by Amy Licence
Religious comforts were also available to a Catholic queen. From pre-conception devotions and pilgrimages, through all stages of pregnancy and parturition, there were appropriate prayers and saints to petition for intercession. The Church clearly distinguished between the times when a woman was expected to attend church and when to stay away; from maternal repentance as the child quickened, to Mass before labour, baptism by the godparents and, finally, churching. Elizabeth would have taken communion before entering her chamber, its blessing extending to her unborn child in the eventuality of tragedy. Birth was the most significant and dangerous of all rites of passage, when a woman was susceptible to malign influences as she languished in spiritual limbo, so direct access to the fortifications of faith was essential. Reading the Gospels during the delivery was one well-practised method of ensuring all went smoothly; prayer books and books of hours would have also been used to pass the hours of waiting. A crowded reliquary in the birth chamber would display a range of artefacts such as holy bones and girdles, phials of blood, tears or milk and shards of the true cross, through which Elizabeth might commune with those saints associated with childbirth. During her ordeal, she may well have held the famous Westminster girdle, supposedly made and used by the Virgin Mary,15 which the next generation of Tudor mothers would favour. Pre-Reformation Catholics believed in the real, comforting presence of saints during labour as well as the power of prayer. Mary, whose cult following in medieval England was profound and ubiquitous, could stand above the complexities of womanly status and identity as a parallel, or objective correlative, of shared experience: through her, all labouring mothers could be brought closer to God in time of danger.
In the long dark hours of labour, Catholicism, pseudo-religious practice and superstition were easily blurred. As Elizabeth hovered between life and death, devoid of any pain relief and uncertain how long her travail would last, she would have sought whatever comforts her ladies could offer. The earliest surviving manuals relating to pregnancy and childbirth were recipe (receipt) books, including the Anglo-Saxon Lacnunga or ‘Remedies’, and the ninth-century Bald’s Leechbook, containing a number of magic charms or incantations to be invoked against disease, misfortune and attacks by demons, often through the ritualistic repetition of words or actions in patterns of three or nine. One of the charms relates to ‘a delayed birth’, intended to induce overdue labour, while another assists in the onset of sudden stabbing pains, supposedly caused by the machinations of ‘mighty women’. Pagan ritual and Christian rites were mingled in many early medical texts, translating into a variety of practices in the Tudor delivery chamber. The Catholic church had its own prayers to combat these customs, including one included in a 1425 prayer book, containing an English rubric and Latin prayer composed by St Peter for labouring women. Interestingly though, the Latin was written with feminine endings, indicating that it was intended to be read by a woman, which, in practical terms, could only have been accessed by a tiny literate minority. The benefit of charms and prayers alike lay in their formulaic, repetitive patterns, which could help concentrate the mind and the exercise of some small form of control over a bewildering and helpless experience. The word ‘abracadabra’, now associated more with stage magic, was a popular part of a repetitive chanting formula. It is not difficult to picture commoners and queens alike incanting verses through gritted teeth as their contractions take hold. One tenth-century charm, from the South of France, written in Occitan, would have been recited by midwives to establish a rhythm in accordance with a woman’s contractions and to establish a pattern of regular breathing. Similar English secular and religious lyrics would have been used in many birth chambers around the country, from those of queens downwards. Such traditional rhymes must have been part of an experienced midwife’s repertoire:
A swollen woman
sat in a swollen road;
a swollen child
she held in her lap;
swollen hands
and swollen feet,
swollen flesh
that will take this blow,
swollen wood
and swollen iron
that will give out this blow.
The pain goes out
from bone to flesh,
from flesh to skin
from skin to hair
from hair to grass
let Mother Earth receive the pain.16
No record is made of the midwives in attendance on Elizabeth, although at least one would undoubtedly have been present. They were indispensable as the only females allowed to physically intervene during the process and touch the queen’s reproductive organs. It is possible that Elizabeth was attended by her mother’s favourite midwife, Marjory Cobbe, who had attended Elizabeth Wydeville’s final confinement only six years before. During the months of her pregnancy, the queen would have been attended by doctors and physicians, such as Walter Lemster, to whom Henry granted £40 a year for life that February. The royal nursery would be presided over by Elizabeth Denton, who, in 1509, received the gift of Coldharbour House for life as a reward for her services. As unlicensed practitioners, midwives would have been chosen according to their moral standing, appearance, experience and reputation; quite probably they already had associations with the family and may have delivered siblings, cousins or friends. The varying reputations of ‘wise women’ could be determined by factors beyond their control, like maternal health and infant mortality but they were usually older women, past their childbearing years, who had been in attendance at many lyings-in. There was little pre-natal care in the modern sense but once they arrived in the birth chamber, they assumed absolute control. As Elizabeth’s labour pains intensified, she may have lain on her pallet bed, walked about the room or knelt. A midwife may even have brought or commissioned her own ‘groaning chair’, allowing her to attend the delivery whilst another helped the queen brace herself against the pain and pressed down on the top of her womb. Some midwives used rope tourniquets to aid expulsion whilst others employed massage, warm towels and applied herbal remedies to speed up uterine contractions. A midwife’s job was also to remain calm and be cheery and encouraging, in which she would lead the other women in setting the tone of the chamber.
Unsurprisingly, the male-authored accounts do not describe whether Elizabeth’s labour was long or difficult; once the heir had safely arrived, such details may have not been considered important. However, it would have made all the difference for the queen. As a first birth, it was an unknown quantity and probably a daunting experience for the young woman, despite the collective wisdom of her gossips. She may well have observed the births of her younger siblings, especially in attendance on her mother through the difficult years of sanctuary, yet observing and participating differ vastly. Considering her youth and relatively quick recovery, she most likely experienced a relatively straightforward delivery once the baby began to crown during the night of 19/20 September. Finally, in the early hours of the morning, a healthy child arrived. The prophets were proved right: it was a boy. Following a quick examination, the midwife declared him perfect. The little prince’s umbilical cord would have been cut and anointed with powdered frankincense or aloe, before he was washed in a mixture of wine, herbs or milk and rubbed with butter or the oil of almonds, roses or nuts to close his pores, so that the air would not harm them. Then he was tightly swaddled, placed in the cradle and given a spoonful of wine and sugar. The eleventh-century Italian female physician Trotula of Salerno recommended a newborn’s tongue to be washed with hot water to ensure clear speech or else rubbed with honey to stimulate a healthy appetite. While her baby slept, Elizabeth delivered the placenta. This was achieved through a ‘mini-labour’ during which her womb was again massaged until the afterbirth arrived. The women would have checked it carefully before disposal, as any remaining fragments could lead to fatal haemorrhaging later. Finally, Elizabeth was briefly washed down with fine linen cloth or clean sponge and allowed to rest. She was not allowed to sleep for a couple of hours
after delivery, so her women would have kept her diverted and cheered with their chatter. Her aching body would have been soothed with the best ointments and cures, using well-known herbal and floral remedies to staunch the flow of blood and ease blood-flow and pains; the days following were crucial for her health and recovery. Natural light was not supposed to penetrate the room for at least three days, as birth was considered to strain the eye-sight and a typical lying-in period might last a month or more. Eventually, she would be washed and dressed, perhaps transferred to a state bed and formally ‘sat up’ to receive visitors. Access to the queen’s body still followed strict protocol; no one lower than the rank of duchess or countess was permitted to help her rise from her bed or receive her at her chamber door when she would finally emerge.
It seemed that her ordeal was over. However, in the days following the birth, Elizabeth suffered from an ague or fever, so the court remained at Winchester for her recovery and churching. Perhaps from her chamber she was aware of the town’s celebrations of bells ringing in all the churches, Masses, bonfires, revelry and the dispatch of messengers across the country bearing the good news. Elizabeth’s own gratitude for her safe delivery would prompt her to found a chapel in Winchester Cathedral, where Arthur was christened, in her absence, a few days after his birth. It was a grand occasion, again dictated by Margaret Beaufort’s Ordinances, with the walls draped in rich arras and floors spread with carpets. The silver gilt font from Canterbury Cathedral was borrowed, lined with soft Rennes linen, to protect the child at the moment of baptism, while coals scented with perfume burned and wooden barriers kept back the throng of onlookers. The main roles in the ceremony were taken by Elizabeth’s women; her sister Cecily carried Arthur, wrapped in a mantle of crimson cloth-of-gold furred with ermine. After his baptism, with salt, oil and water, the child was passed to his godmother, Elizabeth’s mother, who presented him as an offering at the altar, before he was richly endowed with gifts and the party celebrated with wine and spices. Then, the baby was returned to his mother’s chamber to be blessed by his parents.
Early in October, Elizabeth had recovered sufficiently to process to the church in the wake of a large burning taper for her churching ceremony: following this, she was restored to her role of queen and wife, appearing seated ceremonially below the Cloth of Estate. By the end of the month, the court had removed to Greenwich and after the New Year, plans were drawn up for the establishment of Arthur’s household at Farnham in Surrey. His household was overseen by a Lady Governess of the nursery, assisted by a dry nurse, wet-nurse and various yeomen, grooms and others who saw to the practical running of the house: 1,000 marks were allocated for its expenses. From that point, Elizabeth’s contact with her young son would be intermittent – queens could not be incapacitated by breast-feeding or maternity: other women would feed and clothe him, comfort him at night, play with him and nurse him through illness, until he was of an age for his father to start preparing him for his important future. As the dynasty’s bodily vessel, Elizabeth’s first pregnancy had been a success. Now she had to begin the process again.
2
Elizabeth of York
& the Future Henry VIII
1487–1503
The Family Expands
For first his sweet and lovely Queen
A Joy above the rest
Brought him both Sons and Daughters fair
To make his Kingdom blest.
The Royal Blood that was at Ebb
So increas’d by his Queen,
That England’s heir unto this Day
Do flourish fair and green.1
Fourteen months after the birth of her son, Elizabeth was crowned as England’s queen. It was perhaps a more glorious moment for her than her marriage had been, and just as spectacular. This time however, there was no one else to share the limelight; this above all, was her day. In a sense, it was also her reward for the rapid production of a healthy male heir; not all Tudor consorts were crowned and their status lay firmly in the hands of their royal husbands on whose orders the ceremony took place. It was a November day in 1487 when the royal convoy of barges sailed up the Thames from Greenwich, streaming with colourful silk banners; on one, a huge red Welsh dragon spouted flames of fire into the water as people gathered on the banks to watch. On another sat Elizabeth and her ladies, dressed in all their jewels, furs and finery. It must have been an impressive sight, even for a city that was used to pageantry. Music would have wafted downstream on the autumnal air and into London homes and streets, heralding their soon-to-be queen’s approach. She passed that night in state at the Tower, then set out the following day to travel the short distance to Westminster Abbey, reclining on downy cushions in a litter of cloth-of-gold of damask, carried by Knights of the Bath. On her head was a circlet of gold set with precious stones – which would later be exchanged for the crown – and her kirtle and mantle of purple velvet were fronted with lace. The previous day’s warnings had been heeded; the packed streets, thronging with Londoners in all their finery, were decorated with rich cloths and banners that hung from the houses along her route. As she passed along the special ‘ray cloth’ of striped wool, leading from her litter into the abbey, the crowd surged up behind to seize pieces of this carpet, which was thought to have magical properties. Their enthusiasm was so great that riots broke out but the great doors were quickly closed upon the rabble outside, allowing the important business of state to proceed. According to tradition, Elizabeth was anointed twice, once on the chest and once on the head before receiving a ring for the fourth finger of her right hand, a gold crown, sceptre and rod of gold. Onlookers were then cleared from Westminster Hall to make way for the guests: Lords, bishops and abbots; barons, knights and nobles, beside London’s mayor, alderman, merchants and distinguished citizens, were seated either side of the dais on which Elizabeth would be served her celebratory banquet. No doubt the food was as sumptuous and plentiful as it had been at her wedding. After the feasting, the Garter King of Arms led the heralds and officers in proclaiming her queen and offering her their sincere gratitude and thanks. If any doubts had lingered about Elizabeth’s validity as queen, the birth of her son and her splendid coronation reaffirmed the strength of the Tudor dynasty and the royal marriage. As a young, fertile woman, regularly sharing her husband’s bed, expectations for an imminent second pregnancy would have been high.
Yet two and a half years would pass before Elizabeth would conceive again. Given the royal couple’s ages and regular periods spent together, as well as the rapidity of Arthur’s conception, this represents a significant interval. Easily long enough to suggest fertility issues in a modern couple, it may well have given the royal pair and their physicians cause for concern. Yet such situations were not uncommon among European royalty. Isabella of Castile’s seven-year interval between her first and second child puzzled the Spanish court and all her physicians, yet she then went on to deliver a son and three more daughters. Catherine de Medici would be married to Henri II of France for a decade before conceiving the first of eleven offspring. Even after the arrival of their healthy son Arthur, the Tudor imperative for heirs was still strong, as a royal family’s future strength lay partly in its size. It must be assumed, therefore, that Henry and Elizabeth were still actively trying to conceive during these years. Political threats and strains would have proved an unwelcome distraction, though, which could affect fertility and performance. 1487 had brought difficult challenges, with Yorkist claimant Lambert Simnel threatening to invade and usurp the throne. His coronation as Edward VI in Dublin that May had forced Henry again into battle, defeating his enemies at Stoke. It had been a powerful reminder that one little boy in his nursery at Farnham was not sufficient guarantee of the Tudor lineage, nor protection against the menace of rival claimants. The hereditary succession was as precarious as his young life, prey to all the dangers of infant mortality that were no respecters of rank. In spite of – or perhaps because of – their early trials, the royal family were close. Whene
ver possible during this troubling summer, Henry and Elizabeth had remained together. As he prepared for battle, the king had summoned his ‘dearest wife and dearest mother’ to be with him at Kenilworth; among his last acts before leaving to fight were to pay the wages of Arthur’s household and to equip his wife’s attendants. Although some chroniclers suggested that Henry was cool towards his wife because of her Yorkist origins, there is no evidence to suggest this. They were together again in London for her coronation and celebrated that Christmas at Greenwich. The following year they were at Windsor for Easter, passed the summer at Woodstock, then on to Westminster in the autumn, providing them with plenty of opportunities to conceive a second child. Yet nothing happened.
