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.

 

To drown or not to drown: The Sixteenth Century Suicide that Inspired "Hamlet".

    Above, Millais' Ophelia 1851-2. Below, the river Stour as it passes through Canterbury

                                                    

 

I live in Canterbury. It’s not the only English city overflowing with history but it is a compact little circle, with plenty of Norman, medieval and Tudor features sitting atop its Roman streets. Until fairly recently, I used to teach English in a grammar school set in fields overlooking the cathedral. I often used my location to inject a bit of colour into my lessons, encouraging small boys to picture Chaucer’s pilgrims walking up the present day high street to the Checker of the Hope Inn, which is now a sweet shop, or Christopher Marlowe being born on the site of the new shopping centre. For a few years, I taught Hamlet for AS-level coursework, spending whole days acting and analysing imagery, context and the conventions of tragedy. Imagine my surprise then, when I was researching the history of my street in the sixteenth century and found that it had a direct influence on Shakespeare’s portrayal of the death of Ophelia.

I live off a long, wide road called Wincheap, or Wine chepe, as it was in the medieval period when merchants gathered there to sell their imported wines. It begins opposite the Norman Castle and passes out of the old city walls for about a mile before it reaches the Thanington area. The manor there was owned by the prominent local Hales family, whose patterns of fertility and childbirth I was studying, when I uncovered an interesting anecdote about Sir James Hales.

Born around 1500, the son of John Hales, MP for the city, James had prospered under the regime of Henry VIII and Edward VI, becoming a judge and Baron of the Exchequer. However, as a devout Protestant, he had refused to convert to Catholicism under Mary and fell foul of Bishop Gardiner, who had him imprisoned. James appears to have been a volatile and melancholy character; his misfortune led him to try and commit suicide with a knife whilst in the Tower. By August 1554, he had been released and was staying with his nephew at the Thanington Manor when he succeeded in killed himself by lying face-down in the river. This branch of the Stour now runs alongside a path popular with walkers and cyclists, along which I had walked on the very day that I later discovered James’ fate.

                                                            ....and more Stour

Hales’ death prompted a famous court case. His widow, Margaret, attempted to regain some of his property, which according to sixteenth century legal practice, would have been forfeit in the case of James taking his own life. Bizarrely, the argument turned on whether the “felony” had occurred before Hales’ death or afterwards. In 1554, the coroner had ruled that his death was a criminal act but the case dragged on until 1562, when the ruling finally went against Margaret. The lawyer Sir Edmund Plowden published a full report of the case in 1571, so it is likely that Shakespeare saw his version of this infamous struggle. It appears to have crept into the conversation of two incidental characters in one of his best known plays.

At the start of act five, two “clowns” debate the legal question of suicide. This is prompted by the death of Hamlet’s beloved Ophelia, whom, we understand, was “clambering to hang” the “fantastic garlands” she had made on a willow tree growing over a brook. When the branch broke and she fell, her heavy garments weighed her down and, driven to madness by Hamlet’s murder of her father, was “incapable of her own distress.” One clown tells us she is to have a Christian burial but the other argues that this is contrary to the contemporary notion that to take one’s own life was “self-murder,” thus excluding the culprit from burial in consecrated ground or receiving funeral rites. Then follows an odd little speech explaining that it is one thing if a man goes to water to drown himself and quite another if the water comes to him. This is almost word for word what the inquest ruled in the case of Canterbury’s James Hales.

When teaching Hamlet, I always found this scene strange. I can accept the juxtaposition of the jaunty little humour with the morbidity of Ophelia’s funeral; it’s a necessary outlet from all the intense passion. But this little section of dialogue seemed to relate to something so specific and sit oddly with the rest of the scene, that I concluded that there was simply something I was missing. Now I know what it was.

                                           .... and the final piece of Stourage!

As we walked home from town beside the river Stour this Saturday, the “glassy stream” was peaceful. There were indeed trees, if not willows, growing aslant the brook, reflecting their “hoar leaves” in its clear waters and nettles and daisies growing alongside. There were also teenagers on bikes, high speed trains rattling alongside and toddlers playing pooh sticks. Strange to think that almost five hundred and fifty years before, one man’s act of despair here could have inspired one of the greatest tragic scenes in early modern drama.


This piece originally appeared in the Huffington Post on May 13, 2013

To Bring on the Flowers: Medieval Women Menstruating.

 It happened once a month for most of their adults lives. So, on a practical level, how did medieval women cope with menstruation and how was it seen by society in general?

                                                 Women in a fifteenth century Italian breviary

Firstly, it may be the case that a modern perspective underestimates the medieval woman by even asking the question “how did they cope?” Just as today, it was a part of life which routinely had to be dealt with; perhaps the average medieval and Tudor woman was more pragmatic about her bodily fluids in a world which contained less privacy and a greater emphasis on the functions of fertility. Was the monthly period considered a “curse” or in fact a blessing that marked an important transition to womanhood and the ability to bear children? Herbals make reference to the “flowers;” an image which has far more positive connotations of blossoming and growth than later, nineteenth century monikers, yet it is clear that women were self-conscious at the time of their menses and took steps to avoid detection. Menstruating women carried round nutmegs and nosegays to conceal any arising odours, as the corrosive power of the female reproductive fluids, transmittable through smell, constituted a real fear at the time. To stem a heavy flow, women were advised to take the hair from an animal’s head and bind it to a “green” or young tree; another “proven” remedy advocated burning a toad in a pot and wearing the powder in a pouch around the waist. If this failed, recipes using comfrey, nettle and blackberry, alongside the repetition of “magical” numerical formulae were suggested. This was mainly in response to social reactions, determined by the church, which defined the menstruating woman as unclean.

Church teaching encompassed a variety of beliefs in the unsavoury and potentially damaging nature of menstrual blood. It was a punishment from God that all women had to bear as a result of Eve's temptation, therefore pain relief was not allowed as cramping and suffering was part of the divine plan. Holy women, fasting and abstemious, often found that their periods stopped, which was interpreted more as a sign of favour than a response to their restricted diet. As a function of a wider cultural misogyny, these were disseminated in different degrees between parishes but included the ideas that women should not take Holy Communion during their time of the month and that couples should refrain from sexual intercourse during this time, as any children born to them would be red-haired and puny. Menstrual blood was also feared by men as a corrosive forces representative of female power. One belief stated that it could damage the penis on contact, or that men might unsuspectingly consume it in love potions! It had the power to turn new wine sour, make fruit fall from trees, kill bee hives, give dogs rabies and make crops turn barren. A child in a cradle could be poisoned by the gaze of an old, pre-menopausal woman, whose accumulation of blood would lead to poisonous vapours being given off by her eyes!  The overactive female cycle was also considered to play a significant part in the creation of stillborn or unformed foetuses or “moles.” There were some living and some dead moles, thought to occur when the man’s seed was weak, barren or imperfect; or that it had been choked through the abundance of menstrual blood. As one of a number of mysterious maternal excretions, including placentas, umbilical cords and birth cauls, the supposed “magical” properties of female blood were treated with suspicion by those excluded from the birth chamber.

 Medieval and Tudor surgeons did not fully understand the role that menstruation played in the reproductive cycle. Women were possessed of imperfect or inverted versions of male reproductive organs, with their cold and wet “seed” emitted to mingle with that of the hot, dry male, resulting in conception. The courses were understood to be the body’s method of shedding unnecessary, accumulated blood, without which, the womb would become overrun with fluid and could “choke” or “suffocate” a woman. Bleeding from a vein or any other part of the body was considered the same as menstrual bleeding, a means of removing the dangerous excess, meaning that the practise of barber surgeons opening patients’ veins was seen as a suitable cure for amenorrhea, or the cessation of the courses. Bleeding a patient was the most common way to treat this condition, to prevent consumption by body heat and the development of “mannish” characteristics. Among many beliefs regarding the female cycle, was that the failure to menstruate made a woman dangerously “masculine” and prone to many forms of madness and fits. Other remedies included hot baths, pessaries placed in the vagina or, for married women, intercourse. Trotula of Salerno wrote that a woman who failed to menstruate as the result of fasting should eat good food and drink to “give her good blood.” Women of all classes would have had recourse to herbal remedies too. The regularity with which commonplace books contain recipes to “bring on a woman’s courses,” suggest this must have been a common problem. The herb rue, drunk in the evening was supposed to be particularly effective, as were savin and mixtures of wine and hyssop. Shepherd’s purse, St John’s wort, Bishop’s weed and wallflower were all suggested and could be found growing wild, according to one medieval Herbarium. A 1476 medical text included recipes for inducing menstruation with a blend of soda, figs, garlic seed, myrrh and lily ointment, or else pulped cucumber flesh mixed in milk. These could be drunk or inserted into the vagina on pessaries of soft wool. Others suggested dates, hazelnuts and saffron.  Fine lines demarcated their administration: it was safe to drink rue in the evening but lethal in the morning.

  There is no doubt that the onset of menstruation marked an important stage in determining the transition from childhood to womanhood in the medieval and Tudor marriage stakes. The age of consent, set variously at between twelve and fourteen throughout Europe, appears commensurate with the arrival of the menarche. It was also a class-dependent issue, as a certain weight and percentage of body fat was required to trigger the first period. Young women of the upper classes, leading less physically active lives and eating a higher proportion of meat were considered by their contemporaries to commence their cycles earlier and bleed more heavily. Margaret Beaufort was clearly menstruating before her teens as she gave birth to the future Henry VII at the age of thirteen in 1457. Those lower class females whose lives were more physically active and diets comprised more vegetables started their cycles later, a fact which is borne out in the statistics relating to the age of marriage, although these are also determined by many other economic and social factors.

 At the other end of the age range, the onset of the menopause appears to have been much earlier than today. Patterns of births to upper class women suggest that this happened in the mid to late thirties, having been brought forward by frequent childbirth. Catherine of Aragon’s menopause came in 1525/6 when she was 40, after six pregnancies, but many of her contemporaries who bore in excess of ten children did not reproduce after around the age of thirty-five. For many, death rapidly followed, when they were in their late thirties or early forties. Mary Rose, Henry VII’s younger sister bore four children, between the ages of twenty and twenty-seven and died a decade later. His elder sister Margaret fared better, bearing her seventh child at the age of twenty-six and surviving for the same number of years again. Elizabeth of York, Duchess of Suffolk bore at least eleven children, between the ages of eighteen and thirty-six. The final cessation of the monthly period and arrival of the menopause would have left women more vulnerable to certain illnesses then, just as it does today.

  Returning to the purely practical aspect of menstruation, women of all classes needed some method of absorbing blood flow. Well into the twentieth century, the age-old “rags” were used, torn and stuffed between the legs, although they were dependent upon the use of some form of girdle of underwear to hold them in place. Trotula refers to wads of cotton being used to clean the female genitals, inside and out. Certains types of moss were also used to absord the blood flow from wounds and may well have also been used by women to staunch their flow as well as filling for washable cloth pads. Other recent suggestions have included cloth tampons, anointed with honey and oil, with a tie around the thigh. The traditional red coloured petticoats, worn next to the skin under many layers of skirts may have owed their existence in part to a desire to minimise and absorb stains. Those engaged in manual work or physical activity must have had some way of ensuring their rags or pads remained in place. The discovery of a very modern looking pair of pants in an Austrian castle in 2008 suggests that such support was available, although the nature of medieval and Tudor undergarments still leaves many questions unanswered. Perhaps some women did retire for physical or religious reasons, for the duration of their menstruation, considering themselves unclean or incapacitated. For others, there was little choice but to carry on and put their trust in whatever remedies were available to them. The secret washing of “rags” and numerous customs regarding the nature and odour of menstrual blood imply that periods were a mixed blessing for the medieval and Tudor woman. They were an important rite of passage in an era which placed a high value on fertility yet they were also a source of shame and inconvenience. Typically though, this paradox fits much of the historic female experience, with women encouraged to define their bodies through masculine eyes and to lose ownership over their own natural functions. Medieval and Tudor women did not record their experiences of their “flowers;” they are referred to, often euphemistically in medical texts, yet for females of all classes and a range of ages, it was simply a necessary part of life upon which their society depended.

 

 

When breast wasn't best: Breastfeeding in Medieval and Tudor England

                                    "Caritas" by Lucas Cranach the elder, early C16th

 The medieval manuscript “Le Chanson du Chevalier du Cygne et du Godefroid du Bouillon” tells the story of the eleventh century Count Eustace and his wife Ydain, Yde or Ida, who bore him three sons. She was considered unusual for insisting on suckling her babies herself: “never did Countess Yde…suffer that one of her sons… should be suckled by a waiting-woman.” When one boy was fed by another as she attended Mass, she suffered an extreme physical reaction: “all her heart shook” and she fell on a seat in pain, gasping her heart and calling herself a “poor leper.” Then, trembling in a rage, with her face “black as coal with the wrath therein” this “saintly and devout” Countess shook her son until he vomited up his feed. Today, this might be considered abusive; then, it was an example of the behaviour that led to her canonisation! However, not all medieval and Tudor women responded in this way. Yde’s was a fairly extreme reaction and completely atypical of most of her contemporaries’ experiences. Much of the surviving evidence suggests they were keen to pass on their newborns to wet nurses as soon as possible.
 

Gerard David, Rest during the Flight to Egypt, ca. 1515, Museo del Prado, Madrid

 

 

 Breastfeeding in medieval and Tudor times was usually considered an inconvenience. While the nobility and upper class women’s primary function was to produce healthy children, preferably sons, it was not their responsibility to nourish them. That was the job of lower class females. One reason was that medical advice warned against intercourse during lactation, as it “troubled” the milk and might result in a new pregnancy which could cut off the milk supply to the detriment of an existing baby. The church advised against it. Another primary motive for this was the rapid restoration of a woman’s fertility. Breastfeeding provides natural protection against pregnancy by delaying the onset of the menstrual cycle, usually for between six months and a year. The first milk, or colostrum, was initially thought harmful to a child but this did not deter lower class women who tended to follow medical opinion that babies should be fed immediately, for about a year. Also, it was free and convenient. Parish records taken from eight towns and villages in Essex between 1530 and 1600, indicate that the average conception interval between siblings was nine months, supporting the theory that among these poorer families, babies were being breastfed by their mothers. In Little Clacton, few babies were conceived during the months following a live birth: the most common interval was between seven and twelve months, rising to between one and two years. Only around three percent of all conceptions in this group took place under three months since the mother’s lying-in, although the record gives no indication of social class. This small percentage may have represented to local noble families. At South Ockenden, a similar pattern emerges, with subsequent conceptions occurring most between two and three years, then between seven and twelve months: in only two cases out of 114 live births, did conception take place in less than three months. This contraceptive effect is ironic given religious teaching about the adverse effects of copulation during lactation: in reality, many couples appear to have taken advantage of it.

Francois Clouet, mid C16th- possibly Henri II's mistress Diane de Poitiers

 

 For Queens, the handing over of their baby to a wet nurse was not a choice. It was expected that they would resume their duties as soon as possible. Anne Boleyn was unusual in her desire to feed her daughter Elizabeth herself, considering children a blessing: “the greatest consolation in the world,” although even she had to give way to the pressure of her role and Elizabeth was set up in her own establishment at Hatfield. It was common for royal babies to live in completely different palaces from their mothers. Queens and noble woman also had significant duties to perform in terms of the management of the family estates, particularly in the absence of her husband; this could involve everything from domestic management, to receiving local supplicants of visitors, to the defence of her property, as the letters of Margaret Paston prove in the middle of the fifteenth century. Two of Henry VIII’s wives, Catherine of Aragon and Catherine Parr acted as regent in Henry’s absences during his French campaigns.

 The regular routine of breastfeeding would incapacitate an otherwise busy Lady and prevent this, thus it was passed to an appointed female, either a household appointment, or a woman in the vicinity. Many were recommended by word of mouth or already known to the family, often having recently borne their own child, although it had to be of the same gender as the nursling. Only the richest could absorb such a nurse into their own family unit or baby’s establishment: most were sent out of the home. In fact, during the first year of their life, most middle and upper class babies were sent out into the houses of strangers, whose suitability was judged almost entirely on their physical appearance. The nurse was considered able to pass on her characteristics to a child through her milk, so her diet was supposed to be good and wholesome, without too much garlic or strong foods; also she was to be of good, placid nature and healthy appearance, with clear skin and no visible afflictions. In royal households, tasters were appointed to check her food was not poisoned or too strong before she ate. Babies were often sent out of cities or towns into the more “wholesome” countryside. Parents sometimes contributed extra to support the wet nurse’s diet or lifestyle. The doctor John Dee made additional payments towards such essential items as soap and candles for those women suckling his children in the 1570s. Their vulnerability was also recognised: arrangements were speedily made for the transference of children from one place to another when illness or plague came close.

                                      Early C16th Cranach, from Larvik Church, Norway 

 Sadly, many cases are recorded in the parish registers of the death of such children, listed either by name or as “a nursling child.” In the parish of Good Easter, Essex, the burial of Henry Coot, a nurse child of Chelmsford, was recorded on April 18 1590 and that of Thomas Watt on 28 November 1596. “Dorrothe Person, a nurse child of London” was buried at Chelmsford on July 11 1550, while in the parish of St Mary Magdalene, Great Bursted, Essex, the burial was recorded of an unnamed nursling child in 1599 “being a man chylde of a saylors;” the names of the mothers and the village wet nurses are not listed. Deservedly or not, by Elizabethan times, wet nurses had a reputation for carelessness. Infant mortality was high anyway, with the first year of life proving the most perilous but it has been estimated that the death rate for babies sent out to be nursed was double that of those fed by their mothers. The reasons for this may be complex: poor diet, health and living conditions among the lower classes may be to blame, additionally, wet nurses may have been dividing their attention and their milk, between multiple charges. The stereotype of the exhausted or drunken nurse, falling asleep and “overlaying” a child during feeding, found much support in late sixteenth and early seventeenth century broadsheets and pamphlets, as did the trope of the wicked woman, murdering infants in her charge whilst continuing to be paid for their services.

 Undoubtedly, though, many wet nurses cared for other women’s babies diligently and with affection. Folklore remedies had advice to offer the breastfeeding woman; she should wear a gold or steel chain to stop milk curdling and to aid her milk flow, she should sip milk of a cow of a single colour, then spit it out into running water, swallow a mouthful of that water and recite a charm. Receipt books drew on local herbs and ingredients accessible in a domestic context to make poultices and dressings. Mallow and the bitter wormwood, also used for weaning, were considered most efficacious. If milk was lacking, or feeding proved difficult, babies were fed with animal milk, sucked from rags or through drinking horns. When a mother was unavailable, ill, poor, dissolute or deceased, the parish took charge of the infant’s nursing, drawing from what must have been a pool of suitable women: it was important though, that the child was supported at the location of its birth, for around a year. Boys were often suckled for longer than girls though, possibly even up to two years, as they were considered less independent. After the year had passed, such infants might remain with the nurse or else be placed in the parish. Many children retained affection for those who suckled or nursed them, later into life, remembering them with gifts or in their wills. During this time, they may have little contact with their birth family, returning to their parents’ home as a little stranger. Where such women were members of the household, they then became governesses or assisted in raising the children in other ways. Perhaps the most famous literary example is Juliet’s nurse, who has been a constant through the heroine’s fourteen years and appears closer to her than her own distant mother.

 

Joos van Cleve, The Holy Family, ca. 1515, Akademie der bildenden Künste, Vienna

 

 In the past, the case has been made that this attitude towards breastfeeding was one of the contributing factors towards distance in parent-child relations in the past. This has been successfully challenged by historians, recognising that it is anachronistic to apply our pedagogical standards to the cultures of other centuries. In fact, medieval and Tudor parents would have considered themselves to have made excellent provision for their babies by arranging a suitable wet nurse and there are many cases, such as John Dee and his wife, of great care being taken to provide for and safeguard both. Modern attitudes towards breastfeeding may have changed but ironically, they put the twentieth century breastfeeding mother closer in experience to poorer women of the past.

 

 

Sleep tight! Going to bed in Medieval and Tudor England.

Pillows were for girls, lying down was dangerous and invalids should nap standing up!

                                   MS images of the Birth of Louis VIII of France in the 1180s

 

According to medieval and Tudor beliefs about beds and sleeping, modern practices are opening us up to all sorts of spiritual and physical dangers. Between seven and nine hours of sleep were recommended but this depended upon individual body types; with all people categorised according to the Galenic four humours, too much or too little sleep could cause dangerous imbalances and lead to illness. Nor did children require more sleep: one late fifteenth century manual suggested seven hours was sufficient. This would roughly equate to summer time daylight hours, with an extra hour in the winter. In the mid Sixteenth century, physician Andrew Boorde was recommending two periods of sleep at night, with people rising briefly between them. This was also supposedly the best time to conceive children. Sleepers should lie first on one side then the other, in dry rooms to which snails, spiders, rats and mice had no access. All windows should be closed and a fire should be kept burning to drive away the pestilence and foul sleeper’s breath. Those who were ill or unable to sleep well at night should try to nap during the day, according to Boorde but this was best done standing up, leaning against a wall or cupboard.
 

                                          MS image of Philip IV of France in bed c1314

Medieval beds were comparatively simple. Peasants would literally “hit the hay” wrapped only in a cloak or single blanket; nor did most people have separate rooms for sleeping in. Actual bedframes were cause for much pride and passed down in wills to family or friends. In 1540, Margery Wren left her son Geoffrey a red and green bed canopy; apparently he already had the bed.  But this in itself was a sign of wealth, when the bed would have been the largest and most expensive possession in the house. Rich and poor alike took pride in this expression of their status and might save up for a bedstead for years. The Elizabethan traveller William Harrison reflected on past practices:

"... straw pallets, covered onelie with a sheet, under coverlets … and a good round log under their heads in steed of a bolster, or pillow. If it were so that our fathers or the good man of the house, had within seven years after his mariage purchased a mattress or flockebed, and thereto a sacke of chaffe to resh his head upon, he though himself to be as well lodged as the lord of the town, that peradventure laye seldome in a bed of downe or whole feathers; so well were they contended, and with such base kind of furniture..."

             Reconstruction of beds c1465 at the Walraversijde medieval village in Belgium

 

Four poster beds developed during the Tudor period. Before then, canopied and half testers were known in upper class circles, with their richly embroidered hangings made out of warm velvets and taffetas. Curtains were hung from the ceiling and beds were raised up on platforms or legs. The medieval merchant’s house in Southampton contains an impressive example of such a bed with hangings attached to the ceiling. All sorts of colours and combinations were used in the outer bedding and drapery; rich reds, greens, yellows and blacks being popular, along with cloth of silver and gold and many coloured tassels and fringes. Joanna of Castile’s book of hours of around 1500 includes a picture of a large bed draped and covered in emerald green. Edgings of fur were common to keep in warmth; ermine for the King and squirrel for the middle classes. Quilts were made from linen and padded with wool like the white and brown Tristan Quilt in the Victoria and Albert Museum, dating from 1360-1400.  Full scale tales and legends as well as Biblical and heraldic images were often depicted in embroidery as on this work. Wooden headpieces were elaborately carved, often with the owner’s coat of arms and personal motifs: the finest examples, made for royalty took months to make, such as the one Henry VIII commissioned for his bedroom at Whitehall in the 1530s. An inventory of wealthy gentleman Thomas Offley’s bedroom, made in 1582, listed a plain bedstead dressed with wool mattress, feather bed and bolster, white and red blankets, a green coverlet embroidered with letters and flowers, canopy and curtains of yellow and blue dyed canvas as well as a trundle or truckle bed for his servant. 

                                                The late Elizabethan Great bed of Ware

Mattresses were stuffed with whatever material was available, from feathers or wool, down to moss and rags; these were laid across a framework of tightly knotted ropes, which needed to be retied regularly as they were prone to sagging in the middle. Hence the expression “sleep tight.” The poorest slept on mattresses of straw on the floor; servants had simple wooden beds on wheels which were stored away out of sight during the day, often under the beds of their masters. Beds were warmed by placing a hot brick or stone from the fire among the sheets or copper saucepans full of coal, which evolved into the more familiar bedpan. Pillows or beres were considered unmanly, reserved for the old, young girls and pregnant women, yet there was also a belief that it was necessary to sleep propped up to prevent devils entering the open mouth and stealing away your soul. Real men rested their heads on logs!
 

 Green canopied bed from the Book of Hours owned by Joanna of Castile c1500, British Library

Clean white linen from Rennes was the most desirable material for sheets but this would need a lot of care. The usual method was “bucking”- soaking it in lye, made from ashes and urine to cleanse and whiten it. It was a lengthy and physically hard process, to scrub and wring out all the sheets several times over. For the richest, laundry women were employed but levels of hygiene would decrease significantly the further down the social scale. Washing was spread out flat to dry rather than hung, pictured lain out on Goodman’s field and Tower Hill on old maps of London. Lice were a common problem and only removable by regular washing and combing. Many people from all ranks of society were used to sharing their beds with lice but fleas were unthinkable and carried the stigma of uncleanliness and immorality.

                               The public occasion of Henry VII's death at Richmond, 1509

 

                                           Henry VIII on his impressive death bed, 1547

Beds were social places. The richest met guests and conducted meetings from them. Key events of birth and death had far greater public significance for royalty and the wealthy, often being witnessed by friends, family and interested parties, with privacy being far less common. Co-sleeping was very common, especially in inns where travellers were expected to share beds with strangers, each lying on their own half, with rules existing for being a considerate bedfellow. In the poorer establishments, sleeping arrangements consisted of a simple wooden bench with a rope hung horizontally about chest height. Travellers would cram along the bench and hang their arms over the rope for support; in the morning they would be cleared out and the area washed down. Other inns and monasteries offered simple straw mattresses with sheets, raised off the floor on boards or woven rushes. The most famous example of a large bed is that of the late Elizabethan great bed of Ware, designed to attract customers to the inn where it stood, referred to by Shakespeare and Jonson. Sleeping fifteen people at once, it is typical of four poster beds of its time in everything but its size. The most lowly servants slept communally in the Great Hall or in large servants dormitories, with men and women usually separated, although this did not stop determined wooers, such as Catherine Howard’s history proved. Beds were also places of courtship, with some communities allowing unmarried couples to practise “bundling”- spending time together in bed whilst separated by a bolster placed down the middle! Beds were often portable too, with those of royalty being dismantled and transported between palaces as they travelled, ensuring a good night’s sleep when they arrived. Who they might be sharing it with though, was quite another matter…

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-

 

 

Don't Get Your Medieval Knickers in a Twist!

 

 

What did medieval and Tudor men and women wear under their clothes ? For a large percentage of the population, clothes were laboriously handmade and passed down in wills and bequests. Few people outside the aristocracy had extensive wardrobes, which suggests early forms of underwear were also fairly homely and plain. Given the strength of the English wool market in the fourteenth century, spinning and knitting were very common; such garments could be easily made and repaired at home. Much depends upon climate too; while wool would be suitable for cold, wet winters, lighter fabrics such as linen would be more suitable for warmer times and affordable for the wealthy. Even for royalty, though, keeping themselves clothed could be pricy: Elizabeth of York paid 6d for a pair of socks in 1502, when a labourer might earn a daily wage of 4d. However, while the twenty-first century bra with all its technology and varieties seems strikingly modern, may be considerably older than we think.

Excavations in an Austrian castle in 2008 turned up a vault filled with medieval textiles, including what appear to be some early examples of underwear. Many were made from linen but some also had outer layers of colourful wool. The bras comprised shaped cups and straps, with decorated borders of a form of lace and a possible back strap. Another had a longer body section, giving it the appearance of a modern corset with eye-holes to be laced together with ribbons. Radio-carbon dating has confirmed these items came from the fifteenth century. Larger breasts may have been bound, as Shakespeare has his cross-dressing heroines do, although this was likely to have been more practical when manual labour was being undertaken. With many working women of childbearing years breastfeeding though, this would have been impractical and suggests the existence of long-perished garments in the model of those discovered at Lengburg Castle.

 men's pants from Lengburg Castle

Knickers were quite a different matter though. In the late medieval and Tudor periods, they were more likely to have been worn by men! A pair found recently in Austria resemble a modern white bikini bottom, with ties at the hip. These old pants were considered to be signs of dominance and power; men required them for support and protection, emphasising their superiority over women, who wore layers of skirts but no other underwear. This must have made life difficult during menstruation, which was absorbed by the traditional rags. Some sort of early girdle or belt must have been required to hold these in place!

The thirteenth century Maciejowski Bible depict both men and women in hose and the exclusively male braies or breeches. These come close to a baggy sort of long knickers, loose about the bottom and rolled over at the waist, while hose were three-quarter length stockings which were tied up to a waist band. Manuscript illustrations show workers stripped down to this bottom layer when labouring. Women’s hose and socks are far less visible in these images, with usually just the foot showing, although these are often striped. They could be tied in the same way as the men’s, creating a complicated system of knots under the outer layers of clothing, although many were shorter and held in place by garters. The quintessential codpiece, from “cod” or scrotum was originally a soft flap or pouch, again tied in place, which may have been an integral part of the braies or else a separate attachment. With this as the only covering, male genitals were left vulnerable and exposed as hem lines rose; correspondingly, the cod piece became more substantial. By the time of Henry VIII’s famous groin-centric portrait of 1537, it was a symbol of potency and virility. They were shaped and padded for emphasis, with some even made of metal but died out towards the end of the sixteenth century.

 

                                              Men in braies from the Maciejowski Bible

So little early underwear survives that any comprehensive theory on its use and existence must be ruled out. For women, with their long dresses, the situation is even less certain, although practicality, budget and climate must have dictated whatever solutions they found for everyday wear. No doubt what appears elusive and fascinating now was commonplace then; is it too hard to imagine scholars in the twenty-fifth century getting excited over the lingerie of the present? At least there will be plenty of documentation.

                                                     Henry VIII's codpiece