Question time: Interview Amy Licence.

 To co-incide with the release of my second book, "Elizabeth of York: the Forgotten Tudor Queen," I am planning a blog post where readers have the chance to interview me about my currently published work..., my approach and views of certain historical figures, my research and inspirations or my next project, Anne Neville and Richard III. What would you like to ask me? I will publish the questions, with answers, on my blog, so get thinking...

You can ask your questions in the comments below, on my facebook page "In Bed with the Tudors" or on Twitter @PrufrocksPeach.

I look forward to hearing from you!

Forthcoming Book Jacket; Elizabeth of York

This is the provisional cover for my next book, "Elizabeth of York, the Forgotten Tudor Queen," which tells the true story of the white princess.

 

As Tudors go, Elizabeth of York is relatively unknown. Yet she was the mother of the dynasty, with her children becoming King of England (Henry VIII), Queens of Scotland (Margaret) and France (Mary Rose) and her direct descendants included three Tudor monarchs, two executed queens and ultimately, the Stuart royal family. Although her offspring took England into the early modern world, Elizabeth's upbringing was rooted firmly in the medieval world, with its courtly and religious rituals and expectations of women. The pivotal moment was 1485. Before that, her future was uncertain amid the turbulent Wars of the Roses, as she was considered as the bride of first one man then another and witnessed the humiliation and murder of her family. Surviving the blood bath of her uncle's reign, she slipped easily into the role of devoted wife, mother and Queen to Henry VII, venerated ever since for her docility and beauty. Yet was she as placid as history has suggested? In fact, she may have been a deeply cultured and intelligent survivor who learned to walk a difficult path through the twists and turns of fortune. Perhaps she was more of a modern woman than historians have given her credit for.

Published by Amberley, April 28 2013. Available on Amazon now:

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Elizabeth-York-Lost-Tudor-Queen/dp/1445609614/ref=sr_1_3?ie=UTF8&qid=1357651533&sr=8-3

A Study in Medieval Fertility: Richard of York and Cecily Neville.

He was the military genius with a better claim to the throne than the King; she was the most beautiful woman of her generation. Together they had thirteen children, seven of whom survived, two of which became Kings of England, two died in battle and one was executed for treason. Of her twenty-eight legitimate great-grandchildren, the most famous was the future Henry VIII.

                                         

                                      

                                Cecily and Richard, Duke and Duchess of York

Cecily Neville came from a large family. Born in 1415, she was the youngest of fourteen children and a granddaughter of John of Gaunt, son of Edward III. Born at Raby Castle, she became known to history as the “rose of Raby” for her beauty and “proud Cis,” perhaps as a reminder of the time when  she and her husband held a court at Fotheringhay Castle which rivalled that of the King in magnificence. She was married at the age of fourteen to Richard, Duke of York, to whom she had been betrothed at the age of nine. Four years her elder, Richard was the great-great grandson of Lionel, Edward III’s second son, but his claim to the throne came through the female line. His own family was small, with only one sister surviving to adulthood.

Richard and Cecily were of age to consummate their marriage in 1429. He was eighteen and she had reached the traditional age of consent, although it was sometimes considered advisable for teenage girls to wait a few years to prevent the physical damage that early pregnancy could do, especially if they were petite. In the event though, the couple’s first child was not conceived for almost nine years. Joan arrived in August 1438, suggesting that they may have waited for a while before sleeping together, or for Cecily's menarche, but then experienced reduced fertility of some kind. Presumably, for a young aristocratic couple, the need to provide an heir to the Yorkist title would have led them to attempt to start a family way before Joan’s arrival. Marriage and motherhood were what defined the secular medieval woman and by this point, Richard was already in his late 20s. As was the case with many medieval children, little Joan did not survive, either dying at birth or soon after.

                                                         
               Anne of York, b. August 1439, pictured with her second husband, Thomas St Leger

By November the same year, 1438, Cecily was pregnant again. A second daughter, Anne, arrived the following August at the family home at Fotheringhay and appeared strong and healthy. She would be married at the age of seven to Henry Holland, Duke of Exeter and bear him a child around the age of sixteen, although his Lancastrian leanings would later lead to their divorce. Nine months after the birth of Anne, Cecily was pregnant for a third time. In February 1441, she was delivered of a son, named Henry, who died hours after birth. At twenty-six, Cecily had then been married for twelve years and only had one live child to show for it. Her children’s survival rate of one in three was not untypical of the times but it must have been disheartening at the least for the young couple. However, Cecily now appeared to have no trouble conceiving. Five months later, she was pregnant again. The circumstances of her next child's birth would prove controversial and impact on the course of English history and the lives of her grandchildren.

The Duke and Duchess of York had left Fotheringhay following the death of Henry, in favour of Rouen. York had been appointed Governor General of France, overseeing the many territories taken as part of the Hundred Years’ War. Edward’s birthdate of 28 April 1442 indicates that he was conceived around the end of July 1441. Some sources have suggested that Richard and Cecily were apart during this time, although the actual distance between them was not insurmountable and their individual itineraries do not exclude the possibility of marital visits. Records in Rouen Cathedral state when Richard left but not Cecily's comings and goings; as they were in their late twenties and had no surviving son, they may well have taken every opportunity to be together. It would not have been too difficult for her to travel to see him or for them to have met at some convenient midpoint. Less than half a day's ride would have taken her to Pontoise, where York was on campaign.



Equally, babies can arrive as late as two weeks or more and deducing conception dates was (and still is) not an exact science. Pregnancies today that run up over their due date are induced after a fortnight but in the past, women would simply have had to sit it out. It is quite likely that Cecily experienced one of these forty two week gestations and may have had a labour that was difficult for her and her child. These dates are consistent with Edward being conceived before York left Rouen, or on a return visit, or that Cecily visited him on campaign, as her movements are not recorded. Later rumours , most likely the inventions of the Earl of Warwick, would seek to discredit Edward by suggesting he was the result of a liaison his mother had had with a French archer named Blancbourgne. This is to underestimate Cecily Neville.


As a woman of her time, Cecily was well aware of the importance of legitimacy and inheritance; she had far too much to lose by having a casual fling. Loyalty and pride seem to have been her trademarks. These are particularly incompatible with the suggestion of infidelity and although the rumour was briefly resurrected in 1483, there was never any other suggestion that she had strayed. The slur was politically motivated. Women were not assailable by the usual methods men adopted to topple each other; they could not be fought in battle and were rarely arrested or imprisoned unless they had clearly transgressed certain boundaries. To attack a high born women, the best tools were rumours and suggestions that blackened her good name. Thus, witchcraft, immorality, unladylike behaviour and illegitimacy were the weapons of necessity.


Also, Cecily had lost an infant son only the previous year. Any reputed adultery would have taken place within months of this loss. If there was any question of the infant Edward being in danger when he arrived, she would have followed contemporary protocol in having him baptised at once, often by a midwife in the bedroom itself. Babies who were considered to be at risk of not surviving were sometimes even baptised as they emerged, so any protruding limb or the crowning head may receive the blessing, such was the significance of the act for the child's immortal soul. Early maps of Rouen Castle, where Edward was born, show that there were three chapels within the walls, one of which was beside the apartments the Yorks would have occupied. It seems likely that Edward was baptised in this manner. Equally, when he was three, his father entered negotiations with the King of France, Charles VII, for a marriage between Edward and one of his daughters. There would have been no question of a royal wife for the boy, if there had been any contemporary doubts about his legitimacy. The rumours about Edward's conception are simply that, politically motivated rumours and they need to be recognised as such.

                                                     Edward IV b. April 1442
                                             

 Four months after Edward’s birth, Cecily was pregnant again. This represented her swiftest conception interval yet and must have taken a physical toll, as she had only just recovered from the latest arrival. Her next child, as son named Edmund, also arrived in Rouen in May 1443. He would die in 1460, at the age of seventeen, fighting alongside his father, who also fell at the Battle of Wakefield. Cecily and Richard resumed sexual relations quickly. Contemporary practices advised abstinence until a woman was churched, usually a month after giving birth, which also helped guard against another pregnancy beginning before her body had healed. Barely eight weeks after Edmund’s arrival in May, though, Cecily had conceived again. By the end of July 1443 she was expecting the daughter who arrived on April 22, 1444, whom they named Elizabeth. She would marry John de la Pole, Duke of Suffolk, before her fourteenth birthday and go on to bear him at least eleven children, some of whom would later pose a threat to the succession for their Tudor relations.

                                          

                                                              Elizabeth b. April 1444

  Cecily was now the mother of four small children, two boys and two girls. Approaching her thirtieth birthday, she had provided her husband with the necessary heir and spare, as well as two daughters whose marriages would prove useful in terms of forging more dynastic links. It was after the birth of Elizabeth that they relocated back to England, arriving in October 1445. By the time she was settling back in at Fotheringhay Castle, Cecily was pregnant again after an interval of sixteen months. Her first child born on English soil again, proved to be a girl, Margaret, who was delivered in May 1446 and went on to marry the Duke of Burgundy, although she had no children of her own. Once again, Cecily conceived quickly. Five months had elapsed since her last birth, giving her just enough time to recover before the process began again. She bore a short-lived son, William, in July 1447, conceived again after seven months and had John in November 1448, although he also died. By now she had had nine children in the space of ten years, and, setting aside the atypical interval of sixteen months between Elizabeth and Margaret, her average conception period was six months.

                                                      

                                                       Margaret b. May 1446

 Less than three months later, Cecily was expecting again. When Richard took up his appointment of Lieutenant of Ireland, she went with him to Dublin, even though she was then five months pregnant. On October 21, George was born in the twelfth century Castle there, giving his parents a third surviving son. As Duke of Clarence, he would father four children of his own, two of whom lived to adulthood, before he was executed for treason by his elder brother Edward. Both his surviving offspring would also be executed as dynastic threats, his son Edward of Warwick, in 1499 by henry VII and his daughter, Margaret Pole, by Henry VIII in 1541. Soon after George’s first birthday, Richard and Cecily returned to England with their family. Civil unrest called for the Duke of York’s presence and their next child may have been conceived on their return home. A short-lived boy, Thomas, was born at some point in 1451 and died young, although the precise length of his life is unknown. Soon Cecily was pregnant again, for the twelfth time, with her most controversial child yet.

                                                    

                                                               George b. October 1449

 A boy was born to the Duchess in October 1452 at Fotheringhay Castle. Later chroniclers claimed she had been pregnant for two years, that he was breech-born, sickly, deformed and with teeth. Yet the arrival of Richard was probably no less difficult than his mother’s previous eleven deliveries, although she anticipated the familiar discomfort in a letter to Margaret of Anjou. Taking after his father in appearance, the little boy was wiry and dark-haired in comparison with his taller, (supposedly) golden-haired brothers. (Portraits show Edward with dark hair; paint can darken but golden hair was often a convention reserved for royalty). When he later came to the throne as Richard III, it was under circumstances that still excite debate today. With the death of his elder brother Edward in 1483, rumours of the late King’s illegitimacy cast the claim of his own sons into doubt. The Princes in the Tower, twelve-year-old Edward V and his ten-year-old brother, Richard, disappeared that summer, under their uncle’s custody, and shortly after, he was proclaimed King. His reign was short though, with his only legitimate son predeceasing him a year before he met a violent death on the battlefield at Bosworth.

                                                   
                                                           Richard b. October 1452
                                                    

 Following the birth of Richard, Cecily had one more child, a girl named Ursula. She was conceived soon after little Richard’s second birthday, born in July 1455 and died young. Out of thirteen pregnancies, spanning seventeen years, the Duke and Duchess of York were left with seven children, giving them a survival rate of just over fifty percent. Those pregnancies are well documented in a surviving poem from the Clare Roll and it is unlikely that she conceived again after 1455, when, at the age of forty, she probably underwent the menopause. Five years after this she was widowed and did not remarry.

 The dates of Cecily’s deliveries help build a picture of the fertility of a late medieval aristocratic couple. The long period before her first conception is unusual but following that, the intervals between her children indicate regular sexual relations, which, on several occasions, were even resumed very quickly following the act of birth. This also suggests that Cecily, in common with her noble peers, did not breastfeed, which would have given her some contraceptive protection. The survival rate of her infants is also fairly typical and those who did not make it were not necessarily those conceived with greatest speed. It is also interesting, and fairly unusual, that those of her children who did not survive appear to have been either still born or died soon after birth; Cecily does not appear to have had infants succumb as toddlers or older, as was often the case with illness, accident or disease. Her daughter-in-law Elizabeth Wydeville, wife of Edward, would lose three children to illness before they reached maturity and two others to violence. Her eldest daughter, Elizabeth of York and her daughter Margaret, Queen of Scotland and daughter-in-law Catherine of Aragon, would suffer equal or higher rates of infant mortality, losing children of all ages. As a pattern of fertility, Cecily's life gives an insight into sexual practices and the lifecycle of one individual, both typical and atypical. Perhaps she was a late developer; her menarche may not have arrived until her late teens, or else was erratic but the comparatively late arrival of her first child may also have delayed her menopause, which tended to arrive earlier in women of the era whose childbearing years began early.

Cecily outlived her husband by thirty-five years. She saw her son Edward become King, followed by Richard, who fell in battle. Then, the Tudor conqueror married her granddaughter Elizabeth and had children who would inherit the throne. She had twenty-eight legitimate grandchildren and outlived all her own offspring except for two. Before she died in 1495, she saw the arrival of her great grandson, the future Henry VIII.

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.

 

 

Interview with Amy Licence

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

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

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.