Castles, Customs, and Kings: True Tales by English Historical Fiction Authors
Page 32
Because illnesses are often transmitted via germs, doctors (and busy midwives) could infect the young mothers one after another, most often with what is now known as staph or strep infection in the uterine lining. Semmelweis discovered that using an antiseptic wash before assisting in the delivery of the mother cut the incidence of Childbed Fever by at least 90% and perhaps as much as 99%, but his findings were soundly rejected.
Infected women had no antibiotics to stop the onslaught of familiar symptoms once they began: fever, chills, flu like symptoms, terrible headache, foul discharge, distended abdomen, and occasionally, loss of sanity just before death.
This kind of death was not only no respecter of persons, as mentioned above, but it perhaps struck the highborn more frequently than the lowborn. In fact, fear of Childbed Fever is often mentioned when discussing Elizabeth I’s reluctance to marry and bear children.
In the Tudor era, Elizabeth of York, the mother of Henry VIII, died of Childbed Fever as did two of Henry’s wives, Queen Jane Seymour and Queen Kateryn Parr. Parr’s deathbed scene is perhaps one of the most chilling death accounts of the century, beheadings included.
Although Semmelweis was outcast from the community of physicians for his implication that they themselves were the transmitters of disease, ultimately, science and modern medicine prevailed. Today, in the developed world, very few of the newly delivered die due to Puerperal Fever. Moms no longer need fear that the very act of bringing forth life will ultimately cause their own deaths and therefore can happily bond with their babies instead.
The Truth about Halloween and Tudor England
by Nancy Bilyeau
I have a passion for 16th century England. My friends and family, not to mention my agent and editors, are accustomed to my obsession with the Tudorverse. For me, all roads lead back to the family that ruled England from 1485 to 1603. Could it be possible that Halloween, one of my favorite days of the year, is also linked to the Tudors?
Yes, it turns out, it could.
The first recorded use of the word “Halloween” was in mid-16th century England. It is a shortened version of “All-Hallows-Even” (“evening”), the night before All Hallows’ Day, another name for the Christian feast that honors saints on the first of November.
But it’s not just a literal connection. To me, there’s a certain spirit of Halloween that harkens back to the Tudor era as well. Not the jack o’ lanterns, apple-bobs, and haunted houses (and not the wonderful Christopher Lee “Dracula” movies that I watch on TCM network every October, two in a row if I can). It’s that mood, frightening and mysterious and exciting too—of ghosts flitting through the trees, of charms that just might bring you your heart’s desire, of a distant bonfire spotted in the forest, of a crone’s chilling prophecy.
In pre-Reformation England, the Catholic Church co-existed with belief in astrology and magic. It was quite common to attend Mass regularly and to consult astrologers. “The medieval church appeared as a vast reservoir of magical power,” writes Keith Thomas in his brilliant 1971 book Religion and the Decline of Magic.
Faithful Catholics tolerated the traditions of the centuries-old Celtic festival of Samhain (“summer’s end”), when people lit bonfires and put on costumes to scare away the spirits of the unfriendly dead. In fact, an eighth century pope named November 1 as the day to honor all Catholic saints and martyrs with an eye toward Samhain.
Nothing shows the merger of Celtic and Christian beliefs better than “soul cakes.” These small, round cakes, filled with nutmeg or cinnamon or currants, were made for All Saints’ Day on November 1. The cakes were offered as a way to say prayers for the departed (you can picture the village priest nodding in approval) but they were also given away to protect people on the day of the year that the wall was thinnest between the living and the dead, a Celtic if not Druid belief. I am fascinated by soul cakes, and I worked them into my first novel, The Crown, a thriller set in 1537-1538 England. Soul cakes even end up being a clue!
In the early 16th century, Halloween on October 31, All Saints’ Day (or All Hallows’ Day) on November 1, and All Souls’ Day on November 2 were a complex grouping of traditions and observances. Life revolved around the regular worship, the holidays, and the feast days that constituted the liturgy. As the great Eamon Duffy wrote: “For within that great seasonal cycle of fast and festival, of ritual observance and symbolic gesture, lay Christians found the paradigms and the stories which shaped their perception of the world and their place in it.”
Henry VIII changed the perceptions of the kingdom forever when he broke from Rome. A guiding force in his reformation of the Catholic Church was the destruction of what he and his chief minister Thomas Cromwell scorned as “superstition.” Saints’ statues were removed; murals telling mystical stories were painted over; shrines were pillaged; the number of feast days was sharply reduced so that more work could be done during the growing season. “The Protestant reformers rejected the magical powers and supernatural sanctions which had been so plentifully invoked by the medieval church,” writes Keith Thomas.
The story in The Crown is told from the perspective of a young Catholic novice who struggles to cope with these radical changes.
Yet somehow Halloween, the day before All Saints’ Day, survived the government’s anti-superstition movement, to grow and survive long after the Tudors were followed by the Stuarts. It’s now a secular holiday that children adore (including mine, who are trying on costumes four days early). As for me, I relish the candy handouts, costumes and scary movies—and I also cherish our society’s stubborn fondness for bonfires and charms and ghosts and sweet cakes, for in them can be found echoes of life in the age of the Tudors.
Tudor Christmas Gifts
by Deborah Swift
In Shakespeare’s Day it was more usual to give gifts at New Year, but if you were lucky you might receive one at Christmas. Christmas gifts were known as Christmas Boxes and were usually given by a master to his servants, or an employer to his apprentices or workmen. They were a mark of appreciation for work done over the previous year. New Year’s gifts were a more equal exchange between friends or relations.
So what might you expect in a Tudor Christmas stocking? Maria Hubert in her book Christmas in Shakespeare’s England suggests that Shakespeare might have enjoyed receiving paper as it was very expensive, a new quill pen, or a knife with which to sharpen it.
In Shakespeare’s play The Winter’s Tale, a pedlar is selling:
Lawn as white as driven snow,
Cyprus black as e’er was crow,
Gloves as sweet as damask roses;
Masks for faces and for noses,
Bugle bracelet, necklace amber,
Perfume for a lady’s chamber;
Golden quoifs and stomachers
For my lads to give their dears.
Elizabeth herself had a liking for candies and sugar fruits. The Sergeant of the Pastry (what a great title!) gave her a Christmas “pye of quynses and wardyns guilt”, in other words a gilded pie of quince and plums.
Everyone in her household was expected to give her a gift for the New Year, the more lavish the better since your gift indicated your status. The gifts are well documented and include a gift even from her dustman, who gave her “two bolts of camerick” (cambric) in 1577. In the same year, Sir Philip Sidney gave her “a smock of camerick, wrought with black silk in the collor and sleves, the square and ruffs wrought with venice golde”. It seems the dustman’s gift was somewhat outclassed!
Other gifts she received were “eighteen larkes in a cage” in 1578, and a fan of white and red feathers from Sir Francis Drake in 1589 which was included in her portrait. The portrait also shows her wearing an amber necklace like the one described in Shakespeare’s verse and carrying embroidered gloves. Were any of them Christmas gifts I wonder?
For the artisan and lower cl
asses it was the custom to send foodstuffs to your lord or master who owned the land you tenanted. Typical gifts included pigs, fowl, eggs, dried apples, cheeses, or nuts and spices such as nutmegs and almonds.
But what about the man in your life? Well, socks, of course. Or hose to be more precise.
The Elizabethan Gardening Craze
by M.M. Bennetts
We tend to associate the Tudors with lots of things—most of them of the bloody, messy, power-struggle variety. Which is not necessarily an inaccurate picture. But it’s only a fragment of the tapestry that was 16th century England.
Because what we don’t necessarily consider when thinking about the Tudors is that they—for all their many wives and/or courtiers falling in and out of favour—gave England something it had not had for centuries: domestic peace and tranquillity.
Yes, there were the uprisings against Henry VIII’s Dissolution of the Monasteries, and there was Northumberland’s attempt to seize power and the crown with an army (which famously melted away) from Mary...but for the most part the country was rebellion-free and troop-free. And this long period of peace gave rise to all sorts of growth.
There were fewer than 3 million people living in England in 1500. But that figure had nearly doubled by 1650, to 5.25 million.
Then too, in 1520, the Church owned roughly one-sixth of the kingdom. By 1558, when Elizabeth ascended the throne—roughly twenty years after the Dissolution of the Monasteries—three-fourths of that land had been sold off, primarily into the hands of the gentry and the increasingly monied middle class. And this substantial change in land ownership brought with it equally substantial shifts in political, cultural, and economic power within the kingdom.
Translated into plain English, there was now a land-owning gentry and burgeoning middle class who found themselves able to spend more of their resources on pleasures and comforts, rather than on self-defence and necessities as they previously would have done.
So rather than the conversation between husband and wife going something like, “I see York is getting resty. I think we really should build another defensive tower and a moat...” the conversation now could go something like, “Hmm, I fancy having a garden over on the south side of the house. With a rose pergola. What about you?”
And this shift in attitude was most particularly true of the second half of the century, during the reign of Elizabeth I.
For just as this forty-five year period of domestic tranquility saw a flowering of the arts, of music and literature, so too, gardening. And it wasn’t just gardening for the aristocratic few. For in this latter half of the 16th century, the English really came into their own as gardeners and plant collectors. It was, without question, the first English gardening craze. (It’s been going on ever since.)
They had the disposable income. They had the time. They weren’t worried about marauding armies. They had the estates. And their international trade and exploration was bringing back seeds and cuttings from the farthest reaches of the globe, daily expanding the already wide variety of plants available.
And within this culture of burgeoning energy and self-confidence, the garden became a symbol of the nation’s flowering under Elizabeth’s stewardship. Flowers were everywhere in her reign. They were her symbols.
And this was the time too that the garden began to take on a distinctly modern flavour.
Whereas initially, most gardens and plant collecting had been directed toward the herbal and medicinal arts, now flowers were valued for pleasure’s sake alone—for their intrinsic beauty, for their scents, for their rarity...and the pleasure garden became an element of Elizabethan status.
Always the gardens of the period were walled or enclosed in some way—by walls, hedges, fences, or even moats—and generally built off the house, often accessible only from the family’s main room or parlour.
Enclosing the space ensured a measure of protection from wild animals (hungry deer) or thieves, but it also protected the plants from prevailing winds and provided a warmer microclimate. Then too, in plans of Elizabethan manor houses, one will occasionally find several unconnected walled gardens leading off from the different rooms in the house—some for pleasure, others for the medicinal herbs or vegetables, still others with their walls covered in espaliered apples, figs, and pear....
Also, Elizabethan gardens were always laid out formally, geometrically designed and as often as not symmetrically, with knot gardens being the most common feature of the late 16th century garden. Indeed, one could rightly call the knot garden a very English passion. (They were little known in France or Italy.)
Knots (yes, the name is taken from the knots one makes with string or rope) were made up of square or rectangular patterns created by the use of one of more different types of plant, usually clipped box or santolina. The lines of the knot were interlaced so that they appeared to weave in and out of each other, with greater or lesser complexity. Often, the beds were then filled with sand or grass or gravel of different colours to emphasise the overall pattern of the knot—especially when viewed from an overlooking window or gallery. Sometimes too the enclosed beds contained flowers—clove pinks were a favourite choice.
From the outset of this Elizabethan horticultural boom, London was the centre of taste and innovation. For as well as being the centre of all financial and economic activity, London had citizens with the education, knowledge, and the European contacts to indulge in this growing demand for garden innovation and exotica. (Middle class London houses of the period had attached gardens.)
It was from London’s nurserymen, and via their contacts in Vienna, Italy, France, and the Netherlands, that the population ordered their seeds and cuttings. In 1604, if one wanted a pair of garden shears, one ordered them from London. The wealthy Banbury family traded in seeds and plants at Tothill Street in Westminster from probably 1550 to 1650.
And the newly discovered species continued to pour in from all over the globe—African marigolds from Mexico, apples and pear and apricot trees from France and the Netherlands, Clematis viticella from Italy, Oriental planes from Persia. By the 1570s, there were tulips, daffodils, and hyacinths from Turkey—arriving via the circuitous route of Vienna and the Brabant. All of which expanded the already large variety of imported plants and seeds available: Madonna lilies, lupins, snowdrops, cyclamen, hollyhocks, lily of the valley, peonies, ranunculi, anemones, polyanthus.... The list was enormous and is quite unlike the monochromatic green palette to which we imagine Elizabethan gardeners were limited.
Yet perhaps the most surprising of the horticultural innovations of the period was the demand for fruit and vegetables—given that contemporary medicine was adamant in proclaiming that eating vegetables was dangerous and resulted in melancholia and bodily flatulence.
As early as the previous century, there had been those who’d praised the virtues of veg. But just as the list of available flowers grew yearly, so too did the list of vegetables available for cultivation—artichokes, cucumbers, lettuce, parsnip, endive, leek, cress, cabbage, rocket, turnips....
Fruit-growing too had long been popular, and even the poorest in the land had had access to apples. For those with more money, figs, pears, plums, and cherries were a regular part of the diet. But the gardeners of this period now consciously sought out better cultivars and a greater variety.
Sir John Thynne, when obsessing about his garden at Longleat, wrote to his steward to “send me word how my cherry stones, abrycocks, and plum stones that I brought out of France do grow.” Equally, Sir Phillip Sidney ordered cherry and quince trees from Brabant for his orchard at Penshurst. Robert Cecil, the first Earl of Salisbury, (a passionate gardener and plant collector) sent John Tradescant the Elder to travel in the Netherlands and France to buy fruit trees for Hatfield.
Interestingly too, it’s here that one can see the Elizabethan concept of gender differentiation—the flower and
kitchen gardens were the province of the women; the orchards were for men. John Tradescant the Elder was paid £50 per annum for the job of laying out the garden at Hatfield House; the Earl of Leicester paid his head gardener £20 per annum; yet weeders—who were always female—were paid threepence a day.
Into this market of enthusiastic and energetic gardeners and plant-collectors, jobbing writer and journalist (and sometime astrologer) Thomas Hill launched the first gardening book ever written. Before his work, there had been herbals, yes. But they were nothing like The Gardener’s Labyrinth, first published in 1577, which he wrote under the pseudonym of Didymus Mountaine.
For The Gardener’s Labyrinth was the first practical hands-on, how-to gardening manual, and every page is suffused with the infectious pleasure Hill obviously took in gardening himself. The book was a runaway best-seller and a new edition was published the following year, with four more editions published over the next 75 years.
And while Hill borrowed heavily (some might think annoyingly) from classical writers like Pliny, Palladius, and Cato, and he cobbled together bits that he’d obviously garnered from other sources, even though he often strayed into astrology or his theory that the germination of seeds is governed, like the tides, by the phases of the moon, and even though his pest control remedies read like witches’ brew, still, at the same time, in his work, there is this genuine love of getting his hands into the soil. There are diagrams for laying out a knot, there’s his advice on how to blanch vegetables, on keeping the beds well-dunged; advice on how to water, how to build a rose arch or how to lay a fast-growing rosemary hedge, how to ensure a regular supply of fresh herbs, all of which still hold true today.