Capturing the King's Face: An Interview with Laurie Harris, the artist behind a new portrait of Richard III.

 My new book, "Richard III: The Road to Leicester," features a fascinating new interpretation of the King by an exciting young artist, Laurie Harris. I spoke to Laurie about the way he approached the portrait, his thoughts about the man and his influences:

   

How did you research the portrait?

Perhaps the core objective I set myself for this new portrait of Richard III was to produce a recognisably human figure we can all, to some extent, connect with. This involved stripping back some layers of royalty and title, and presenting an altogether plainer vision which lends itself to graphite and charcoal. The tonal range cleaves closer together and unifies the image in its ordinariness and essence, which helps to divest some of the grandeur of Richard’s position. This is an aspect I thought lacking in other pictures I have seen of Richard III, which contrast the figure more starkly against his robes and riches. Most keenly was this brought to my attention when I visited London to observe the two anonymously authored 15^th/16^th Century colour portraits housed in the National Portrait Gallery. Richard is depicted with a pained expression (in fact not unlike the expression in my portrait), dressed in all his finery, and ambiguously fingering his ring. (Students of semiotics could have a field day!) To me these paid close attention to the dynamic of and contrast between the man and the title, thereby manifesting a political intention, which I can say did not intentionally factor in to my designs. Aesthetically I took much greater interest in capturing the scientific reality of Richard – that is, closely analysing the recent reconstruction of his face put together by a team at Leicester University using the craniometry of his recently unearthed skull. The bust they produced was a revelation but, to my eyes at least, a little stale and lacking vitality. So I went about trying to inject some emotion, some humanity and some life, as better identified in the earlier portraits. Thus, the combination of a scientific foundation and a human interest sensibility perhaps makes my portrait a very contemporary production.

 

What impressions did you draw of Richard and how did you convey them in the drawing?

I was aware of some of the controversy surrounding Richard III. Certainly this is a man whose reputation and legacy remains fluid and indefinite, and it is perhaps that contestation and dispute that account for his endurance in the public imagination. Shakespeare’s ‘Crookback’ characterisation of course has done much to guide public perception through the ages, but the  posthumous play seems likely part of a Tudor propaganda offensive used to discredit Richard and distort or embellish real truths. The question of whether the ‘disappeared’ Princes in the tower, Richard’s two nephews, were executed by Richard remains a pertinent one. To my mind, any ruler seeks to legitimate his or her right to rule whether through ancestry, ritual, myth-making, or plain bloodshed, so the question I posed myself was how ruthless was this man’s desire to rule? Would he kill his nephews without feeling? Would he kill them with profound conflict? Would he kill them at all? To that extent I weighed down more sympathetically on Richard. I wanted to eke out something of the man, and thus rather suggest the crown through the man. In that sense I tried to convey something of the human impact of Kingship, such as those revealed by the fate of his nephews. To this extent I suppose I am intimating a certain humanity and feeling to Richard, which perhaps courts as much controversy as befits the figure.

 

What are your influences as an artist?

When I was young my parents read a story to me called ‘Christopher and the Dream Dragon’, written by Allen Morgan and illustrated by Brenda Clark. The pictures were greyscale and the story of a boy who has to recover a coin from the dragon’s golden hoard nestled away amongst the clouds really shook my imagination. Perhaps I can say that since that point, fantasies, myths, fairy tales and high adventures (culturally coloured throughout the world) have been my home away from home. Pictures, as words, are dialogical. And like words they are both aesthetic and conceptual. In this way pictures are the very fabric of storytelling. Certainly I like to see the pictures I create as telling or being a part of some kind of story, however small and inconsequential. My intention is for them to exist as a moment caught in a long timeline of a past and future in a real or abstracted world. Therein lies the narrative possibility. So when I think about influences, I am certainly thinking as much about stories as I am about art. These influences spread across multiple mediums including literature, film, documentaries, music, and so on. Particularly I would like to mention the work of Japanese animation house, Studio Ghibli, whose films continue to inspire me both through their bewitching visuals and the power, emotion, and brio of their storytelling. I share with them a wonder and reverence of both subtle and outlandish fantasy, and remain indebted to them in that respect. A few other notable visionaries that have fired my ambition and fed my imagination are the fairy tale artist and old favourite, Arthur Rackham, father of modern fantasy, J.R.R. Tolkien and his artists Alan Lee and John Howe, and the lyrical and bittersweet fantasies of Japanese author Osamu Dazai.

What are your future plans?

Reflexivity is a great asset to an artist (and indeed perhaps a curse!). Among critics of my picture, I am perhaps king (pun vaguely intended) – although perhaps that will change once this portrait is in print! But that self-criticism motivates me to improve with each picture, and demands each picture pushes my ability, both technically and methodologically. In short, I still have everything to learn, and this is just the beginning. I hope that getting my work out there might increase the possibility of producing more work for other projects, and open other pathways and opportunities that allow me to improve my skills and better articulate my ideas. Specifically I would like to illustrate children’s books, or even develop a story from scratch and run with that, with the ambition both of strengthening my portfolio and producing ever-more professional, atmospheric and imaginative work.

    
You can see Laurie's work at www.rie-zaki.deviantart.com

Are DaVinci's Demons Really Demons?

Popular belief vs. reality or science,  a study of beliefs in the Middle Ages

A guest post by Andy Mcmillin 

“ ‘Let the churches ask themselves why there is no revolt against the dogmas of mathematics though there is one against the dogmas of religion. It is not that mathematical dogmas are more comprehensible. The law of inverse squares is as incomprehensible to the common man as the Athanasian Creed. It is not that science is free form legends, witchcraft, miracles, biographic boosting of quacks as heroes and saints, and of barren scoundrels as explorers and discoverers. On the contrary, the iconography and hagiology of Scientism are as copious as they are mostly squalid.’ ” Medieval Minds pg. 39

 

 

Being a medievalist, we seem to be attracted or notice the oddities or subtle details in TV shows and various movies.  In fact, I am drawn to the historical points or even inaccuracies in modern story telling, probably more often than not.  While watching “DaVinci’s Demons”, this fascinating show struck a very interesting bit with my perception and knowledge of what we know about faith versus reality or science in the Middle Ages.  The series is based around the earlier years of Leonardo DaVinci and his struggles to find a benefactor for his works. The show also has its setting in the middle of the vast conflicting and complex world of the Italian Renaissance.  In watching the show, I can see perfectly where Shakespeare got his inspiration for “The Merchant of Venice” and “Romeo and Juliette.”  Feuding and backstabbing, gain a new meaning in this show, yet the idea of science versus religious doctrine and the belief of the average medieval mind is hard to ignore.

 In episode 3, “The Prisoner,” we gain a glimpse of how medieval or in this case renaissance society perceived mental illness or any illness that plays havoc with one’s psyche versus popular belief (the not so educated medieval man) which was, if you had something going on in your head; you were possessed by demons and or a witch.  In this episode, it is not just normal peasants who are the ones doomed, but individuals close to God, nuns at a near by convent.

 

Word gets out that some thing is amiss and Leonardo and his crew are asked to investigate and find out what is causing the illness to befall the nuns. The Pope’s exorcism team later joins them, for they heard the nuns were possessed and needed salvation.  Unfortunately, they do more harm than good.  While the exorcisms are deemed helpful, and holy, a few people die as a result.  The priest who does the exorcism claims on one case that he saw at ones very last breathe to be free from the ill that had befallen her, and she was in fact saved.  To them, the ill are damned, possessed, and there is no other reason for their maladies, it is all a result from sin hence exorcism is the only way they can be cured. Leonardo at a few times himself suggests that it is something else making the women sick, but the head priest simply denies his ideas.  This is a good example of how a modern approach to history can show how conflicted society was between the notions of science and teachings of the church during this time.

 

 

 

Now it is time for me to be the historian. What does this tell us about medieval society? A few things actually. It shows how easily, even a somewhat educated population can be convinced of a popular notion by a powerful entity. This is the devil’s work so they were told and there cannot be a scientific explanation; it was God’s will.  The goal of the church at this time was to keep the pennies coming in on Sundays, install fear, and get motivation for people to avoid sin.  In short come to church, pray, give offerings, and be protected from demons or other temptations. Back at the convent, Leonardo and his scientific knowledge eventually proves the cause of the demonic possessions is red ergot poisoning, which is has a fungus called Claviceps purpurea which also caused ergotism, on the statue.  It is that fungus which is causing the nuns to become ill and causing their altered mental state.  It is also noted that this problem with red ergot poisoning was also responsible for other outbreaks of similar circumstances in the Middle Ages. Notable outbreaks such as one in the 12^th century recorded by Geoffroy du Breuil of Vigeois in France. Previous outbreaks gave the disease the name “St. Anthony’s Fire” named after the monks of St. Anthony who had been known to successfully treat the condition.  When one is ill with this ailment, symptoms arise such as convulsive symptoms, seizures, mania, psychosis and headaches.  In addition there are gangrenous symptoms from the poisoning that affect the poorly vascularized structures of ones body such as their toes, and fingers, loss of feeling and peeling of the skin.  It is noted that this poisoning was responsible for the explanation of witchcraft, which would have been why the church’s exorcist was called in.  (source: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ergotism)

 Now, why did this happen what lead people to think this way? It gets down to power and control. The church at the time was vast.  It encompassed most of Europe and was if not richer than the kings and queens, but the most powerful entity in existence and in Christendom.  How did they get this way; through deception, and influence, popular favor, as well as making sure the masses i.e. peasants or common folks believed everything they were told so they would get their backing and funds (via offerings from the peasants and nobles).  To put it simply, everyone wanted to be saved by God at the time of final judgment.  The sheep followed their shepherd quiet close during this time because no one wanted to face the fiery furnaces of hell. The easiest way to do this was make people believe, what they said by all means possible, even if that meant installing fear in the uneducated, and making examples of those who where so called “damned.”  Exorcism, execution of witches; all were used to show society and teach that sin was bad, and those who walked on the line of thought or ideas outside of the norm whether they were ill or not, needed to be cleansed.  If the church exorcised or cleansed a witches soul via penance, which resulted mostly in death, they gained salvation and a place in heaven.

 

In addition, there was a general fear that by denying someone’s means to salvation, was just about the quickest way to get any person to follow the word of God. The common peasant isn’t going to think of a cause for an illness or an event like Leonardo did; but they will believe the misfortune that falls upon them as a result.  Because most of the population was not educated to what we would think of today, convincing a popular belief was quite simple and easy to manage.  This is the same concept if one looks at mental illness, which the poisoning did cause and also shows this relationship.

 How the medieval mind and the church perceived mental illness is a tricky subject but it has its similarities as it involved the church, popular belief, and limited medical intervention and knowledge. Unfortunately the monks of St. Anthony were not able to cure this.  Because of the misunderstanding and lack of knowledge for these conditions, it created stigmas in society that took quite some time to get rid of and as a society even now; we still struggle with this stigma today.  Some the best accounts and glimpses of how mental illness was perceived during this period is through accounts from some of the patients themselves, King Henry VI of England and France and his great-grandfather, Charles VI of France

 

It was well known Henry VI of England, had bouts of insanity and psychosis. His turbulent lifestyle and political unrest of his country didn’t help his condition. The stress of his position contributed to break downs especially in the summer of 1453.  This breakdown would start, that would later leave him in total withdrawl, total mental and physical psychosis. Reports stated that he was completely oblivious to the world around him, thus unfit to rule.  This was when Richard of York was named Lord and Protector of England.  Family and familiar faces were unknown to him and even with the birth of his son Edward, brought no change in his demeanor or condition.  Yet even in this state, he was cared for in the best of care partly because he was a man of office or high station.   The regular person or peasant would not have had this luxury and the conditions were not even close as far as treatment. There is record that physicians at the time tried medications, syrups, potions, and bloodletting and even shaved his head believing that it would “purge him and rid the brain of its black bile and so restore the balance of the humors.” “The humors” it was thought if unbalanced caused such conditions.  The theory that they had to be balanced was highly practiced and believed during the middle ages.  The humors were four basic principals of medieval medicine: blood, phlegm, yellow bile, and black bile. All were essential for one to be in harmony and in good health.  Some of the medical treatments on King Henry VI exhibit this notion and seek to find a balance of these humors which were thought to be unbalanced and causing his illness, such as blood letting.  But the king’s madness was not as simple as poisoning from a fungus found in bad grain or wheat nor was it able to be balanced out by bloodletting; it had more than likely a genetic component.

As historians we research, we dig and sometimes we find something that links the puzzle together.  In the case of King Henry IV, we just follow the family tree and surprise! Family history of a similar illness and across the straight to France our trail leads.  Medieval France is a country with a good share and history of “mad” kings.  First we have Clovis II in the 5^th century, his great grandson Childreic III, known as “the idiot” and then later Charles IX, (1550-1574) was mentally unstable, known to be a sadist with mad rages.  He had two sisters as well, who were noted to be “ill mannered and spoiled beyond redemption.” Perhaps the most famous mad king was Charles VI (1368-1422) who was Henry VI’s great-grandfather.   Careful researching and back tracking has led many to find the source of his illness, from a line of family from his mother. This suggests that it was a hereditary disease in the family and had been for sometime, passing itself on down generation after generation.

 
From what we know today, schizophrenia or bipolar disorder could have also been passed down, and it has a very varied and large genetic component as far as heredity is concerned.  It is also suggested that the disease porphyria was another diagnosis. Porphyria has been noted to be diagnosed in his relatives. It is a rare hereditary disease that has symptoms such as inflammation of the bowels, painful weakness of the limbs and sometimes loss of feeling. Some bouts of the disease can even bring on visual and auditory disturbances, causing delirium and later lead to senility or dementia.  The close relations in families as well did not help the pool of genetic variation, thus the maladies of mental illness became more apparent as a result and continued to occur and be passed down.
 
It is also suggested that Charles might have had encephalitis, which could have led to many of the bizarre symptoms described.  It is this theory that many have tried to make sense of his April 1392 illness.  Typhus has also been suggested. The suggested evidence that it could have been encephalitis was the occurrences of fever, hair and nails falling out, behaving incoherently, bizarre behaviors such as killing four of his own men as a result of a dropped lance, all hold suggestion. Accounts read by a modern historian with a medical background such as myself, suggest that the following the mania, he had a psychotic break of fit, or maybe even a seizure. Then he suffered from heavy psychosis or coma for two days.  To any medieval man, educated or not, watching the events unfold it would be completely feasible that one would think the king was in fact possessed.

He had another incident in 1393 where surgeons actually drilled his head (trepanning) with holes to release pressure or the cloudiness of thought he was said to have suffered, in his brain. This was followed again by a relapse in 1395. Then finally, a historic account of the most common belief; it was eventually believed by churchmen and university doctors that Charles was a victim of sorcery. They attempted to exorcise him in 1398, during which he was noted to have cried out:

“If there is anyone of you who is an accomplice in this evil I suffer, I beg him to torture me no longer but let me die.”

 Unfortunately, as Charles got older, the fits came more often and lasted longer, suggesting the ailment he had grew worse with age and time.  At one point in time he thought he was made of glass and would break into pieces.  He even had people insert metal rods into his clothes so he would  not break.

 

What we know of today, is that many of these so called demonic possessions which the church would have tried to exorcised say in the case of Charles VI, were in fact biologically, or genetically caused.  Interestingly noted during the Middle Ages, most the European societies gave the mentally ill their freedom, which we see with Henry VI and Charles VI, unless they are a danger. This became the case with Charles VI after he killed four of his men. To the common medieval man, people with these disorders, were often pegged as witches and or possessed by demons.  As time went on, the medieval and renaissance societies started to isolate mentally ill people out of fear of unknowing how to treat them and fear from harm from the individual.  At times, a mentally ill patient would be locked up in a dungeon in chains, as inhumane as it sounds, it happened. (source: http://www.pbs.org/wgbh/amex/nash/timeline/)

Modern story telling, as seen with film and other venues, do help us teach history at level that is both easy accessible to the viewer and to the general public.  The example given in the beginning of this discussion with DaVinci’s Demon’s accomplished this.  It gave us a glimpse of a very important topic in medieval society, which is the notion of popular belief versus reality or scientific cause. In this case, demonic possessions versus a scientific cause of a condition, causing temporary insanity and how this was translated to the general public.  In addition to this one cannot help but notice the closeness of the church and secular society were intertwined in the Middle Ages.  It is because of this these ideas were developed and continued on in society.  As discussed, some of the sources of these interpretations have roots much earlier in society, especially within the ruling class.  Finally, if we look how these conditions were treated back then and compare the practices to today, it shows how a society we have evolved to not just believe what is said, but to look and delve for the answers that we cannot necessary see but to look for the scientific cause not just the will of God in the sakes of our salvation.

 

Sources:

1. Graham, Thomas F. Medieval Minds, Mental Health in the Middle Ages. George Allen & Unwin Ltd., London, UK c. 1967

2. http://madmonarchs.guusbeltman.nl/madmonarchs/charles6/charles6_bio.htm

3. http://madmonarchs.guusbeltman.nl/madmonarchs/henry6/henry6_bio.htm

4. http://www.medievalists.net/2013/12/04/saint-francis-of-assisi-an-exorcist-of-demons/

5. http://www.pbs.org/wgbh/amex/nash/timeline/

6. http://www.maggietron.com/med/humors.php

7. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ergotism

 

 
By Andrea C. McMillin - B.A. Medieval Studies from University of California at Davis


A California native, Andy obtained her Bachelors of Arts degree in Medieval Studies from UC Davis in 1998. She has done graduate work in History in the past and is currently taking film and medical classes locally in Salt Lake City, Utah. She hopes to finish her degree at the University of Edinburgh via their online History MA program in 2015. When not writing/researching or working, she enjoys cooking, creating artwork, photography, and actively competes with her horses.

Her blog can be found here: http://medievalessays.blogspot.co.uk/

 

Royal Babies; those we've forgotten and how times change.

Here are the links to two new pieces I've written recently:

How do the White Queen and the Duchess of Cambridge's baby experiences compare?

http://www.royalcentral.co.uk/blogs/how-times-change-two-royal-births-edward-v-1470-and-george-prince-of-cambridge-14075

Some of those who were born to be great but never made it- forgotten royal babies:

http://www.newstatesman.com/ideas/2013/07/forgotten-history-royal-babies-youve-never-heard

Educating Edward: What Sort of King Might Richard III's Son Have Made?

Edward of Middleham is most famous for having died young. Like his cousins, the Princes in the Tower, he was one of those many individuals who were briefly in line to the throne but never made it; one of history’s tantalising “what-ifs.” Another lost opportunity; the favourite food of historical fiction. Yet, certain clues suggest he might actually have made a good king.

                                                     Edward's parents, Richard and Anne

Edward was the only legitimate child of Richard and Anne, Duke and Duchess of Gloucester. His loss had significance far beyond the intense personal grief of his parents, who had by that time become king and queen. He appears to have often suffered from ill-health, forcing him to miss their coronation in 1483 and meaning he had to be carried on a litter to his investiture as Prince of Wales. Yet his father’s succession had come as a surprise to all. The boy’s namesake, the twelve-year-old Edward V, waiting in the Tower, had been anticipating his coronation that summer but had never made it into the Abbey. What a greater revelation was it then, to Richard’s son, who then learned he may one day become king ? Much of his life had been spent in his sick room: could he really rule England? It is impossible now to recapture anything about Edward’s character but one connection I explored whilst researching my biography of his mother, Anne Neville, shows us what would have been on the syllabus in the Middleham schoolroom.

Had young Edward lived to take the advice of his teachers, he could have proved a formidable opponent to Henry VII and a diplomatic ruler. Of course, the facts are the facts. After all, Richard was defeated on the battlefield at Bosworth and Edward of Middleham did die young. Hindsight tells us he would never sit on the throne of England. His suitability to rule is one of those “what-ifs” of historical speculation that allow us to glimpse tantalising alternatives. However, between June 1483 and April 1484, Edward’s future kingship was a very real possibility in which he and his parents could believe. The woman who presided over his nursery was well placed to prepare him for such a dazzling future.

           The cenotaph in Sheriff Hutton Church that is reputed to commemorate Edward

 

Edward died on April 9 1484, aged somewhere between seven and ten. Little is known about his short life; even his birthdate is disputed, occurring somewhere between his parents’ marriage in 1472 and his inclusion in prayers offered for Richard and Anne, Duke and Duchess of Gloucester in the spring of 1477. He was born at Middleham Castle, where local tradition names one of the towers after him. The court rolls list an Isabel Burgh as his wet-nurse and the “mistress of the nursery” was Anne Idley, née Creting, from Oxfordshire. Anne had been widowed around the time of Edward’s birth and left her home at Market Drayton, to enter the Middleham household. Her husband had been Peter Idley, author of a book of manners, or education, for the rearing of boys, called Instructions to his Son.

Idley was contributing to an established tradition. The late fifteenth century saw a glut of instruction books, aimed at improving the manners of the aspirational middle classes in every respect, from dining etiquette, to appearance and protocol. The “Boke of Nurture,” the “Babees Book,” the “Young Children’s Book” and the “Book of Courtesy” were among many advising medieval “wannabes” to wash their hands and face, tell the truth and “let no foul filth” appear on their clothing. Idley’s Instructions were composed in the late 1440s, following his first marriage and the birth of his son John. Three decades later his widow, Anne, was the guardian of his book and his legacy. After she arrived at Middleham, John refused to pay her the annuity they had agreed, leading Richard to intervene to ensure the debt was settled. His father’s advice apparently had little impact on John but the future King’s son would have benefited from it instead.

As “lady governess” of Edward’s nursery, Peter’s widow would have overseen the arrangements for his education. It is not impossible that she taught him directly from the book herself. When she was employed by the Gloucesters, Edward never expected to be anything other than the nephew of the King, although it was crucial that he received a suitable training for this prestigious role. Idley’s advice is in two volumes, the first dealing with the theme of “wise business” and fickleness of fortune, while the second includes religious teachings and the handling of sin. Family connections and loyalty were important. A young man should leave idleness until his old age and “set his mind” to business, for the advancement of his friends and relatives. He should also honour his parents and see their blessing as a reward. His father’s advancing age should serve as a reminder to a “negligent” child that “after warme youth coometh age coolde.” In all dealings, he should be lowly and honest to rich and poor, in both word and deed, and respectful of his masters and superiors. It is no coincidence that the maxim “manners maketh man” dates from this period.

Discretion was considered important too. Idley advised keeping “within thi breste that may be stille” and not letting the tongue “clakke as a mille.” The avoidance of unnecessary conflict and the giving of offence are considered essential to personal control, as the “tonge” could give “moche pain” and “a grete worde may cause affray.” In fact, caution was a constant theme in the book. A boy should keep his ideas close “as thombe in fiste” and not be too keen to express an opinion, as it may lose him friends. He should aim for “meekness” as many had been “cast adoun” for their “grete pride.” Loyalty should be tempered by wisdom when it came to personal feelings.

Even as a child, boys like Edward were advised to exercise self-control. Not for him were the games, japes and “evil company” that could lead him into mischief, even if he had had the opportunity or the good health to enjoy them. However, friendship was the greatest treasure the author could recommend, as being more precious than silver or gold. According to Idley, a man without friends was a man without a soul. Nor should a boy be too hasty in making promises to friends or foe, or too quick to take vengeance. Equally, he should not ask for advice when he was angry as “it is harde than the trouthe to feele” nor accept it from those who were “greene” or inexperienced. He should beware of greedy or “covetous” men who could show “two faces in one hood.” Interestingly, as Edward’s father would find, Idley warns “a man may somtyme wade so depe, it passeth his power to turn ageyn.”
 

                            Middleham Castle, Wensleydale, where Edward was born, lived and died

Although many similar manuals existed, Edward’s access to this text encourages speculation as to the lessons he was taught and, by projection, the man and King he might have become. Idley advocated loyalty, hard work, caution and discretion, characteristics that Richard himself had amply displayed as Duke of Gloucester. This raises the question of how Anne came to work at Middleham. Having spent her married life in Oxfordshire, there is little to otherwise connect her with the Yorkists. Peter acted as the Comptroller of the King’s household from 1456 to 1461, under the Lancastrian Henry VI, leaving the position on the succession of Richard’s brother Edward IV. He many also have been the Peter Idley who was listed in the court of common pleas as having been in debt to a London tailor in 1466. Did he fall on hard times after losing his job at court? Given how closely the advice in the Instructions tallies with Richard’s character, it is not implausible that Gloucester had read Idley’s work. Then, on hearing of Idley’s death, Anne was employed at his instigation.

Richard and Anne were heartbroken at the death of Edward. They received the terrible news whilst at Nottingham Castle and hurried home at once. The contemporary Croyland chronicle stated that many saw their loss as divine judgement for Richard’s supposed murder of his nephews, the Princes in the Tower. An alabaster tomb in the church at Sheriff Hutton is supposedly that of Edward but examinations have proved it to be empty and the whereabouts of his bones is currently unknown. Under the tutelage of Peter Idley’s widow, the young boy at Middleham may have made a wise and cautious monarch, had he only lived long enough to put his advice into practice. The following spring, his mother would die, amid rumours of divorce and poison and his father’s defeat at the battle of Bosworth would change the course of British History.

 

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.

 

 

Bring up the (Animal) Bodies: Martinmas Day.

 

The modern world remembers November 11 for marking the end of the First World War, but celebrations on that day were nothing new: in fact, the date had been an important one in the calendar for centuries. Commemorating the life of St Martin of Tours, a fourth century Roman soldier who converted to Christianity, it became known as Martinmas, the “blood-month” when across medieval Europe, animals were slaughtered for the winter. It was one of the last opportunities to eat fresh meat before the rest was dried and salted, as “Martinmas beef” and marked a final spree before the forty day fast of advent.  Legend has it that Martin’s hiding place was betrayed by the cackling of a goose, so goose suppers were common. Often an ox was killed and the meat given to the poor, whose patron St Martin was, in memory of his martyrdom which supposedly saw him “carved up” like an animal. St Martin was also the patron saint of tavern owners and wine growers, so it was traditionally the day that the new wines were tasted after harvest. It was a significant turning point in the farming calendar, which dictated the rhythm of so much of medieval work and ritual, after which winter had formally begun. Providing the harvest had been successful and the animals healthy, it must have been a time of plenty.  However, the weather on the day was taken to be an indication of the harshness of the season to come and the medieval peasant knew that hard times were coming.

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…