In Bed with the Tudors: The Sex Lives of a Dynasty from Elizabeth of York to Elizabeth I

by Amy Licence

  As Henry approached the shrine at Walsingham, he was entering a dazzling world. Only a year later, in 1512, the visiting Dutch humanist Erasmus described it as surrounded on all sides with gold, silver and gems, shining brilliantly. For the majority of the visitors, it must have been an intense, incomparable experience, with sculpture, painted glass and colourful altar pieces besides all the usual theatre and paraphernalia of an internationally renowned shrine. Somewhere among it all were the prized phials of what was claimed to be the Virgin’s milk. Mary’s statue was draped in fine silk set with precious stones, with a lace veil edged in pearls, gold and silver. The additional theatricality of blazing lights must have exaggerated the spectacle and associated these earthly offerings with metaphors of divine light and the revelation and salvation it promised. The piles of attendant jewels, gold and rich fabrics were a contemporary shorthand for spiritual wealth, a reassurance of the long-standing history and authenticity of this form of worship, as well as an indication of the saints’ rates of success as healers. A saint with many offerings suggested a high success rate. One contemporary description of the tomb of St Thomas in Canterbury Cathedral gives some idea of just how dazzling the experience must have been as the culmination of weeks, or even months, on the road. The ritual of approach, supplication and departure were a carefully controlled piece of theatre; behind an altar at the top of steps, a wooden canopy could be raised and lowered to reveal a stone plinth, through the open archway of which was revealed a tantalising but brief glimpse of St Thomas’ reliquary. This was a casket covered in gold plate, studded with gems, covered with gifts given by visiting kings, past and present. Describing it in 1512, Erasmus wrote, ‘the last valuable portion was of gold but every part glistened, shone and sparkled with rare and very large jewels, some of them larger than a goose’s egg.’3 Shrines themselves were a complex multi-sensory display of light, sound, statues, glass, wall painting, prayers, music, water, incense, procession and crowds. Many pilgrims approached on hands and knees, while silver bells tinkled, incense wafted and the prior indicated the precious gifts with a white wand. Surrounding taverns and inns would have resounded with the tales of successful interventions, like one Canterbury woman who spent a day and night in labour after the arm of her foetus swelled and would not be expelled despite all the midwives’ efforts; eventually the child turned and was born normally, through the intervention of St Thomas. Stories like this engendered hope in the pilgrims; everyone believed their own miracle was possible. For Henry and Catherine, God had given his seal of approval to their marriage and the new reign: all their hopes were centred on the tiny boy that lay at Richmond.

  Then tragedy stuck and the child died. He was only two months old. At the end of February, provision was made for his burial, with lengths of black cloth for gowns and banners, wax candles and torches ordered for the solemn procession at Westminster. The grief of the new parents was intense, to the extent that well-wishers and mourners were advised not to offer condolences, for risk of stimulating their pain afresh. The divine blessing briefly extended to their union and the dynasty had been cruelly snatched away; the question they could not avoid was whether they somehow displeased God. Chronicler Edward Hall described the queen’s reaction as a ‘natural woman’ who made ‘muche lamentation’, while Henry tried his best to comfort her with the notion that it was God’s will: according to Catholic doctrine, excessive grief was a criticism of the divine plan and would anger God further. Loss did not drive Henry and Catherine apart; it united them in their desire for another child and by the September of that year, rumours were circulating court that another heir was expected. This was probably a false alarm, brought on by the queen’s amenorrhoea or wishful thinking, reinforcing contemporary uncertainties of conception and the workings of the female body. It is unlikely that Catherine would have resorted to one of the popular superstitions or customs for a woman who had born a dead child. Custom suggested she take some earth from its grave, wrap it in black cloth and sell it to a merchant, after which her fertility would be restored and future children protected. The queen’s method of choice would have been prayer and religious ritual. In the end, though, two more years would pass before another child was successfully conceived.

  Catherine became pregnant again in the spring of 1513. It was an eventful year, with Henry fighting in France, leaving her, as regent, to deal with the Scottish invasion that would culminate in the Battle of Flodden Field. After the victory celebrations were over, she travelled to Walsingham to pray for a safe delivery, although ironically, this journey in addition to the strain of her regency overtired her and on 17 September, she delivered a son prematurely. Both the Venetian Di Favri and Imperial Ambassadors recorded that the little boy was born alive but died soon after birth. The event clearly took the couple by surprise as Henry was still in France; it is unlikely he would have planned to be away during the confinement; he arrived back in England that October to receive the bad news. Yet their meeting was so ‘loving’ that everyone witnessing it ‘rejoiced’: the couple did not abandon hope and within about six months, the queen had conceived again. By June 1514, her expanding belly left no room for doubt. She was observed by the Venetian envoy that August ‘pregnant clad in ash coloured satin with chains and jewels and on her head a cap of gold’. They must have hoped and prayed that finally, this fourth child would be strong.

  The failure of three pregnancies so far was not untypical for the time but it was an indicator that something might be wrong. It has been suggested in recent years that Catherine’s disastrous gynaecological history might be due to her infection with syphilis,4 with Henry exhibiting what could be interpreted as the secondary signs of the disease in rashes, sores and mood swings, but there is no evidence of Catherine suffering any other symptoms. The case for Henry’s infection is equally inconclusive and encompasses none of the contemporary mercury cures, whilst he did regularly concoct his own remedies for various illnesses of his ‘member’. None of the ingredients he frequently used or was prescribed correspond to contemporary cures. In comparison, the French king Francis I regularly undertook such treatments and his status as a sufferer is incontrovertible. Another attempt to explain the miscarriages has been to assign the queen a rhesus negative blood type, which reacted with that of her foetuses, causing expulsion. However, this usually happens in the first trimester of pregnancy and does not account for the many babies she carried to term. Further theories, posed by historian Robert Hutchinson, include the presence in water and food of Listeriosis, a form of bacterial infection which can trigger miscarriage and stillbirth, meningitis and pneumonia in new born babies; additionally, Henry’s sperm cells may have carried an imbalance of DNA material, prompting miscarriage to occur.5 It is not impossible that a form of extreme anorexia may have been to blame, caused by Catherine’s religious fasting, erratic eating and frequent illnesses, especially during the crucial years of her young womanhood, which adversely affected her fertility. Fasting was considered ‘medicine to soul and body. It preserves the body from disease, the soul from sin’. This may have been an early form of anorexia nervosa, a method of exercising some sort of personal control in an otherwise chaotic and unpredictable existence, although interpreting Tudor actions according to modern medical definitions and psychological understanding is always fraught with problems. Most recently, suggestions have been made that Henry and his elder sister Margaret may have suffered from untreated diabetes type two, or else that Henry was Kell positive and many have suffered from McLeod syndrome: this would mean he had inherited mutations in his X chromosome. Some or none of these theories may have been true. Despite the ability of modern medicine to offer plausible theories for their losses, the couple may have simply been unfortunate in their high rate of infant mortality; they were not the only family to suffer such personal tragedy.

  Infant mortality rates during the Tudor period were highest among newborns, varyingly estimated at around one in five. A considerable number must have suffered life threat
ening illnesses during their mothers’ long and difficult labours or the subsequent incompetence of those responsible for their arrival. Difficult presentments could result in midwives hacking away at portions of a child’s anatomy, assuming it had proceeded far enough to be visible. Before the advent of forceps, difficult deliveries could be aided by hooks attached to an infant’s skull, which inevitably proved fatal. If a child was born alive, the first few hours were critical, when poor understanding of hygiene and obstetrics could lead to infection and injury, beside all the other birth complications that modern medicine can more readily handle. As far back as 1277, the Synod of Triers ruled that midwives should baptise any protruding part of any child which appeared unlikely to survive until the arrival of a priest. In their absence, a woman of good character might perform the office, providing another essential role for the birth room gossips. Sadly, a regular feature of many parish registers is the simultaneous recording of an infant’s birth and death when circumstances necessitated christening by the midwife at home, shortly before death occurred. This would involve at least being blessed with the sign of the cross or sprinkled with salt, while some placed a coin in baby’s cradle or in its hand, practices that were disapproved of after the Reformation. Catherine and Henry’s tragic losses were not unique: Henry’s own sister, Margaret, wife of King James IV of Scotland, had a similar pattern of loss in her first marriage, with only one child out of six surviving past the age of two. Statistics derived from Tudor parishes indicate the high levels of mortality suffered throughout the kingdom at the time.

  The examination of a typical decade in the parish of St Mary the Virgin, Chelmsford, Essex, can highlight the regularity and numbers of childhood deaths. In 1540, forty-nine babies were born and sixteen children died under the age of one, giving a mortality rate of one in four. For the next four years the pattern continued, with child mortality ranging between eleven and thirty-two cases annually: on average, over 80 per cent of all infant deaths happened before the first birthday. The following year was an annus horribilis for the city: 1545 saw foreign wars, terrible weather, crop failure and famine. Mortality rates for the entire parish rose dramatically and over 60 children were recorded as dying, a fifth being under the age of one. The second half of the decade saw the death rate fall, fluctuating between nine and twenty-two cases annually, with relatively higher rates of survival for newborns. The historical misnomer of detached, aloof Tudor parents, hardened to the loss of their children, has been rightly questioned in recent years. There is no doubt of the sincere and lasting grief suffered by Henry VII and Elizabeth, Henry VIII and Catherine over the losses of their first-born sons. The case of Thomas and Agnes Parkinson of Bedale, married in 1508, whose only child was stillborn, illustrates the depth of feeling suffered at the loss of a child. The infant was buried nearby in a field but a raven uncovered the grave, filling them with such grief that they parted and lived celibate lives, with Thomas becoming a hermit until the dissolution, after which he wandered the countryside.6 In reality, Tudor parents must have been prepared for the possibility of losing a child in a way that is entirely preventable in the modern developed world.

  One family in Burnham, Essex, was typical of those suffering very high rates of infant mortality. Agnes Saffold was already married to John, a mariner, when parish records began in 1559; their first registered child was Margery, baptised in July 1560 and buried at the age of four. Less than two years after that birth, Agnes was pregnant again with Elizabeth, born in January 1563, who appears to have survived beyond her youth. A year later she conceived for a third time with Sybil, who lived from September 1565 until December 1567; Richard was born in that October and John followed in January 1570. Martha, born in April 1572 did not survive but within five months, Agnes was expecting her seventh child, who also died soon after birth; her eighth was conceived three months later and born in September 1574. Anne followed in June 1576 but lived for five months by which time Agnes’ fertility must have been ebbing: she did not conceive again for over four years, giving birth in June 1581 to twins, who both died at the age of two. In a rare marriage that united both partners for almost forty years, Agnes Saffold bore at least eleven children, of whom only four reached maturity.7 The tragedies of infant mortality could strike any Tudor family, regardless of rank or wealth. Maternal health, infection, disease, malnutrition, medical misunderstanding and the still inexplicable Sudden Infant Death syndrome could all be to blame: little wonder that in the Tudor era, such events were considered to be misfortunes visited by God. Amongst the royal family, though, the implications for this went far beyond the personal.

  While the royal couple’s relationship remained close through 1514, England’s bond with Catherine’s native Spain was souring. Instead, Henry turned to France, rearranging the marriage of his younger sister Mary to favour this alliance; the eighteen-year-old was now to become the wife of the aged Louis XII instead of Catherine’s nephew Charles. Mary’s beauty was legendary; her middle name Rose was intended to echo her perfection, not just her lineage: a lock of her golden hair survives in the museum at Bury St Edmunds. Among her trousseau of extravagant dresses, Mary took with her to France a selection of silver gilt images of St Thomas, St Catherine and other saints, possibly in the anticipation of childbirth. Her marriage was to prove glorious but short-lived: the fifty-two-year-old Louis showered her with gifts and doted on her in and out of the bedroom yet would die within weeks, leaving her a teenage widow. In the meantime, Catherine was pregnant for a fourth time and Louis was also to act as godfather to the unborn child, if it proved to be a boy. On 4 October, furniture for her chambers and materials for her bed were ordered, including an amount of blue ‘saye’ and a cradle covered with scarlet, ‘for the use of our nursery, God willing’. During the later stages of her pregnancy, it is not impossible that Henry’s attentions wandered again: sex during this time was considered potentially dangerous to the foetus and given their record of losses, it is unlikely that the king and queen were sleeping together. Mary’s attendant Jane Popincourt has been suggested as one candidate for his attentions: refused by Louis XII on account of her immoral character and later rewarded £100 by Henry, she might have been one of a number of willing court ladies with whom he sought solace whilst excluded from his wife’s bed. His more significant paramour Elizabeth Blount was prominent in the Greenwich court celebrations that Christmas, so his well-known relations with her may have already begun.

  Caught between her warring husband and father, possibly distressed by rumours of Henry’s affair, the queen was in emotional turmoil when she was delivered of a short-lived son. The suggestion, on the Spanish side, that she had aborted through grief, implies she had not yet reached the stage of confinement and the child was premature. Historians have variously dated this occurrence at some point between November 1514 and February 1515 but a letter from Wolsey to Louis XII on 14 November which stated that the queen ‘looks to lie in shortly’8 must date the event to the earlier part of this period, and Di Favri confirmed in a letter home that December that the queen had been delivered of a stillborn eighth-month son, to the grief of the whole court.9 Chroniclers Stowe and Holinshed claimed it had died soon after delivery, while Peter Martyr related the event at the end of December. References in several modern works of popular history to the birth of a short-lived son the following February scarcely allow for a rapidly conceived foetus to develop sufficiently in order to determine gender. Claims that Catherine miscarried on Candlemas day itself, 2 February 1515, can be cast into doubt by her presence at a play performed at court at Westminster on that night. The confusion arises from a letter in Catherine’s own hand to her father, in October 1515, where she writes that she gave birth to a child ‘after Candlemas’, which may either be a mistake, a deliberate miscalculation or else she was delivered of another embryo barely weeks old, which, given the difficulties of diagnosis, she can hardly have been aware she was carrying. Assuming the letter is correctly dated, translated and authenticated, it wo
uld not have been the first time Catherine had ‘massaged’ the timings of her gynaecological history when communicating with her father. Ferdinand had been suffering ill health for some time and had himself suffered the bereavements of children lost at birth or soon after. Perhaps Catherine again waited for the best moment to break her news. Whatever the truth behind the letter, the latest loss must have been heart-breaking for the queen, reaching her thirtieth birthday, with all four of her pregnancies failing to produce an heir. However, she was still fertile and although her menstruation could be erratic, proved herself able to conceive again. Rumours of a pregnancy resulting in miscarriage that June can be discounted as unfounded; every time Catherine was ill or indisposed, someone at court suspected she had conceived. To the couple’s relief, she actually fell pregnant again six months later, in May 1515, cautiously becoming aware of the changes in her body, giving way to certainty in late summer. Rumours circulated the court but understandably, her condition was not made public knowledge until October or November. Henry and Catherine must have been praying that this time, things would be different.