by Amy Licence
To Elizabeth, in 1486, the room must have seemed initially crowded, overflowing with well-wishers, servants, statesmen and clergymen but eventually, the doors were closed and the couple were left alone. Although the doors were closed upon them, they may not have been free from eavesdroppers. Privacy was a rare luxury, even in the richest palace in the land. Medieval and Tudor architecture determined a degree of physical proximity that meant sex must have been a less sequestered business than it is today; rooms and beds were routinely shared, even among the aristocracy. Returning from Moscow in 1568, Thomas Randolph commented that the Muscovites ‘eat together’ but ‘lie apart’, unlike the English, implying a good deal of bed sharing. Servants notoriously accompanied their masters to the bedrooms of wives and mistresses and slept outside the door, on truckle beds on the floor or in antechambers, as in the case of Catherine of Aragon and her twelve-year-old serving boy Juan de Gamarra.10 Henry V is rumoured to have kept his steward and Chamberlain in the same room while he slept with his wife Catherine of Valois;11 one hopes her experiences with her second husband, Owen Tudor, were more intimate. Sometimes servants played key roles in the exposure of adultery or the dissolution of an unsuccessful match, as well as performing necessary practical duties. Also, it was an occasion when the monarch was at his most vulnerable and defenceless; given the recent decades of conflict and furtive assassination, a king in bed needed watchful eyes around him. On a practical level, thickly curtained beds afforded amorous couples some privacy whilst allowing unseen access to those bringing in provisions or building up fires. While it is unlikely that many couples were literally overlooked, brides could expect their dirty linen to be aired quite publicly the next morning: in 1469, the blood-stained bed sheets of Isabella of Castile had been proudly displayed as proof of her lost virginity, while, significantly, those of her impotent half-brother’s bride were not. Given the importance of royal consummation and the lengths taken to ensure it had taken place, there may have been eyes and ears at the keyholes in Westminster that January.
However, there is a chance the marriage may already have been consummated. Elizabeth’s first child arrived the following September, exactly eight months after the wedding, a time-frame which has given rise to much subsequent historical speculation. Assuming Prince Arthur was full-term, this would put his conception date around a month before the ceremony, in mid-December 1485. This was not unusual or impossible; after Bosworth, the couple had undergone a formal betrothal before witnesses and Henry had been zealous in the acquisition of Papal dispensations. Parliament had approved the match on 10 December 1485, suggesting consummation around that time, almost exactly nine months before the birth. A verbal promise of marriage or ‘handfasting’ could be enough to licence physical relations and Henry’s eagerness to secure his bride and father an heir may have led them to share a bed before the ceremony. Within the privacy of his mother’s Coldharbour house, this may have been easily achieved. Occasionally desire dictated a rapid consummation: Philip of Burgundy could not wait a week for his marriage to the beautiful Juana of Castile in 1496 and although this may not seem compatible with the supposed cold and careful reputation of Henry, it cannot be ruled out. The young, strong, healthy man of 1485, with years of abstinence and exile behind him, was still a long way from the miserly portrait of his widowhood, which has shaped many later interpretations. Perhaps his intention was to elicit divine blessing, as which, a speedy conception would have been received; perhaps his actions were dictated by sensitivity for his young bride for whom the wedding day and night would represent considerable pressure. Both possibilities are not incompatible. Contemporary belief stressed the necessity of female enjoyment in order for conception to take place. The female body, considered to be a poor shadow or imperfectly formed version of its male counterpart, could only conceive if orgasm took place, during which a female ‘seed’ was emitted to mix with that of the male. The public pressures of the wedding day may not have created a relaxed environment conducive to female conception; perhaps Henry was being strikingly modern in soliciting his virginal wife’s pleasure. Alternatively the little prince may have simply arrived early: Bacon certainly believed that Arthur was born ‘in the eighth month’ although he was ‘strong and able’. In either case, the nineteen-year-old bride must have conceived on the occasion of consummation or else very soon after, her ready fertility providing to king and country encouragement that God had blessed the union.
In the summer of 1486, while Henry rode North in response to rumours of unrest, Elizabeth travelled to Winchester to await her confinement. It was a deliberate choice. As England’s ancient capital, the reputed site of the fabled Camelot, it was a romantic bastion of popular culture: William Caxton had printed Thomas Malory’s Le Morte d’Arthur in 1485, a compilation of well-known fables and stories that had been woven into written and oral traditions since at least the twelfth century. Geoffrey of Monmouth’s History of the Kings of Britain, embellished by Norman writer Wace, as well as Layamon’s Brut, established the Arthurian idyll as a golden epoch and formed the basis of most subsequent chronicles for centuries. Edward I had hung a huge round table in the castle’s great hall; tapestries bore the arms of the mythical Arthur’s ancestors and alchemists repeated Merlin’s prediction of the union of a red king and white queen, which had been responsible for the creation of the first Arthur. Queen Elizabeth’s own father had genealogical trees drawn up to establish his own connection with the great British hero and Henry’s banner at Bosworth had born the red dragon, Arthur’s heraldic device, against a white and green background. In 1486, Winchester was carefully selected as a symbolic location to realign the new dynasty with its Welsh heritage and recreate a context for the iconography of the new regime. Henry wanted to endow his first born son, the hope of his fledgling dynasty, with the strength and riches of national myth. Later chroniclers stated that the child was named to ‘honour the British race’, describing the people ‘rejoicing’ in reaction to the child’s name, which made foreign princes ‘tremble and quake’ at the choice, which was to them ‘terrible and formidable’.12
Some doubt has arisen among modern biographers as to the exact location of Arthur’s birth, with accounts divided between Winchester Castle and the Prior’s lodgings at the nearby Abbey. Built as part of William the Conqueror’s system of strongholds across Britain, the castle was expanded in the thirteenth century into a huge flinty edifice flanking two courtyards, of which only the Great Hall remains today. It would seem a logical place for Elizabeth’s lying-in but if she had any intentions of delivering her child there, her mind may have been changed by the castle’s deteriorating condition. By 1486, it was considered old and draughty: its discomforts belonged in the era of civil warfare, rather than in the urbane, sophisticated, new European court Henry was forging. The royal party probably settled instead at the Prior’s House, now renamed the Deanery, at St Swithin’s Priory. Strong evidence for this comes from John Stowe’s Chronicle, published in 1565, which describes the baby’s christening procession: the ‘hole chapel met with my lord prynce in the qwens great chamber’, from where the child was carried into the church and up to the ‘hyghe aultar to St Swithin’s shrine’, which would have been a prohibitive journey for a newborn, had he arrived in the castle.13 It is far more likely that they remained in residence there whilst the Prior’s House was made ready. This three-storey stone building, with its arched entrance portico, was used to house distinguished guests separately from the pilgrims lodged in the usual guest house.
Winchester lay on one of the major highways of medieval England, a centre for pilgrimage housing around thirty Benedictine monks in 1500, who kept open house for visitors under the new Prior Thomas Silkested. There, Elizabeth’s ladies would have gone about the business of readying a chamber for her lying-in, against a backdrop of monastic business, punctuated by bells and the sound of voices raised in prayer and chant. Far from being austere and chilly, the Priory would have been able to extend their guests a warm welc
ome. As one of the richest monasteries in the land, St Swithin’s would have had no problem catering for their royal guests: Cathedral rolls show the variety of the monks’ diet, which, in 1492, included meals of venison, beef, mutton, calves feet, eggs, dishes of marrow and bread; on fast days they had salt fish, rice, figs and raisins. The rolls are full of details for the provision of ‘good’ beer, cheese, salt, wine, butter and candles; the gardener was to supply apples in season every two days and flowers for church festivals. A further entry records the duties of the cellarer to include the upkeep of various pets acquired by the occupants. The curtarian was responsible for providing for visiting bishops and royalty while the porter was to make up the fire in snowy weather.14 While there was little understanding of the nutritional needs of pregnancy, kings were particularly well placed to satisfy any specific cravings their wives developed: in the fifteenth century, oranges were often given to expectant mothers as a treat, a practise that was so well known that John Paston the younger felt obliged to apologise when requesting some for a woman who was not pregnant. If the Tudor heir was born at the Priory, he and his mother would have been well catered for.
In addition to the provisions offered by the monks of St Swithin’s, the Queen Mother had been anticipating the practicalities of Elizabeth’s delivery. As soon as the child had quickened, around Easter of that year, Margaret Beaufort set work on her Ordinances, outlining the protocol and detail of the lying-in chamber. She was impressively thorough, from the number and colour of cushions in the room to the ranks and duties of those women in assistance. Under her formidable direction, the Prior’s apartments would have been transformed into a little cell of luxury, furnished to the highest quality with all the necessaries of birth. First, the chamber was hung with heavy Arras tapestries, covering the walls, ceiling and windows. Draughts and fresh air were not considered healthy for the newborn, nor were bright lights, and the efforts of childbirth were reputed to strain a mother’s eyesight. Additionally, the secure darkness would protect against the attacks of evil spirits who might threaten mother and child as their lives hung in the balance before the administration of baptismal and churching rites. The tapestries chosen were carefully scrutinised for their subject matter. Provoking or disturbing scenes, including hunts and wild or mythological beasts, were rejected for fear of their startling effects, in favour of scenes of love and romance. A mother looking upon violent scenes might transmit some of her emotional response to her unborn child, irrevocably shaping its features or character. One window alone was left uncovered, so that a woman may have light and look outside if she desired. Next, a huge temporary pallet bed was prepared, where Elizabeth would labour. A giant, eight foot by ten, it lay in the middle of the room, stuffed with wool and down, covered with crimson satin. The colour was regal but it may also have minimised the inevitable blood stains. Beside it were set two cradles. The first was 5 foot long and beautifully adorned for ceremonial use, embellished with the royal arms and buckles of silver. A smaller cradle of wood, hung with pommels of silver and gilt, with ermine-lined bedding, was reserved for sleep.
When Elizabeth finally entered her lying-in chamber, the room radiated heat and light. Despite the September mildness, candles illuminated the gloom, embroidered hangings kept out the cold and piles of thick blankets sat waiting, along with fresh chests of linen and double petticoats. The list of material provisions was exhaustive and precise: exact quantities and types were listed, including yards of fine linen from Rheims and Rennes, imported Tartarin silk, fine lawn and wool, fustian pillows stuffed with down, furred panels, head sheets, a canopy of satin, posts to support the canopy, cushions and mantles all in a red and gold colour scheme. Cupboards were stocked with wine, food and spices to revive her during her ordeal, as well as the glittering plate that marked the status of mother and child. Daily supplies would be brought to the chamber door, but Elizabeth would not expect to emerge again for several weeks, probably more. It was a physical and symbolic isolation, where darkness and comfort made the environment for the child’s arrival as womb-like and safe as possible. By inference, the richness of the surroundings mirrored the richness and special ‘otherness’ of the Queen’s body: women across the country would prepare their chambers, or not, according to their differing social degrees. At the bottom of the scale, the poor, servants and beggar women would give birth in barns, church porches, at roadsides and in the houses of strangers. They could expect public intervention and debate concerning their bodies, their character, morals and relationships; they might be physically moved across parish boundaries to avoid expense or examined by midwives and civil officers to determine paternity and intention. Childbirth was everyone’s business.
No Tudor birth was of greater significance than that of a future heir to the throne. With the dynasty in its infancy, the new regime’s survival could turn on Elizabeth’s performance in the lying-in chamber: she was literally delivering the future. The outcome of her pregnancy had a significance the Tudors believed was foretold in the stars. In 1490, Henry VII was presented with the translation of a work by thirteenth-century Italian astrologer Guido Bonatti, outlining the influence of the heavenly bodies at the exact moment of a child’s birth. The manuscript contains an illustration of a bare-breasted, newly delivered mother, lying in a bed hung with blue drapes and red patterned covers; the ground is depicted like grass and the stars overhead give a sense of the universality of the childbirth experience. The mother is placed at the centre of the world; a metaphor that held more than a degree of reality for England’s new queen. No doubt Henry was waiting nearby, briefly relegated to second place. In lodgings around the city, courtiers, doctors, astrologers, astronomers, courtiers, ambassadors, priests and prophets, nervously anticipated the all-important news. A successful delivery for mother and child was paramount; after that, all depended upon the infant’s health and strength. Arthur’s first few days would be crucial and his survival governed as much by luck as the mixture of superstition and custom that governed medicine at the time. The Tudors did not yet understand the circulation of the blood, let alone foetal development. Medical diagnosis was made in terms of the four humours, with female illnesses addressed by ‘balancing’ or purging the body: Elizabeth may even have been bled before giving birth, to remove ‘bad influences’, weakening her considerably at a time when she most needed her strength. Even her women, with all their wisdom and good intentions, perpetuated the myths and ignorance that could contribute to high infant and maternal mortality. At the very least, no one understood the need to wash their hands.
As a symbolic ‘womb’ for the birth of the dynasty, Elizabeth’s little Winchester nucleus was entirely female in character. Closing the doors would exclude all men until after the child’s arrival, even the king and male doctors. She would be attended entirely by her ‘good sisters’ or ‘gossips’, who took over the usual daily ceremonies of service as well as specific maternity duties. Among the women gathered to perform this office in September 1486 were the two grandmothers; Margaret Beaufort and Elizabeth Wydeville, who had arranged the match, as well as Elizabeth’s sisters Anne and Cecily, whose youth would have limited their involvement. Seclusion also preserved the dignity and majesty of the queen in a society that venerated motherhood as the defining factor of a woman’s life; Elizabeth was labouring to secure the future of the realm whilst trying to maintain the decorum becoming to her status. Submission, regality and purity were the watchwords for a queen, an image etched in medieval culture by the pens, laws and expectations of men. The symbolic closing of the chamber doors was a deference to her femininity and status: no one would raise an eyebrow there if she were to succumb to the usual human passions during labour. It would not be fitting for the court to hear her screams of agony or witness her dishevelment: these were for the eyes of her women only. Now all Elizabeth need do was rest and wait.
As the queen’s labour began, her gossips would have gathered round to follow certain folkloric rituals. It was customary for mothe
rs to remove all fastenings: rings, buckles, bracelets and laces were thought to mimic a state of strangulation in the body which could be transmitted to the child. Likewise, no one in the chamber would cross their legs, arms or fingers. The labouring woman’s abdomen might be rubbed with creams made from a mixture of brandy, distilled marjoram and saffron to aid contractions. Tied around her belly, magic girdles and pieces of paper inscribed with ‘charms’ offered protection and belts hung with cowrie shells were thought to bring good luck through their resemblance to, and therefore sympathy with, the vulva. In her hand, a mother might clasp an ‘eagle stone’ or aetites, a larger stone which contained a smaller stone within its hollow centre, rattling when shaken: according to medieval theories, nature left ‘signatures’ to imply use, by which these were a natural echo of her condition and could alleviate pain and prevent miscarriage. Eagle stones were worn on the arm during pregnancy and transferred to the abdomen when labour began; a variant was St Hildegard of Bingen’s twelfth-century remedy of holding a jasper stone during birth. Agnus Dei were also popular religious tokens, for those who could get hold of them; they were wax discs stamped with the image of a lamb and flag, blessed by the Pope and supposedly offering protection from sudden death and the malice of demons. In some places, the skin of a wild ox was tied about a woman’s thigh and snakeskin or hartskin belts were worn, the placebo effects of which can only be imagined, in the absence of modern forms of pain relief. Herbs and flowers were used to help lessen the intensity of contractions, including the oils of lilies, almonds and roses, cyclamen, columbine, aquilegia, wild thyme and musk: some must have really helped, such as meadowsweet, which would later be synthesized and called aspirin. Other potions included the more bizarre ants’ eggs, powdered eel liver, virgin’s hair, ale and red cow’s milk. Although it is unlikely Elizabeth’s labour was aided by all of these, she would have had access to the most expensive and rare ingredients. Enemas were also given to aid dilation and sometimes ‘subfumigation’ was used, by channelling herbal vapours into the wombs; women were also given special powders to make them sneeze, as this was thought to help expel the child. Even though some of these sound extreme to the modern reader and may even have given the Tudor woman cause to smile, childbirth could prove a deadly and dangerous event: for a nation heavily steeped in superstition, there was some correlation between these practices and the odds of survival.
