apprentices and servants, such as in the early teenage experiences of Catherine Howard., resident in the large household of her grandmother. In another story from the Assize Courts, Joan Collen was a travelling servant who sold butter in the 1590s. Drinking one day in the King’s Head tavern at Limehouse, she met a William Rothman, who desired her and wanted to take a room in the inn in order to bed her but the time and place “would not serve.” Later, they slept together in a field, an orchard and a stable. This came to light when she conceived an illegitimate child. Among families sharing bedrooms and small houses, the couplings of adults must have been a routine matter of biology, just as communal and public as washing and defecating. The act must have taken place with less embarrassment, than in our post-Victorian era.

Servants often slept in their masters’ or mistresses’ rooms on truckle beds, or outside their doors, in kitchens, halls, corridors or wherever space dictated. These were purely for sleep and were stored away during the day, forcing their occupants to find other opportunities for intercourse while their employers were out. In 1600, Joan Loveday conceived a child after a single encounter with a fellow servant Richard Bettes, in her master’s chamber, which was a common location for illicit sex. Sometimes masters made complaint against their servants for lewdness, as Martin Skynner did against his man Thomas Yeldham in 1582, supported by his other employees. On some cases, the master was to blame. In 1591, Bridget Hide described how her master came to her bed intent on “abusing” her although she managed to repel him; however, he later “won her to his will.” Lower class women were supposed to be more “earthy” and sexually gratifying than their high-class rivals; aristocratic women were often “off-limits” due to pregnancy and considered essential for procreation whilst short-term mistresses and casual encounters for pleasure were made with “base” women. Henry VIII may have had a number of these, now lost to history, procured by Sir William Compton in his London home. One anecdote survives from 1537, listed in  the Court Rolls, when he took a fancy to a young woman out riding with her sweetheart and established her as his mistress. Edward IV was reputed to have shared his mistresses with his son-in-law Dorset and best friend Hastings, especially the notorious “Jane Shore.”

With imperfect contraception, pregnancy was an inevitable and frequent outcome. For those who wished to become parents, contemporary manuals suggested that the best time for conceiving children was in the middle of the night, between the recommended first and second sleeps, so some must have taken a chance whilst others around them slept. However, illegitimacy may have been higher than we suspect. Examinations of parish records from the 1530s through to 1600 indicate only a couple of cases a year but the real figure, including abortions and stillbirths, must have been higher. Some women clearly took steps to ensure the pregnancy did not come to term or that the baby was abadnoned or killed. Cases of infanticide are frequent in Assize court rolls, often resulting in conviction and the passing of the death sentence upon the mother. Her only plea was pregnancy, which could delay her sentence, although justice still needed to have been seen to be enacted.

Unlawful sexual behaviour and its outcomes were considered to be the business of the whole parish. Some Tudor couples openly lived together or attempted it in secret, like the widow Rebecca Purkas and William Hyde of Thaxted, who were only "discovered" in 1592, when Rebecca gave birth. Thomas Lynwood confessed in 1576 to deserting his three children and wife of seventeen years to live “a wicked and incontinent life” with a widow named Agnes Cawsey. In many few cases, villagers, gathered together in tithings, accused such couples before the justices; the punishment was often a fine or public whipping. Immorality was not acceptable once it became public knowledge or the arrival of a child necessitated funds from the parish coffers. Financial considerations often outweighed condemnation out of prudery. The Tudors were most certainly not prudish or precious when it came to sex and bodily functions.

Pornography has been around since ancient times; fine Roman examples are particularly abundant on the walls of surviving buildings. Beyond Raimondi’s attempt in 1524, very few images of this type appear to have survived from the sixteenth century. It is unclear whether English Tudor pornography existed in the form we would understand although nudity and depravity were commonly depicted. Many images of the naked female form graced artwork, tapestries, carvings and sculptures, but were often illustrative of moral, religious or historical tales, rather than as direct titillation. When “lewd” images occur, of males and females, the individuals are usually being punished in some circle of hell and are intended as a religious warning. The very real fear of damnation would probably have put a dampener on any excitement such pictures may have aroused. Yet they clearly depict the extremes of contemporary practices, or artistic perceptions of them in the brothels and stew houses along the South bank of the Thames. The advent of the printing press, set up by Caxton in the precincts of Westminster Palace in the 1480s, could have allowed for the greater distribution of images and made them more accessible, immediate and private.  This would have allowed for the development of pornography, although almost nothing of this type survives; instead, sexual and misogynistic jokes, poems and puns appear to fill this gap, along with their illustrations of wanton or semi-clad females. The thrill appears to have been found in female naughtiness and the need for chastisement. Little changes there. Graphic descriptions in works by Chaucer, Mandeville, Boccaccio, Aretino and others, point to a culture of sexually provocative language; it was an oral rather than a visual tradition of pleasure. Otherwise, the history of surviving English pornographic imagery appears empty until the seventeenth century.  

Whilst certain codes of sexual conduct prevailed among the Tudors, it is clear that their behaviour did not always neatly conform. Where and when they gave in to their natural urges and the resulting consequences were very much a function of their class and gender. Where their practices may most differ from modern behaviour, is in the lack of privacy that must have affected attitudes towards copulation. Sex was likely to have been as commonplace in many communities as other bodily functions, although once the results of it became apparent, the participants were called to account. However, it is indicative of the Tudor attitude that this was usually in order to provide for an illegitimate child rather than to punish those engaged in the act.

You are what you eat: Food and Status in Tudor Times.

What people ate in Tudor times depended on who they were. Every aspect of the process, from the formal to the informal, was indicative of status, even before any food was actually consumed. The ceremony of service, with its rituals and strict protocol, was vital to royalty and the nobility, as were the behaviour and appearance of those who served. Elaborate manners and rules often took priority over the actual process of consumption, posing the question whether the Tudors were more aesthetes than gourmands. When it came to the food itself, the ingredients, presentation and quantity of dishes consumed varied vastly, from the labourer with a bowl of boiled vegetables, to the King at a three course banquet, his food cooked in exotic spices and decorated with gold leaf. What, how and where you ate, denoted exactly where you stood in society.

The basic ingredients marked perhaps the greatest difference. For those on the lowest rung of the social ladder, meals comprised mostly seasonal vegetables, supplemented with oats, bread and pulses. Onions, leeks, pumpkins, spinach and garlic were the most common “worts” grown, with almost all Tudor households dependent on their own small plot of land, even those living in cities. Leeks were so popular among the poor that the kitchen garden often came to be known as the “leek garden”. Peas and beans were grown in larger, field crops and formed the basis of many people’s diet throughout the seasons. Many of the herbs the Tudor housewife would have relied upon are unrecognised now and no longer used, such as herb-mercury, sorrel, wormwood and mallows. Meat would have been an occasional treat, perhaps weekly or monthly, depending on the family’s resources. Apples, quinces and pears were stewed and preserved, baked in pastry or thickened with oats or bread crumbs to make a sort of pottage, or stew. Nuts were also harvested and stored as ingredients of pies and puddings; walnuts and hazelnuts were also eaten at the end of meals, to “close” the stomach. Many of these would have been available in season across England in Tudor times, although people were rather suspicious of fresh fruit, thinking it could upset the stomach and preferring dried or preserved alternatives.

Central to the diets of rich and poor were fish and bread. Both had religious connotations and their use varied hugely by class. As a Catholic country before the 1540s, fish was prescribed in England for fast days and afterwards, was still eaten to promote the industry. As Andrew Boorde wrote in his “Dyetary” in the 1540s, the country was well served by “sea-fysshe… fresh-water fysshe and …salt fysshe.” While the rich enjoyed shellfish, turbot, whale, porpoise and sturgeon, the poor made do with salted herring or dried cod. Storing and transporting it was a problem, so the best, freshest fish could be found at the coast, although medieval monasteries were famous for their carp ponds. The bread they ate varied in colour, with the shade of it literally equated with status. The finest, white flour was baked into hand-sized loaves for the richest tables while the poorer ate brown or even black bread, made up from the flour of ground acorns, peas and beans. Bread was a staple for everyone, with even the stale crumbs used in other recipes. It formed the basis of the breakfast consumed by labourers early in the morning, to get them through until the first formal meal of the day.

 

The yearly consumption of the household of George, Duke of Clarence (d 1478) was recorded in detail in the late fifteenth century. Wheat topped the list of supplies, coming in at over £205 for the year’s consumption, then wines were listed, at £206 for everyday drinking plus £20 for exotic imports such as malmsey, bastard (a Portugese sweet wine), romany and others. Ale then took up the largest proportion of income so far, with £486 spent on it annually. Twelve sheep were consumed daily, either powdered or fresh and £8 was spent on “boars.” Veal and pork were also popular, to the tune of £30 and £42 respectively. Fish days were well provided for, with the high status sturgeon and salmon eaten alongside eels, stockfish, sprats and herrings. As the brother of the King, Clarence’s consumption gives an idea of the amounts required to maintain a household at the highest end of the scale.

Spices were included in many dishes, not only to improve the flavour but to demonstrate a host’s wealth. London was the centre of the spice trade, where mixtures of ginger, cloves, saffron, almonds, cinnamon and pepper could be bought from the merchant or grocer, made up to different levels of heat. Among those listed in Clarence’s account are mace, nutmeg, liquorice, green ginger, raisins, currants and rice. Spices were used in all manner of dishes, sweet and sour, from tarts and pies, to plates of meat and savoury puddings. Sugar also arrived from Cuba and Jamaica, sold in large cones or loaves and sprinkled over dishes, rather like salt. Food was highly coloured on the richest tables too, with ingredients dyed brightly to catch the eye: green colouring came from spinach, yellow from egg yolk or saffron, red from sandalwood and blue from indigo. On special occasions, dishes were presented in rainbow stripes of colours and sweets were adorned with gold and silver leaf. The wealthy could also enjoy imported treats from Spain, Italy and Portugal; marmalade, oranges, figs, walnuts, lemons and pine nuts. All these expensive ingredients were kept carefully locked away in the kitchen, to prevent their theft by unprivileged hands. They were issued in small amounts by the cook, for the kitchen staff to use in recipes. Served up with in all their glory, they must have proved a real visual feast.

 

The feasts of the wealthy comprised many dishes and courses. One fifteenth century banquet, to celebrate the appointment of the Bishop of Ely, had three courses including dishes of venison, swan, pheasant and peacock all cooked in thick, spiced sauces, mixing sweet and sour. Custards and jellies were served alongside meat, which seems odd to the modern palate but typical of the fruit and meat combination that prevailed in many surviving dishes such as mince pies. Subtleties, carved from marchpane (marzipan) or sugar, came after each course, sometimes also before, when they were called “warners:” for the bishop of Ely, an impressive white lion was carved, as well as a scene of the nativity of St.John, God as a shepherd and various saints. Hours of labour must have gone into these, merely for the pieces to be briefly on show. Huge quantities of supplies were called for, running to thousands of deer, sheep, pigs, chicken and other varieties of meat. One Cardinal’s installation feast at Canterbury in the fourteenth century called for 36 oxen, 200 pigs, 100 hogs, 200 sheep, 973 capons, 1,000 geese, 9,600 eggs, 600 rabbits and 24 swans, all to feed 6,000 guests! The kitchens at Hampton Court, which Henry VIII obtained from his minister Wolsey in the late 1520s, give an impression of the scale of the operation, with the separate departments for baking, boiling, brewing and cooking, along with the sections dedicated entirely to the making of waffles and storing of spices. Different forms of food were kept in the wet or dry larders and large pieces of meat turned on spits in the huge fireplaces. Servants were often paid in kind; Clarence’s spicer received no fee except boxes of comfits and green ginger, while those in his scullery and saucer were allowed to keep the “garbage” of swans!

Since before the advent of the Tudors, kings had been regulating when and how they should eat. The fifteenth century saw a rash of household books on this, epitomised by Edward IV’s Black Book ordinances inspired by the Burgundian model. Manuals outlined the behavioural expectations for children and those in service: the right table manners could take you far while the wrong ones could ruin your chances! Henry VIII ruled in 1526 that his meals should be taken at eleven in the morning and six in the evening. All those in attendance needed to be clean and tidy, well-mannered and skilled at their jobs: the carver of meats was one of the highest respected positions and required knowledge of an exact science. The King and Queen sat on a raised dais in the Great Hall, looking down over their court and used the best gold plate, eating with spoons and knives encrusted with jewels. A set featuring rubies and pearls belonging to Henry VIII survives. Richard III dined off silver and gold at his 1483 coronation and drank from a cup of gold, covered in cloth of the same colour. At Henry VIII’s coronation feast in 1509, the King’s champion rode through the hall on horseback, wearing a plume of ostrich feathers, to challenge any who disputed his claim. At other times, royalty might dine quietly alone in their chambers, or invite special guests to join them in their apartments; in summer, or on special occasions, feasts were often eaten out of doors in huge tents and arbours. Not everyone was so fortunate.

 

One anonymous fifteenth poem, “Good Ale,” exposes the practices of those providing bad quality food for the poor. The narrator rejects brown bread as being made of bran and beef as being full of bones. Bacon is too fat for them, while mutton is too lean and tripe is “seldom clean.” Their eggs are full of shell and their butter contains hairs. The flesh of capons is too expensive while ducks are rejected because they “slobber” during life. Instead, the poem insists the only safe thing to consume is ale!

The poor man at his table, or eating in the fields as he worked, would have used his fingers and perhaps, one sharp knife of his own. At home, he would have eaten from iron, brass or pewter dishes; the wills written by lower class Tudors are full of bequests to friends of such tableware, as are accounts of their theft. Court records list how such items were often a target, giving an indication of what the average household possessed. In 1593, a Christopher Wood of East Ham, stole four pewter pots and eight pewter dishes from one Thomas Harrold. In 1600, two men were hung for stealing two dozen pewter dishes worth 10s from the house of Thomas Patch. Such items were clearly prized by the poor. They would have laid their table with them as proudly as the King with his gold and silver. If he was eating at home, there would be no one to serve the poorer Tudor man, except his wife and family. Etiquette must have given way to hunger and necessity, as the family dined in a room that was probably multi-functional. Pieces of dried meat were often hung from the ceiling in poor homes to smoke and herbs as well as other items were stored in main living rooms, high up, out of the reach of animals. To own and use a room specifically for eating was a significant social step up. Meals among the poor were more likely to fit in around working hours and take less time than the hour-long banquets enjoyed by the monarchy.

By the Elizabethan era, food had become even more impressive for the rich. The discovery of the New World and opening up of new trade routes brought more produce to England. The consumption of sugar rose. Noble women used their still room to create jams, jellies and “suckets” or candied pieces of fruit or flowers. Cordials were also popular as were preserved treats that could last through the long winter months. Elizabeth’s own teeth were supposedly blackened by her sweet tooth and the range of dishes available at her court reflected this. The main meal was often followed by a banquet consisting entirely of sweet foods, wafers, fruit and other delicacies that showed the expense the host had gone to. The more luxury and waste incurred by such a banquet, the greater the status displayed. Luckily for the poor, many of the left-overs were passed on to the Almoner, whose job it was to redistribute them among those who came to beg at the gates. This made the gap in status even more apparent, with the poor waiting for the scraps from his lord’s table.

The Tudors were very status-conscious. Throughout the period, food was a powerful visual tool used to re-enforce social position, along with clothing and housing. The diets of the rich were varied and exciting, both to eat and to look at. Eating was a ritual, with food on display to assembled guests, dressed in expensive sauces and spices. However, the meals of the poorer Tudors, eaten informally, with their emphasis on vegetables, were probably healthier and far closer to today’s ideal.

 

A Prince’s Household in life and death: the worldly goods of Henry Fitzroy, England's illegitimate Tudor heir.

 

 Henry VIII is well known for his desperate attempts to father a son. His first two wives failed in this respect; Catherine of Aragon’s short-lived Prince Henry died at six weeks old in 1511 and Anne Boleyn’s promised “son” turned out to be a daughter, in spite of what the prophets predicted. It was only with his marriage to Jane Seymour that the King finally became the father of a boy, Prince Edward, born after a difficult labour in October 1537. It was a Pyrrhic victory for his mother though, who paid with her life only days later. However, through the years of his long wait for a male-child to inherit the throne, Henry already had a son.

Some time in the second decade of his reign, while he was still young, athletic, chivalrous and attractive, young Henry’s eye was caught by a young, blonde gentlewoman in the household of his first wife, Catherine of Aragon. Her name was Elizabeth Blount, or Bessie, and she was probably aged between 12 and 14 when she first came to court, in around 1514. The chronicler Edward Hall describes her as winning the King’s heart by exceeding all others in “syngyng, daunsyng and all goodly pastimes.” Accomplished in many fields, she became Henry’s lover and fell pregnant with his child in the autumn of 1518, retreating from court soon after. She was not his first mistress but was the first to conceive out of wedlock and proved to the already anxious king that he was capable of fathering sons. Henry’s capable minister, Thomas Wolsey, oversaw the arrangements for Bessie’s lying-in, which took place at a priory known as Jericho, near Chelmsford, in Essex. In the summer of 1519, probably in June, her son was born. He was named Henry Fitzroy, both names alluding to his royal parentage. For the duration of his life, he would be the King’s only son and as such, a potential heir and King of England, even though he was illegitimate. When he died in 1536, at the age of seventeen, his household accounts showed that he lived a life equal to that of his royal sisters, as befitted a future monarch.

Elevated to the Dukedom of Richmond in 1525, when he was only six years old, Fitzroy was based in the North of England, resident at Sheriff Hutton and Pontefract Castles, with a significant staff to attend his every need. The list of servants for his kitchens alone numbered over sixty people, based in the pantry or cellar, the boiling house and scalding house, the spicery and wafery, or simply turning the spit over the fire. Henry took his son’s education seriously, engaging a series of impressive tutors, one of whom, the chancellor of Durham, William Frankeleyn, described the boy as “ a chylde of excellent wisdom and towardnes… good and quyk capacitie, retentive memorye, vertuous inclinasion to all honour, humanitie and goodness.” It seemed Fitzoy had all the qualities of an excellent future king. Later, he attended Parliamentary sessions and was at Henry’s side on state occasions; he was also with his father during personal tragedy. The King notoriously wept before Fitzroy in May 1536, claiming he had feared that Anne Boleyn was attempting to poison the youth. Ironically, Fitzroy did die about two months after Anne’s execution, on July 22 or 23. This may have taken place at Collyweston, once home to Margaret Beaufort, his paternal great-grandmother, whose property he had inherited along with his title, or at St James’ Palace. His funeral was held in Westminster and his body transported for burial to Thetford Priory, Norfolk. During the eighteenth century it was reinterred at Framlingham.

On July 25, an inventory was made of Fitzroy's worldly goods. It gives a fascinating insight into the life of this pampered Prince, whom Henry clearly considered as his possible heir in the event of his failure to produce a legitimate son. It gives us as record of his lifestyle, as if he had simply gone out and left his possessions as they were, as if we were able to enter his home and have a sneaky look around while he was out!  Among his clothes were gowns made of crimson damask, black and gold velvet, green and yellow satin and white velvet. These were decorated with Venice gold, a silver fringe, “swelling welts” and embroidery. Touchingly, one purple velvet gown was sewn with “grete buttons of golde,” one of which was missing. Fitzroy also owned a “rich dagger” trimmed with silver and gilt and a gold brooch featuring a naked woman. His dining table must have been splendidly decked out, with expensive ceremonial pieces; a number of golden salt cellars feature on the list, decorated with pearls and sapphire, in the form of dragons and unicorn horns. His golden spoons were engraved with roses and pomegranates, ironically the symbol of Catherine of Aragon, whilst his cup of gold was topped with a red flower, possibly another allusion to his parentage. An impressive array of jewels is included in the lists. He had golden ceremonial garters set with diamonds, bracelets of gold set with rubies and pearls, diamond rings, enamelled white roses and a chain of gold and black enamelled Paris work. Particularly poignant though, were the pair of slipper he left behind, which did not merit any further description.

As a Catholic, Fitzroy owned a large amount of religious artefacts, including chalices and other items necessary for the celebration of Mass. His ceremonial crosses were decorated with images of Mary and John, the Virgin, St.Peter and St. Dorothy, as well as other saints that he particularly favoured. A number of heavy gilt candlesticks were listed, to light an altar, as well as altar cloths and other vestments of velvet and cloth-of-gold. He also owned a “grete Mass book” with silver clasps and hangings for his chapel, depicting the Passion. Other, secular hangings for his household bore the images of the Lady Pleasaunce and the Virtues, Moses, Paris and Helen and hawking and hunting scenes.

The thirteen great beds to be found in Fitzroy’s home were dressed appropriately. The young man may have slept under a tester of gold, green tinsel and red velvet, with a multi-coloured fringe made of silk. Alternatively, he may have lain awake looking up at a tester of yellow and blue damask, with a panel of crimson velvet down the middle, fringed again with silk. His cushions were of quilted damask cloth-of-gold and he would have walked on three great carpets and twelve smaller ones. His royal status is made explicit with the existence of a chair of estate, under a cloth of gold, fringed with red silk, among other gold items of soft furnishing that speak of luxury and expectation.

A glimpse behind the scenes of his life is given in the items listed from the kitchens and stables. Simple described as “kechen stuffe,” Fitzroy’s meals would have been cooked in one of three brass pots bounded by iron and eaten off one of seventeen dishes. Pans, racks, gridirons and mortars were listed, common to most households of the time. On venturing out of his home, the youth would have travelled in style, on saddles made of green or black velvet, trimmed with buff leather and gilt work studs or great gilt buckles. He owned four large horses, six geldings, a little mule, three more mules for his carriage and three “nags,” some of which had already been given away.

The inventory of Friztroy’s goods, taken only three days after his death in 1536, allows us the closest possible opportunity to peep through the keyhole of his home. It is rather like a little time capsule of a Tudor household in its descriptions of colours, fabrics and quantities, which enable us to picture his goods and chattels in detail. It indicates a life of luxury, status, ceremony and devotion, quite representative of the upbringing expected of a Prince, even an illegitimate one. Up until his premature death, either of the lung complaint that had laid him low that spring, or of consumption (TB), he could potentially have stepped into his father’s massive shoes. By all accounts Henry was proud of his son, even introducing him to the French, King Francis I. He must have felt his loss keenly.

A further irony in Henry’s quest to father a son followed. Only six months after the youth’s death, Henry’s third wife, Jane Seymour fell pregnant. The following October, she was delivered of her son, the future Edward VI. He was also to die young, at a similar age to Fitzroy but Henry could not have known this; he finally had the legitimate male heir he had so longed for. It was some compensation for the loss of Fitzroy, whose death was another of those turning points in Tudor history at which one possible future vanished and another materialised. What sort of king would Henry IX have made, if events had turned out differently ? We can never know. The details of his splendid household, however, can serve as a sort of imagined mausoleum to a reign that never was.

What was it like to be a child in Tudor times ?

Today we value our children's early years as a time of innocence and important formative experiences. A huge market exists for furniture, clothing and toys specifically designed with our small people in mind and increasingly, their needs dictate the family's routines and choices. But this was not always the case. The concept of childhood, as a separate, sentimental and idealised period of development, is a relatively modern invention. Whilst now, children have rights and laws to protect them from harsh working hours and promote their health, safety and education, the survival of young people in the past was less certain and they were expected to adapt and conform to adult expectations more early.

In the Tudor period, average life expectancy was shorter and the likelihood of premature death by disease, infection or accident, place childhood mortality within a predictable framework. Yet, understanding of childcare differed greatly. Think of the modern home with its stairgates and safety plugs, with all sharp or dangerous objects removed and locks on the cupboard doors. When we read that Tudor babies spent the first year of their lives tightly swaddled in their cots, it seems contrary to our beliefs in their developing needs and the process of learning to walk. However, the unsupervised toddler, ranging free about the Tudor home with its uneven surfaces, open fires and boiling pans, was far safer when restricted to its bed. Court records are full of poor infants meeting with accidents when they ventured out of doors and windows, or toddled off down the street and fell in ditches. A heart-breaking amount of cases seem to have been readily preventable if a child had been supervised in the way they would be today. This isn't to suggest the average Tudor mother was negligent- and I do say mother rather than parents, as fathers were not directly involved in the care of small children. Then, mothers seemed to have different ideas and priorities and perhaps, fewer options. One upsetting tale recounts a baby left swaddled in a cot, all alone whilst the mother went out. On her return, she found it had been fatally injured by a scavenging wild pig that had entered the house !

Discipline was also far more severe for small children in Tudor times. Physical chastisement, which today would be considered abusive, was par for the course. In fact, most manuals recommended such treatment in order to train the offspring and act as a deterrent. Whilst today we understand that a baby's cries are its attempts to communicate with us or that a toddler may have a tantrum because it is frustrated, such behaviour was readily met with blows. Nor did these just come from the parents themselves; neighbours, apprentices and even strangers stepped in to discipline a child for what seem like very minor misdemeanours or even misunderstandings. This didn't create a sense of communal parenting; rather it taught the Tudor child that it had to be wary of everyone and learn to toe the line. No doubt there were many affectionate, loving parents but physical discipline was seen within that context and perpetuated through society; a mother would beat her child just as a husband would beat his wife or a master would beat his servant. It was an action that re-enforced social status and appears to have been a daily occurrence. Cases only appear in the courts when people went too far, as they often appear to have done.

The Tudors did recognised different developmental stages in their children. Whilst they were not exactly seen as small adults, it was understood that there were certain tasks they could not perform and certain rites of passage through which they must pass. Seven was a key early stage. Until then, boys were very much in the care of their mothers, dressed and treated the same as girls. From their seventh birthday onwards, their masculinity was asserted, their clothing changed and they entered male company more frequently. Poorer children were expected to work at this age: recent archaeological excavations show the effects of hard labour on the bones of children this young. The next stage was around twelve, when girls could be considered of marriageable age, rising to fourteen for boys. Some aristocratic matches were arranged well before this, in the children's infancy, after which they might be brought up in the household of their betrothed. Royalty were united young: Richard of York was married at the age of four in 1478 to a five-year-old heiress, Anne de Mowbray. Sometimes these matches did not work out but often, the pair were considered capable of consummating the union by their mid-teens, such as with Prince Arthur and Catherine of Aragon in 1501. Fourteen was also the traditional age for apprenticeships and service to begin. Boys and girls could be bound to a master and learn a trade for the next seven years, being sent away from home and working long hours, sometimes for little food or recompense. They had to follow strict rules of conduct or face dismissal and punishment. The bands of unruly apprentices that caused havoc on London streets must have been exploting their only outlet of freedom; small wonder these groups of repressed adolescents frequently turned to violence and mischief on feast days. The May Day riots of 1517 saw a few thousand young men causing mayhem in the streets under the excuse of xenophobia; many were captured but later pardoned by Catherine of Aragon.

Education was uneven across Tudor society. The wealthiest could afford their own private tutors. Henry VIII was taught by some of the leading thinkers of his day, such as poets Bernard Andre and John Skelton. Grammar schools did exist to instruct the sons of the middle classes in the basics, such as the one Shakespeare attended in Stratford-upon-Avon but there was no universal curriculum. Discipline was again harsh, classes large and experiences determined by the interest and character of the school master. Girls learned at home, from their mothers, who prepared them for their future lives as wives and mothers. A medieval poem "How the Goodwife taught her daughter" focuses on desireable behaviour and morals, such as modesty, charity and religion. Even Princess Mary was raised with these expectations, although she was then the heir to the throne. Other manuals, such as the fifteenth century "Babees' Book" and the poem "Urbanitantis", focused on table manners and a child's interactions with others; they were to speak sensibly when spoken to and otherwise remain silent. As the sixteenth century progressed, more noble women were taught to read, to enable them to run their own households. The survival of letters, diaries, poems and recipe books show how this skill was becoming increasingly valued. Later, when religious changes meant that people were encouraged to read the Bible themselves in English, more impetus existed for the teaching of literacy. The most prominent women set the example; Elizabeth I, Jane Grey and the daughters of Thomas More all received impressive educations and by the end of Elizabeth's reign, many more women were reading, writing and composing: the "Blue-stocking" had already been born.

Noble children's lives were strictly regimented. Aristocratic women did not breastfeed but sent out their babies to wet-nurses for the first year. Raised by strangers and frequently succumbing to illness or neglect, the survivors were sent home to a family they did not know. The diary of John Dee records the different nurses his children were sent to in the 1580s and the payments made for this service, of money, candles and soap. Children often lived in mini-establishments within their parents' own properties, with a household comprising nurses and carers, mixing with their relatives infrequently. This doesn't mean they were any less loved or appreciated but they did interact with their parents less frequently; affection must have developed between them in different ways. The old historical misnomer that Tudor parents did not love their children is disproved by the poems of loss that survive, for example, Ben Jonson's sonnet on the loss of his son. Children must have had a number of primary carers and formed attachments to those they saw frequently. Some must have retained affection for these figures all their lives, such as Henry VIII and his nurse, Elizabeth Denton and Elizabeth and Kat Ashley. Parents saw their roles as overseers of careful regimes, where bedtimes, meals, lessons and education were dictated for others to carry out. A diet containing meat was considered important for growth but milk was not safe to drink after midday; instead, children were served "small" beer. These experiences depended upon social status. Less time was allowed for "play" as we understand it today. The three-year-old Prince Arthur had a punishing regime of academic lessons in 1489, with only a brief window before bedtime to enjoy his favourite games and pet dogs.

The lives of children in Tudor times were often brutal and filled with experiences that would horrify the modern parent. Although they were recognised as different from adults, their needs appear to have been considered secondary and their education and training geared towards conformity. The early years were filled with potential dangers of illness, accident and violence although the decisions that may seem to us today to be misguided, actually represented the best efforts of Tudor parents. Much has changed in psychology and pedagogy since then.