Journey Through Tudor England

by Suzannah Lipscomb

  Our attitudes towards conservation today are very different from those of our forebears. I was fortunate enough to be married at Hampton Court Palace, but the opportunity came with an understandable list of things we could not do, among them eat red-coloured jam on our scones in the Little Banqueting House or stand up with a glass of red wine in the Great Hall. Compare this with the fate of Nonsuch: what was allegedly one of the greatest palaces in all of Europe was given by a disinterested king to a negligent mistress (Charles II to Barbara Villiers), who set about dismantling it to pay off her gambling debts.

  This leads to a question that many a historic house owner has had to answer: do you leave buildings in their historic state, even when they need interventions to preserve them, or do you restore them and risk destroying what remains? Over the years, even some well-meaning ‘restoration’ has damaged original Tudor fabric, as at the Old Hall at Lincoln’s Inn. William Morris founded the Society for the Protection of Ancient Buildings in 1877 precisely to stop what he considered the ‘feeble and lifeless forgery’ of restoring buildings to some imagined past. Given the necessity of restoration in most cases, to what period do you restore a building? All buildings with a Tudor history have a story since, and it’s rather hit-and-miss which ones retain their Tudor features or are represented in their Tudor state. Therefore, for the places in this book, although I’ve tried to contextualise each building within their longer histories, I’ve focused on picking out the Tudor parts and explaining why the buildings — and the places, people and events associated with them — are significant from a Tudor point of view.

  The book doesn’t attempt to be a substitute for a comprehensive guidebook to each site through its ages but, in what follows, I attempt to explain how to experience these buildings as a visitor to Tudor England. What I hope this book accomplishes is that it shows you how to peel back the layers and experience the history of each place from a Tudor perspective, looking at it through Tudor eyes and with Tudor stories in mind. I will be your guide and companion.

  ‘These bloody days have broken my heart … The bell tower showed me such a sight’

  The Tower of London is one of the most famous buildings in the world. With William the Conqueror’s eleventh-century White Tower at its centre and its many other towers largely completed in the reign of Edward I (1272—1307), it has been a fortress and a royal palace, and even, in the thirteenth century, housed a menagerie of exotic animals, including an elephant and a polar bear that fished in the Thames. It is famous for its ravens, the Crown Jewels, the Yeoman Warders (known universally as ‘Beefeaters’) and the fabled murder of the young ‘Princes in the Tower’, whose bones were found two centuries after their deaths. Henry VIII was the last monarch to invest in repairing and refurbishing the Tower, and all the Tudor monarchs processed from the Tower to Westminster for their coronations.

  The Tower’s chief distinction in the Tudor period was, however, as a place of imprisonment and execution. Many Tudor prisoners would have arrived by boat and entered through the water gate in St Thomas’s Tower, now commonly known as Traitors’ Gate, which was reached from a tunnel under the wharf from the Thames. Compared to many Tudor prisons, the Tower was relatively comfortable. That it may also have been terribly boring is attested to by the extraordinary graffiti left by Tudor prisoners. Most of it, like tagging in modern graffiti, shows a fixation with leaving a record of one’s name. In the Tower, however, prisoners had a much more compelling motive than today’s graffiti artists: they feared, many quite rightly, that they would only leave their imprisonment to die.

  Beauchamp (pronounced ‘Beecham’) Tower has some beautifully inventive graffiti: Thomas Abel, chaplain to Katherine of Aragon, was imprisoned for refusing to accept the annulment of her marriage to Henry VIII, and depicted his surname with the letter ‘A’ on a bell; the Dudley brothers, imprisoned after their failed attempt to crown Lady Jane Grey queen, carved an elaborate rebus to the right of the fireplace with their coat of arms in a floral border, where each flower represents one of the Dudleys. Another supporter of Jane’s carved the simple word ‘IANE’, while Sir Philip Howard, Earl of Arundel [see ARUNDEL CASTLE] — one of the many Catholics imprisoned in the Tower in Elizabeth’s reign — spent his ten years of confinement carving the Latin phrase, ‘The more suffering for Christ in this world, The more glory for Christ in the next.’ In the Salt Tower, you can see the most incredible carving of an astrological sphere or clock and inscription by Hugh Draper, imprisoned on an accusation of sorcery in 1561. Here, too, are indications of Catholic faith: ‘Maria’ carved into the walls, and a bleeding foot to indicate the five wounds of Christ. Henry Walpole, a Jesuit priest, was imprisoned here in 1593 and inscribed the walls with the Latin names of St Paul and St Peter, and the four fathers of the Church. Walpole’s story also reminds us of why the Tower was so feared in the sixteenth century: it could be a place of torture.

  Perhaps surprisingly, torture was relatively rare, as only the Privy Council could authorise it. Nevertheless, there were forty-eight sanctioned cases of torture between 1540 and 1640. The Lower Wakefield Tower has a display of the weapons of torture: usually the rack; contorting irons for the legs, wrists and neck; or the manacles, from which a prisoner was suspended from the hands or wrists. Walpole was hung from the manacles fourteen times, and had the middle finger of his right hand torn off, but still refused to inform on other English Catholics [for more on English Catholics, see HARVINGTON HALL]. Ralph Ithell, a Catholic priest whose engraving from 1586 can be seen in Broad Arrow Tower, was racked for plotting to overthrow Elizabeth I. Earlier in the century (and contrary to a woman’s normal exemption from torture), the Protestant Anne Askew, who was imprisoned in the Cradle Tower, had also been racked. After her trial of June 1546, and in the hope that she would denounce a number of noblewomen for sharing in the heresy of which she was accused, two royal councillors, Thomas Wriothesley and the devious Sir Richard Rich, even turned the rack themselves.

  More famous prisoners include Sir Walter Ralegh, gaoled three times in the Bloody Tower (as the Garden Tower was renamed after the murder of the Princes); Sir Thomas More [see LINCOLN’S INN], Bishop John Fisher and the poet Sir Thomas Wyatt the Elder who was interned in the Bell Tower (sadly, not open to the public). Wyatt wrote of seeing those accused of adultery with Anne Boleyn executed on Tower Hill:

  These bloody days have broken my heart …

  The bell tower showed me such a sight

  That in my head sticks day and night.

  There did I learn out of a grate,

  For all favour, glory, or might,

  That yet circa regna tonat [thunder rolls around the throne of kings].

  The Tower was also a place of death. In 1536, Anne Boleyn was imprisoned in the Queen’s lodgings, which ran from the Lanthorn Tower up towards the White Tower: precisely where she had stayed before her coronation three years earlier. She was tried in the medieval Great Hall: you can see where this would have been as you emerge from the Wakefield Tower. Anne was one of only seven people in the Tower’s history to be executed on Tower Green and she was then buried under the altar in the chapel of St Peter ad Vincula (the parish church of the Tower). She was also the only one to be executed with a sword, rather than an axe.

  Tower Green, within the Tower itself, was chosen over Tower Hill for private, secure executions of high-ranking individuals. Two other queens of England died in this way: Henry VIII’s fifth wife, Katherine Howard, and Lady Jane Grey. The other victims were Margaret Pole, Countess of Salisbury, formerly governess to Princess Mary, who was chased across the scaffold by her executioner — ‘a wretched and blundering youth … who literally hacked her head and shoulders to pieces in the most pitiful manner’; Jane Boleyn, Lady Rochford, who had abetted Katherine Howard in her adultery; and Robert Devereux, Earl of Essex for his uprising against Elizabeth I. The Devereux Tower still bears his name.

  The others buried at St Peter ad Vincula were executed in public on Tower Hill, on wh
at is now Trinity Square Gardens. They included Edward Stafford, Duke of Buckingham, in 1521 (see THORNBURY CASTLE); George Boleyn, Lord Rochford, Anne Boleyn’s brother, in 1536; Thomas Cromwell, Earl of Essex and Henry VIII’s first minister, in 1540; Edward Seymour, Duke of Somerset and Lord Protector in 1552; and Thomas Howard, Duke of Norfolk in 1572. All died on charges of treason.

  Strangely, the place instantly recalled when thinking of the Tower — the iconic White Tower itself — is that least associated with captivity and execution. Today it houses the collections of the Royal Armouries, including Henry VIII’s armour. Look out for the exquisite horse armour made for Henry in 1515: beautifully engraved all over with foliage, Tudor roses and pomegranates, its skirt bears the intertwining initials H and K, for Henry and Katherine of Aragon. As it was made to measure, it also shows that in 1515 Henry had a chest of just thirty-six inches, in contrast to the enormous size of his field and tournament armour of 1540, which you can also see here. In 1540, when Henry VIII turned fifty years old, his chest had expanded to an obese fifty-seven inches.

  The Tower, as a place of incarceration, death and final rest for many, is a must-see for the Tudor visitor. The passing of time alone accounts for the fact that a place characterised by suffering, cruelty and death is now experienced as beautiful and impressive by those of us who, unlike many of its residents, can choose to leave.

  ‘Holbein’s manner of limning (watercolour painting) I have ever imitated and hold it for the best.’

  Miniaturist Nicholas Hilliard, in his Treatise on the Art of Limning, 1600

  The remarkable collection of Tudor portraits at the National Portrait Gallery is second-to-none. The gallery is like a dramatis personae of the period, giving us the chance to come face-to-face with well-known characters of the period in vivid colour and extraordinary detail.

  The portraits begin, appropriately, with a portrait of Henry VII [see RICHMOND PALACE] from 1505, holding a red rose. Although his closed mouth hides his black and rotting teeth, it is probably otherwise a good likeness as it was painted by Margaret of Austria’s court painter as part of Henry’s (rejected) marriage proposal to her after the death of his wife, Elizabeth of York: Margaret’s court painter would have had no reason to flatter. Elizabeth of York, meanwhile, is depicted in a late sixteenth-century copy of the original holding the white rose of the House of York, and looking every inch like a queen on a playing card.

  There are two contrasting portraits here of Henry VIII. His portrait of 1520 makes him appear (much like his father’s portrait) weak and wan, but the hugely impressive cartoon by Hans Holbein the Younger from 1536/7 dwarfs it. The cartoon — a full-size, masculine image of Henry — is a detailed preparatory drawing for the Whitehall Mural, which measured nine feet by twelve feet [see THE WALKER ART GALLERY]. The detailing on the classical interior in the background and the clothing is unusually fine. Holbein would have transferred the image to the wall by pricking tiny holes along the ink lines, and brushing charcoal through the holes to leave dots on the wall behind.

  Three of Henry VIII’s wives are represented here, too. Katherine of Aragon was painted in miniature [see PETERBOROUGH CATHEDRAL] in 1525, probably by Lucas Horenbout, and is also depicted in an unflattering eighteenth-century copy of another picture that, judging by her clothing, was painted in the same year. A portrait of Anne Boleyn dates from the late sixteenth century (no agreed portraits survive from her lifetime): she wears her famous ‘B’ pendant. Given her reputation as a dowdy old widow, the image of Kateryn Parr [see SUDELEY CASTLE] is perhaps the most surprising. This full-length image from 1545, attributed to Master John, shows an elegant woman with a tiny waist and immensely fashionable clothing: the wide neckline, the lynx-fur sleeves, the red embroidery on her shift, the decorative faces on her girdle, the abundance of pearls. If you look carefully, you can see that even her overskirt is lined with fur.

  Nearby, there are important pictures of Henry VIII’s court, including Richard Fox, Bishop of Winchester; Thomas Cranmer, Archbishop of Canterbury [see BROAD STREET], who has been painted by Gerlach Flicke suitably holding St Paul’s Epistles; and Thomas Cromwell, Earl of Essex, in a portrait after Holbein, and in a miniature attributed to Holbein from 1532—3.

  The two portraits of Edward VI are worth noticing. The portrayal by William Scrots in 1546, in its original frame, is shown in a distorted, stretched perspective (called an anamorphosis — the skull at the bottom of Holbein’s Ambassadors from 1533, next door in the National Gallery, is a famous example of this technique). If you stand at a certain angle and look down the viewfinder, you can see Edward in proper perspective. Perhaps the painting was designed to amuse the soon-to-be boy-king, as well as show off Scrots’s skills. Edward’s portrait of a year later is a much more regal affair: he looks just like a little version of Henry VIII in Holbein’s cartoon. To exaggerate his manliness, his clothes have evidently been stuffed.

  Mary I is well represented across her lifetime, first in a miniature by Lucas Horenbout from around 1525, when she was only seven, and then in her twenties, by Master John. Her cabinet portrait (a painting of a sitter’s head and shoulders) by Hans Eworth from 1554 dates from her queenship, soon after her marriage to Philip II of Spain [see WINCHESTER CATHEDRAL]. Finally, the couple are depicted alongside each other. There is also a much later image of England’s Spanish King in ceremonial armour with gilt etchings, dating from 1580. This is the man who ordered the Armada to sail against Elizabeth’s England.

  Elizabeth I’s portraits show Tudor portraiture at its zenith. The image of her coronation (15 January 1559) actually dates from 1600. She is shown with crown, orb and sceptre, and exquisite robes woven with gold and silver thread, lined with ermine and decorated with the Tudor rose and fleur-de-lis of France (the robes had been used at Mary I’s coronation in 1553, when England still owned Calais). Elizabeth’s hair is loose, her hairline plucked high and her alabaster face made pale with white powder. The appearance of blue veins at her temples was the Tudor way of emphasising the flattering translucent quality of her skin.

  Elizabeth is portrayed more simply in Nicholas Hilliard’s miniature of 1572, and in the important Darnley portrait of 1575, when she was painted from life, providing a type that would be copied for years and keep Elizabeth’s portraits looking young while she aged. Although her snow-white face is striking in its ghost-like, anaemic quality, recent research suggests that her face would not have been quite as uniformly pale as it appears to us now: the red pigments in the paint used to depict her cheeks have faded and she has lost some of her healthy glow. The portrait by Marcus Gheeraerts the Younger, from 1592, is much more symbolic. It was produced for Sir Henry Lee, her Master of Ordnance, and was designed to flatter, with Elizabeth standing astride the globe as a symbol of the sun.

  Elizabeth’s court is also represented here in great numbers. There is John Astley, her tutor, from 1555; and William Cecil, Lord Burghley, her Secretary of State and, later, Lord Treasurer [see BURGHLEY HOUSE] wearing the rich, black velvet that signified wealth. There are also notable portraits of her favourites. Two of the many portraits of Elizabeth’s favourite, Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester, are here: one from 1575, the year he last wooed her [see KENILWORTH CASTLE], and a Hilliard miniature from 1576. In the portrait, Leicester wears the somewhat effete clothing of the Elizabethan male: a figure-hugging doublet in red and gold thread, and short, wide breeches, with his legs unabashedly on show in silk stockings. Another of Elizabeth I’s favourites, Sir Christopher Hatton [see KIRBY HOUSE], is depicted in a Hilliard miniature from 1581, as is the upstart Robert Devereux, Earl of Essex, who has also been painted life-size by Gheeraerts.

  Here, too, are the great and good of her court: Sir Francis Drake, in miniature and in life-size with his hand resting on a globe to mark his circumnavigation, which he’d completed just before these portraits were painted [see BUCKLAND ABBEY]; and Sir Walter Ralegh, dashing in his miniature of 1585, but greyed in his image of 1602, where he’s pictured w
ith his son (also named Walter), who would later die in the search for El Dorado [see SHERBORNE ABBEY]. Sir Philip Sidney, the soldier-courtier-poet whom the Elizabethans adored [see PENSHURST PLACE], is flatteringly depicted (with no sign of his acute childhood smallpox scars) in neck armour. Surprisingly, given that facial hair fashions at the time worked on the basis that beards equalled masculinity, Sidney is barefaced, maybe as a symbol of his youth.

  Also, be sure to spot Thomas Howard, fourth Duke of Norfolk, executed for treason in 1572 [see ARUNDEL CASTLE]; the miniature of Francis Bacon, Viscount St Alban, the English philosopher, from 1578; and an unbecoming portrait of his father, Sir Nicholas Bacon, Lord Keeper of the Great Seal, painted a year later. Sir Henry Lee is also shown in a fascinating picture painted by the great artist Antonis Mor, with his sleeves decorated with armillary spheres and lovers’ knots symbolising Elizabeth, and three mysterious rings.

  Finally, there are two portraits that tell wider stories. The portrait of Anne, Lady Pope, pregnant and with her three children, was probably painted before she entered the dangerous period of childbirth (which one in four women did not survive). Notice that two of her children, although in skirts, are actually boys: boys would only be ‘breeched’ — taken out of girls’ clothes and put in breeches — at the age of six or seven. The last is a very unusual narrative portrait of the minor courtier, soldier and diplomat Sir Henry Unton, from 1596. Commissioned by his widow, Dorothy Wroughtson, and read right to left, it shows his whole life and death, including his travels, banqueting, music-making and an Elizabethan masque. It is a wonderful summary, in oil, of the amusing and arduous world of the Tudor gentry.