A Not-So-Cool-Yule at Sheen Palace 1497

 Judith Arnopp

Imagine, if you can, this scene. It is almost Christmas, everything is prepared. The presents are wrapped, the tree is hung, your mother-in-law has arrived and settled herself in your favourite chair for the duration of the holiday. The children are racing around the house, over-excited, squeezing presents and dipping their fingers into the trifle. You get them to bed early, put your feet up with a large glass of red, and have just begun to relax when disaster strikes. The boiler bursts in the loft, or the roof blows off in a gale, or horror of all horrors – a house fire breaks out.

Richmond Palace circa 1562 http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Wyngaerde_Richmond_1562.jpg

 God forbid this should happen to anyone but sometimes disaster strikes when we least expect it and to the most exulted among us. 

In 1497, a few days before Christmas, fire raged through Sheen Palace

Henry, Margaret and Mary, at about the time of the fire.

where King Henry VII, Elizabeth of York, Margaret Beaufort and the young prince Henry, princesses Margaret and Mary were in residence. The cooks were busy in the kitchen, the jesters and mummers practicing for the big day when …

“About nine of the clock quite suddenly … within the king’s lodging and so continued till midnight. By violence whereof …(a) great part of the old building was burnt and much more harm done upon costrings (curtains) and hanging beds of cloth of gold and silk and much other rich apparel with plate and manifold jewels  belonging to such a noble court.

How well loving therefore be to God (that) no living creature was there perished…” (Robert Hutchinson, Young Henry, P.44)

Henry VII

The royal household were hurried outside to safety. You can imagine the scene; the confused and crying children, hastily wrapped in blankets, clasped in their nurses’ arms. Men rushing hither and thither to fight the blaze, women weeping, screaming perhaps as the windows exploded and the ceilings collapsed in a great ball of flame. Henry and Elizabeth, and the king’s mother looked on in cold shock as their sumptuous palace was consumed in flames. 

The king, for all his power, was helpless in the face of fate and, after the costly matter of his recent war with Scotland, and his pursuit of the pretender Perkin Warbeck, was horribly aware of the financial implication of the disaster. The material losses were great. The Milanese Ambassador Raimondo Soncino estimated them at 60,000 ducats which is about £7.3 million in today’s money, amounting to one tenth of Henry’s annual income.

Elizabeth of York

He reported a “Great substance of richesse” destroyed, including tapestries, wall hangings, bed, clothes, plate and furniture. And that was not all, precious royal trinkets were also lost. In the following days the king paid servants £20 a day to sift through the ruin looking for jewels. (Wroe, Perkin: p.393).

This was not the first time Sheen Palace had suffered destruction. It was once the favourite home of Richard II and Anne of Bohemia and when she died of the plague in 1394, the king, in his grief, ordered the palace to be completely demolished.

Henry V began construction of a palace on the site but this was hampered by his death in 1422 and work did not resume until the infant king, Henry VI, was eight years old. As the wars of the roses wagged on the palace was given into the possession of Elizabeth Woodville on her marriage to Edward IV, and passed to Henry VII after Bosworth.

It is not believed that the fire in 1497 destroyed the whole building but the privvy lodgings were lost and lavishly refurbished afterwards. Once the work was finished and the royal family ready to move back in Henry renamed Sheen as ‘Richmond Palace.’

In the years that followed the palace witnessed some of the greatest events in Tudor history. In Henry VII’s reign alone it saw the wedding of Prince Arthur to Catherine of Aragon in 1501; the official betrothal of Princess Margaret to King James of Scotland in 1503. And in 1509, in his favourite palace, the palace he had built and named in his family’s honour, Henry VII, the first Tudor king, breathed his last.

My novel A Song of Sixpence tells the tale of Elizabeth of York and her marriage to Henry VII. It considers the implications of the loss of her brothers in the Tower, her subsequent marriage to her former enemy. Often portrayed as meek or simply uninteresting, Elizabeth emerges as a brave and resilient woman in a time of suspicion and unrest.

A Song of Sixpence is available in paperback and also on Kindle.

Judith Arnopp is the author of historical novels set in the Tudor and Anglo-Saxon periods. Her work is available from Amazon and includes:

Intractable Heart

The Kiss of the Concubine

The Winchester Goose

The Song of Heledd

The Forest Dwellers

Peaceweaver

You can find out more about Judith's work on her website: www.juditharnopp.com or find her on facebook.

Cross-fertilization of Religions in Late Anglo-Saxon England

by Deborah Bogen

Much of what I’ll be sharing here comes from a fascinating book, Popular Religion in Late Saxon England by Karen Louise Jolly. I ran into Jolly’s work while researching The Witch of Leper Cove and The Hounds of God, books that examine the interplay of the early Inquisition and herbal healers circa 1230 A.D. in England.

The historical record confirms many interesting combinations of the popular Anglo-Saxon culture (that embraced elf charms, dwarfs, Ald Trees, and the magical powers of plants) and the new teachings of the Church (forerunner of the Catholic Church) with its emphasis on God as the source of all healing, Jesus as the necessary savior for the attainment of heavenly afterlife and suffering as a spiritual good.

The extent to which Christian and popular folk-based religious views not only co-existed but interrelated was a surprise to me. However, texts created by Christian scribes evidence a strong assimilation of many “pagan” practices. For example, charm remedies in which magical acts are performed were not uncommon. This will seem less surprising once we note that the pre-church popular religion was one in which the entire world was alive with spiritual presences. To the Anglo-Saxons it may have seemed perfectly reasonable that where elves and dwarfs impacted the lives of men, saints and demons could also do so and that a combination of these two groups might yield strong results.

And in an era in which survival from one growing season to the next was always in question it should not surprise us that any avenue of ensuring a good harvest might be pursued. One example of this is a field remedy (blessing of the fields) that has been found on a number of different folios dating from the late 10th and early 11th century. In this ritual the entire village or congregation participated in the performance of magical acts as it walked around the growing field and to the local church accompanied by the local priest. What I give you here is an abbreviated portion of a long ritual.

The supplicants (or active magic practitioners – depending on your point of view) were instructed to cut four sods “from four sides of the land and mark where they were before. Then take oil and honey and yeast and milk of the animal that is on the land, and a piece of each type of tree that grows on the land…and put then holy water thereon…and then say these words: Crescite, grow et multiplicamini, and multiply, et replete, and fill terre, the earth….”

When this was done the villagers were instructed to take the sod into the church where a priest would sing four masses over them. The green sides would be turned to the altar “before the sun sets.” A cross was made for each sod, and they were named Matthew, Mark, Luke and John.

At this point in the ritual these words were repeated nine times (it should be noted that nine is a very important number in the world of Anglo-Saxon charms.) Here is part of what they chanted:

Eastwards I stand, for mercies I pray
I pray the great dominie I pray the powerful lord
I pray the holy guardian of heaven-kingdom
earth I pray and sky
and the true Holy Mary
and heaven’s might and high hall
that I may this charm by the gift of the lord
open with my teeth through firm thought
to call forth these plants for our worldly use
to fill this land with firm belief
to beautify this grassy turf as the wiseman said
that he would have riches on earth who alms
gave with justice by the grace of the lord.

The ritual continues with turnings to the sun and a plea (or calling to) both Erce earth’s mother and the eternal lord.

There’s great deal more to this ritual, but it seems clear that at least two traditions are being implored and employed. All the Church’s powerful are called out, but so are sky and earth. The Church’s holy language (Latin) appears but so does vernacular speech. This kind of combination ritual is sometimes called a “middle practice” since it incorporates portions of two belief systems that we may have viewed as doctrinally separate and perhaps even temporally consecutive.

The interesting question to scholars is whether the view that once prevailed, that the Church assimilated folk religion, is supported by fact. An argument from texts such as this one might argue that the popular religion of the day, at least to some extent, assimilated Christian belief (and its pantheon of God, angels, savior, saints etc.) While the Catholic Church’s current global constituency and economic power suggests that it eventually won out over popular folk-based religion, there are those who think the jury is still out. According to credible polls (Pew and others) individuals self-identifying as observers of pagan, wicca, neopagan or even new age belief systems within the US appears to be growing. And whether a religion is called Christian or pagan, ideas like the belief that the wine in the communion cup actually becomes the blood of Christ (rather than symbolizing it) certainly point to the presence of magical thinking.

Given that many religious practitioners who currently self-identify as pagan are likely to have been raised in what is now commonly described as a more traditional faith (e.g., Christian, Jewish or Islamic) it’s possible, indeed probable, that we, like the Anglo-Saxons of the 10th, 11th and 12th centuries, are living in an era of cross-fertilization amongst religious cultures.

For those of us who write about very early England this is both important and interesting stuff. For relevant fiction read Bernard Cornwall’s Saxon Tales series and for a more scholarly take check out Jolly’s book. Should your cow ever get sick, she may be able to help you out.

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Deborah Bogen is the author of The Witch of Leper Cove and The Hounds of God, the first two volumes of The Aldinoch Chronicles. These books bring 13th century to life as they tell the story of three orphans who find themselves up against the early Inquisition. She's also written three prize winning books of poetry.

The Witch of Leper Cove

The Hounds of God

Intellectual Life in Medieval England: William of Ockham and London Greyfriars

By Mark Patton

In the shadow of Saint Paul's Cathedral, between the London headquarters of British Telecommunications and the American bank, Merrill Lynch, the bombed-out remains of a Wren church have been converted into a pleasant garden, little-visited by tourists, but popular with city workers as a place to eat their sandwiches or sushi at lunch-time. There are few clues to the fact that the second largest church in Medieval London once stood here, or that it was, from 1225 to 1538, the intellectual powerhouse of this great European city.

Christchurch Greyfriars. Photo: Gryffindor (licensed under CCA).

Friars of the newly created Franciscan Order first arrived in England in 1224. Saint Francis of Assisi was to die in 1226, so it is an intriguing thought that, among their number, there may well have been individuals who had actually known him. A wealthy London businessman, John Iwyn, made a grant of land in the north-western corner of the city to enable them to found a friary. Within a few generations, the establishment was flourishing, with the help of royal patronage: both Queen Margaret, the second wife of Edward I, and Queen Isabella, the wife of Edward II, endowed it, and were buried in its church. Although it was not, in the strictest definitional sense, a university, it was an important seat of learning, with a library to rival those of Oxford and Cambridge.

Plan of Greyfriars in the late 16th Century, from The Greyfriars of London, by Charles Lethbridge Kingsford, 1915 (image is in the Public Domain).

In the last decade of the 13th Century, a boy named William made his way from Ockham, in Surrey, to London. He may have been as young as nine, or as old as twelve. Perhaps he walked alongside a drover, bringing beasts to the city for slaughter, or he may have hitched a ride on a wagon bringing vegetables or flour to market. He is likely to have carried with him a letter of introduction and recommendation from his parish priest to the Prior of the Franciscans in London. There he entered the order as a novice. He would have studied the scriptures in Latin; Boethius's Consolation of Philosophy (one of the few texts from the classical world to have remained in widespread use throughout the Middle Ages); and Peter Lombard's (1150) Sentences, a standard primer of theology.

William of Ockham, from the margins of a copy of his Summa Logicae. The caption reads "Frater Ockham iste," and it is tempting to think that it was drawn by one of his former students. MS Gonville and Caius College, Cambridge, 4641571, fol.69r, 1341 (image is in the Public Domain).

By the age of twenty, William of Ockham was an ordained priest. He was himself teaching at Greyfriars, and writing his own commentaries on the works he had studied. In 1309, at the age of twenty-four, he moved to Oxford, where he would have studied the works of Saint Augustine and Thomas Aquinas, and the philosophy of Aristotle, recently translated into Latin by scholars such as Gerard of Cremona, James of Venice, and William of Moerbeke.

Merton College, Oxford, Mob Quad. Built between 1288 and 1378, William of Ockham would have known it as a building site. Photo: DWR (licensed under CCA).

At Oxford, however, William also learned some hard lessons. Men who served the Church in Holy Orders did not always keep themselves above the insults and back-biting of institutional politics. John Lutterell, the deeply unpopular Dominican Chancellor of Oxford, may have been jealous of William's superior learning, or of the affection in which he was held by his students. Despite fulfilling all the requirements for a masters degree, Lutterell saw to it that he was never promoted above the rank of Inceptor (the lowest teaching grade). When Lutterell was chased from Oxford by his own faculty members in 1322, he sought refuge with Pope John XXII in Avignon, and persuaded the pontiff to summon William of Ockham to answer charges of heresy.

William arrived at Avignon in 1324, and soon found himself in good company. Arraigned with him before a Papal court were Michael of Cesena, the head of the Franciscan Order; Marsilius of Padua; and other leading Franciscans. Lutterell's specific indictments of William were ill-founded, and swiftly dismissed; but there were genuine and significant doctrinal differences between John XXII and the Franciscans. The latter, with William's active and vociferous support, insisted on the doctrine of "Apostolic Poverty" that lay at the centre of their founder's view of the Catholic Faith. Christ and his apostles, they argued, had owned absolutely nothing, in stark contrast to the Pope, who was living like a prince in his palace, paid for by the sale of indulgences which had no basis in scripture. The Pope excommunicated Michael, William and Marsilius, and held them under house arrest in Avignon.

The Palace of the Popes at Avignon. Photo: Jean-Marc Rosier - www.rosier.pro - (licensed under CCA).

In 1328, almost certainly with the connivance of agents loyal to the Holy Roman Emperor, Louis (or Ludwig) IV, they escaped, making their way first to Pisa, and thence to Louis' court at Munich, where they lived out their days (William died in 1347, not, as is sometimes claimed, of the Black Death, but some months prior to its arrival in the city). Louis, who had his own disputes with the Pope over the relationship between religious and secular power, was only too happy to give them his patronage and allow them to continue writing and teaching at his court. Since Latin was the universal language of academic instruction and debate across Catholic Europe, William could as easily teach and write in London or Oxford, Avignon or Munich: the boy whose father may have been a peasant, or a yeoman farmer, in a Surrey village operated within a single academic network that extended from Portugal to Austria, and from Norway to Sicily.

The Alter Hof, Munich, the centre of Louis' court, reconstructed following destruction during the Second World War. Photo: Robert Theml (licensed under GNU). 

William of Ockham may not be a household name today, but some of his ideas remain highly influential. In Munich, he wrote of the need to separate spiritual rule from earthly rule: kings, he insisted, ought not to interfere in the life of the church; and nor should popes or bishops interfere in the administration of states. Earthly power devolved from God to rulers, not via spiritual intermediaries, but via the people, whose right it was to remove unjust rulers. It was an idea that suited his imperial patron, but it is also the basis for the social contracts, and the separation of church and state, that underlie many of today's democratic constitutions.

He is best remembered, however, for an idea that he formulated in his early teaching days at London Greyfriars. William of Ockham never owned a razor, although, as a tonsured friar, he must surely have used one (the distinction between "ownership"  and "right to use" was central to his understanding of his Franciscan vocation). That razor, if it still exists, probably lies buried somewhere in the vicinity of Newgate Street.

A monk or friar tonsuring the head of another (image is in the Public Domain).

"Nunquam ponenda est pluralitas sine necessitate," he wrote, in his commentary on Peter Lombard's Sentences ("plurality must never be posited without necessity"). It was not a wholly original thought (versions of it can be found in the works of earlier theologians, including Thomas Aquinas), but it is as "Occam's Razor" (an analogy that he never used) that it has entered modern thought. In simple terms, "never invoke more variables (or more complex variables) than are actually required to explain a set of facts." It was used by Copernicus to insist on his preference for a heliocentric over a geocentric model of planetary movements (it was possible to believe in either model, but the heliocentric model required only seven variables, the geocentric many more), but it is as useful to the historian as it is to the astronomer. It is our ultimate weapon against extravagant theories, such as Erich von Daniken's sensational notion that the pyramids of Egypt were built by extra-terrestrials; but, perhaps more importantly, against pernicious conspiracy theories directed against particular groups in society, from Anti-Semitic "blood libels," to Holocaust Denial, and fear of a Masonic "New World Order."

Mark Patton blogs regularly on aspects of history and historical fiction at http://mark-patton.blogspot.co.uk. His novels, Undreamed Shores, An Accidental King, and Omphalos, are published by Crooked Cat Publications, and can be purchased from Amazon.

Bluestockings: The Victorian Campaign for Female Education

by Carol Hedges

In 1971 I graduated from Westfield College, University of London with a BA (Hons) in English & Archaeology. I took it for granted that I had a right to go to university and that following my degree, I would enter the marketplace as a professional woman, equal to any man doing the same job of work.

When I started researching the roles and expectations of young Victorian women for my current wip Murder & Mayhem, which features 17 year old ‘Feminist’ Laetitia Simpkins, I discovered how lucky I was to have been born in the mid-20th century rather than the mid-19th.

For bright young Victorian women, the doors to further education closed at 16. Intellectual curiosity and thinking skills were considered a waste of time, given that the purpose of a woman’s life was to marry and be the mother of (many) children.

As one contemporary wrote: “Girls are to dwell in quiet homes, among a few friends; to exercise a noiseless influence, to be submissive and retiring.” (Sewell, Principles of Education).

Interestingly as far back as 1694, Mary Astell’s A Serious Proposal to the Ladies suggested a type of university education. But of course, the very fact that the proposer was female meant that the idea was not taken up or considered seriously.

Women were just thought of as physically incapable of scholarship. For a start their brains were nearly 150 grammes lighter than men’s brains. So that must indicate that their intellect was weaker. And then there was the vexed question of menstruation, which sapped the body of lifeblood.

Put those two together, and it was quite apparent that women who used their brain too much ran the risk of becoming sterile, as their wombs atrophied, thus negating their purpose in life, or even worse, producing “ a puny, enfeebled and sickly race” of children.

You may laugh, or gasp in amazement, but this was a widely held medical opinion at the time. Girls were strongly advised to focus on making their homes a sphere of accomplishment, rather than striving for a higher education. And to wait patiently for some young man (who may well have had the benefit of a university education) to come calling.

That the ‘petticoat problem’ began to resolve itself was entirely due to the actions of a few determined young women who decided that rather than break down the doors, they’d pick the lock and fight for equal education for women.

In 1850 North London Collegiate School opened, and a few years later Cheltenham Ladies College. The key word is ‘college’ – these weren’t places to learn embroidery, a smattering of French, some maths and what to do in a thunderstorm. They were seats of learning, encouraging girls to see themselves as capable of entering university and from there, the workplace.

In 1879 London University became the first to admit women undergraduates on the same terms as men. One of the pioneering women who enabled this to happen was Constance Maynard, who in 1863 campaigned for girls to be allowed to sit the Cambridge Locals (the equivalent of GCSEs) and then the Higher Locals (A levels).

When I was at Westfield, originally founded as a women’s college, my hall of residence was called Maynard House, a fitting tribute to a Bluestocking pioneer. Without women like her, prepared to step out of the shadows and campaign for their beliefs, I would not have had the benefit of a university education, and the opportunity to have a productive and fulfilling career.

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Carol Hedges is a British author of books for children, young adults and adults. Her novel Jigsaw, about a teenager's suicide, was shortlisted for the Angus Book Award and nominated for the Carnegie Medal in 2001.[1] Her most recent works are the Spy Girl series for teenagers published by Usborne, and the Victorian Detective series for adults, published by Crooked Cat and featuring detectives Leo Stride and Jack Cully.

She lives in Hertfordshire and is married with a grown-up daughter.

Amazon author page: http://amzn.to/1N1P3DF

Blog: carolhedges.blogspot.co.uk

Twitter: @carolJhedges

The Trouble with Duchesses in Queen Anne's Court

by Margaret Porter

'Perhaps . . . in the reign of Queen Anne ’tis a sign the power of women will increase.' Sarah Cowper, April 1702

Queen Anne by Godfrey Kneller

The average follower of English history, when confronted with the equation Queen Anne + Duchess + Trouble, would assume the resulting total to be Sarah Churchill, Duchess of Marlborough. Of all the non-royal females of her era, she is surely the most famous--or infamous. Sarah published various editions of her memoirs (a form of self-justification and self-defence), she's the subject of scholarly biographies and entertaining novels, she was the heroine of the television series The First Churchills, she and Anne are currently the main characters in a play on the London stage, and a film about their relationship is reportedly on the horizon.

But Anne's childhood friend, confidante, and eventual enemy was not the only duchess frequenting her court. Although the others did not leave so indelible a mark on the historic record, they are worthy of interest and scrutiny.

Elizabeth, Duchess of Somerset

 

Duchess of Somerset by Kneller

Young Elizabeth Percy seemed destined to challenge Sarah for Most Interesting Courtier. At age twelve she became Countess of Ogle, and was widowed the following year. The year after that the immensely wealthy Thomas Thynne lured her into a secret marriage. Not long afterwards he was murdered at the instigation of Count von Konigsmark, a Swede who was infatuated with Elizabeth. Within five months the double widow married again. Her third husband was Charles Seymour, Duke of Somerset, 'The Proud Duke'--a dynastic marriage rather than a love match. After that her marital history was far from scandalous, and probably not the happiest.

During Princess Anne's quarrels with her sister Mary II and brother-in-law William III, when they demanded she dismiss Sarah from her household, the Somersets were her firmest allies. Forced to relinquish her Whitehall lodgings, Anne accepted her friends' offer to take sanctuary with them at Syon House, where she suffered through one of her many stillbirths. She remained forever grateful for their support.

On Anne's accession in 1702, Elizabeth joined the royal household as a Lady of the Bedchamber. She was a witness to the protracted and nasty breakdown in Anne's relationship with Sarah Churchill, and was ultimately a beneficiary. In 1710/11 she succeeded Sarah as Mistress of the Robes and Groom of the Stole. Her prominence stirred up old scandals--her unusual and colourful past had for many years provoked rumour and innuendo. Because of her red hair, she was sometimes lampooned as 'Carrots.' The cruelest accusation--that she might do harm to the Queen--was penned by Jonathan Swift in The Windsor Prophecy:

Beware of Carrots from Northumberlond.
Carrots sown Thynne a deep root may get,
If so be they are in Somer set:
Their Conyngs mark thou; for I have been told,
They assassine when younge, and poison when old.

Although the Duke incurred the Queen's displeasure and was removed from office, Elizabeth retained the royal favour, vying with Abigail Masham as chief confidante. Wisely she refrained from employing Sarah's bullying tactics. According to one observer, 'She never pressed the Queen hard; nothing makes the Queen more uneasy than that.' A daughter of the ancient aristocracy, she maintained a graciousness and dignity that the Queen must have appreciated greatly after the strife Sarah stirred up.

She retained her positions of authority until Anne's death in 1714, and was present as the Queen lay dying. A witness described the 'soft, courteous way of the Duchess's speaking to the Queen, and her majesty's look and motion of her face in receiving it, though so ill.' Elizabeth was designated chief mourner for the funeral but was herself indisposed and unable to participate.

Mary, Duchess of Ormonde

 

Duchess of Ormonde by Michael Dahl

Following the death of his first wife, whom he mourned deeply, the 2nd Duke of Ormonde married Lady Mary Somerset, the Duke of Beaufort's daughter, in 1685. Like the Duchess of Somerset, she was named a Lady of the Bedchamber at the outset of Anne's reign and held that position till its end.  


She allegedly lined her pockets by brokering places in the royal household. When selecting her maids of honour, the young unmarried women who attended the Queen, Anne wanted girls who 'had good education and beauty.' The stipend and the visibility to prospective husbands was tempting, and parents were very eager to place their daughters at court. Christian Temple's entire marriage portion was £2000, and apparently £1200 of it was paid to Mary as a bribe to obtain her place. The duchess then paid the all-powerful Sarah £500 for acquiescing to the appointment!

Mary was in waiting at Kensington when the Queen suffered the convulsions and stroke that resulted in death. It was she who replaced the ailing Duchess of Somerset as chief mourner at Anne's funeral. Her life changed drastically the following year when her husband was impeached for high treason, as a supporter of the Jacobite rebellion of 1715. He fled to France rather than stand trial in Parliament. Subsequently he was attainted, and his estate was forfeited.

Catherine, Duchess of Buckingham

 

Duchess of Buckingham

Catherine Darnley was the illegitimate daughter of James II by his mistress Catherine Sedley, and she was therefore Queen Anne's half-sister. She first married the Earl of Anglesey, and the union did not prosper--in 1701 she petitioned the House of Lords for a separation, on the grounds of cruelty. The next year he died. Her second husband was John Sheffield, 1st Duke of Buckingham and Normanby, and she was his third wife. At one time he had courted Anne, resulting in his dismissal from court. Anne was fond of her former suitor Buckingham, who had proved himself a fast friend of her father's prior to his exile. He also shared her strongly Tory sympathies. She merely tolerated Catherine.

Though born on the wrong side of the blanket, Catherine was ever at pains to remind everyone of her royal blood, 'exhibiting a love of display, a violent temper,' and frequently travelling to France to kneel at the tomb of her father, 'shedding tears over the threadbare pall which covered his remains.' Because of her husband's position as Lord Privy Seal (prior to 1703) and later Lord President of Council, Catherine frequented the court. At the Queen's birthday celebration in January 1711, 'The Duchess of Buckingham and Lady Paulet were scarce able to move under the load of jewels they had on.'

After Anne's death, Catherine's drawing room was a magnet for Tories and Jacobites, as she was in regular contact with her legitimate half-brother James, the Old Pretender, and would doubtless have preferred him as King to George I. She was buried with other Stuarts at Westminster Abbey, where her splendid funeral effigy can be found in the museum.

Adelhida, Duchess of Shrewsbury

 

Duchess of Shrewsbury

This lady's father was Marquis Andrea Paleotti and her mother was Maria Cristina Dudley, daughter of the titular Duke of Northumberland--an Englishman who was also a Tuscan nobleman. She grew up in Italy and was apparently an engaging and accomplished young woman, but also a scandalous one. She might or might not have been married to Count Brachiano, and she might or might not have been the Duke of Shrewsbury's mistress before their 1705 marriage in Rome. (Lady Cowper spitefully recorded that her brother forced the nobleman to wed her 'after an intrigue together.')

Shrewsbury, a one-eyed aristocrat known as the 'Duke of Hearts' for his good looks, brought his duchess to England, where she caused a stir in society. She won the favour of the newly widowed Queen Anne by expressing her sympathy: 'Oh, my poor Queen, I see how much you do miss your dear husband.' This was in contrast to Sarah, who was very unfeeling towards her grieving mistress.

In 1712 Shrewsbury served as Ambassador to Paris, where his duchess was appreciated for her hospitality and conversation, though she was also regarded as an eccentric. This did not prevent her becoming a Lady of the Bedchamber to Caroline, Princess of Wales, after the accession of George I, a post she held until her death in 1726.

Diana, Duchess of St Albans

 

Duchess of St Albans by Kneller

The eldest daughter of Aubrey de Vere, 20th and last Earl of Oxford, Diana was very much a child of the court. During her infancy, her father and Charles II supposedly discussed a possible marriage between Diana and Charles Beauclerk, Duke of St Albans, the King's illegitimate son by Nell Gwyn. Diana grew up to be an ornament of Queen Mary II's court. At the same time, the young duke won the favour and patronage of of William III. Neither fact would have endeared them to Anne, who was estranged from her sister and loathed her brother-in-law. But the de Veres were courtiers for centuries. And the Duke was a Whig, the party in power at the outset of Anne's reign, so he held various appointments.
 
In the course of researching my latest novel, I stumbled upon an intriguing mystery. On 26 March, 1702, Luttrell the diarist reports, 'The dutchesses [sic] of Ormonde and St Albans are made ladies of the bedchamber to the Queen.' Yet Diana's name never appears again, and cannot be found in the official or unofficial lists of Anne's attendants. If Anne reconsidered, it could have been for any of four reasons, or a combination. Diana and her husband supported William and Mary in their quarrels with Anne, doubtless provoking her resentment. As well, Anne never much cared for her uncle's bastard offspring and that attitude might have extended to their wives. Alternatively, Sarah 's enmity towards one or both Beauclerks (she famously feuded with their son and heir) was such that she persuaded Anne to revoke the appointment. Or else Diana declined the position after rumours about it circulated--which is the unlikeliest explanation, as it was a prestigious and salaried post, ensuring access to the monarch.

With a change from Whig to Tory government in the last years of Anne's reign, the duke lost his court position. At the accession of George I, the Beauclerks were restored to high favour. Diana was chosen by Caroline, Princess of Wales, as First Lady of the Bedchamber and Groom of the Stole, and her husband was a Gentleman of the Bedchamber and captain of the King's personal guard.

Conclusion

When the meddlesome, overbearing, battle-tested, impulsive Sarah toppled from her perch, the Duke of Beaufort told Anne, 'Now is your Majesty Queen indeed!' None of the other duchesses who served in her household or who appeared at court attempted to rival or rule the ruler as Sarah had done for so long. Consequently, they are far less familiar--the price they paid for their discretion, submissiveness, and loyalty turned out to be their obscurity!

Sarah, Duchess of Marlborough by Kneller

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Image credits: Petworth House, The National Trust; Wikipedia/Wikimedia Commons; www.thepeerage.com; Private Collection
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Margaret Porter is the award-winning and bestselling author of twelve period novels, nonfiction and poetry. Lady Diana de Vere's association with Queen Mary's court, and Queen Anne, is featured in A Pledge of Better Times, her highly acclaimed novel of 17th century courtiers the 1st Duke and Duchess of St. Albans (available in trade paperback and ebook). Margaret studied British history in the UK and the US. As historian, her areas of speciality are social, theatrical, and garden history of the 17th and 18th centuries, royal courts, and portraiture. A former actress, she gave up the stage and screen to devote herself to fiction writing, travel, and her rose gardens.

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Poison - hidden weapon of the Tudor wife

by Deborah Swift

The population of early modern England regarded poisoning as the most cowardly and unsporting method of murder:

of all murders poisoning is ye worst and most horrible 1. because it is secrett 2 because it is not to be prevented 3 because it is most against nature and therefore most hainous 4 it is alsoe a cowardly thing                                                                                  ~Sir John Coke

17th century poison cabinet or cunning woman's book

In 1663 Mary Bell was accused of killing her husband - six years earlier she had put poison into his food. This demonstrates one of the difficulties of poisoning - that it is an 'invisible' crime. Poison is a unique method of murder because it allows no self-defence, no chance for the victim to understand what is happening, and is often done secretly over a long time frame. Because poisoning involved planning and was done in cold-blood, it was perfect for those without social power. 

The servant classes, women and the weak were always the prime suspects in poisoning cases. Poisoning was a skill often linked to witchcraft - akin to the mixing of potions and charms. It was considered almost exclusively a wife's weapon because her main duty was to provision the house, and she alone was in charge of the cooking. Poison has always been linked with femininity.

In Tudor and Stuart England poisoning a husband or employer was seen as a kind of petty treason. This is because it challenged the husband's superiority, masculinity and domestic power. Men had a huge fear of being poisoned by their wives, but in actual fact there were very few cases. The cases that did come to light received enormous publicity, and poisoning was often featured in chapbooks of the time. In 1677 a pamphlet records a sixteen year old girl who admitted to poisoning her mother. Much was made of her treasonous behaviour, her cold-blood, her malice and wickedness, blurring the lines between witchcraft and murder.

Aqua Tofana, a poison, was known in Italy as 'inheritance powder' - a tool used by rich wives to murder their husbands. Supposedly Mozart died of Aqua Tofana poisoning. 

Right up until the Victorian era women had no legitimate outlet for violence in this society where men carried guns and swords and were allowed to use them in anger or to defend themselves from another's violent attack. Men's violence was seen as hot, the result of choler and anger; women's as cold, the result of bile and bitterness. Women could be beaten, within the law, but had little chance of retribution.

Men feared being poisoned because women were seen as harbouring a wickedness (thanks to Eve) that was waiting to erupt. In 1654 Jane Scales was supposed to have poisoned her baby. She said she had fed the baby sugar, but after the baby grew ill and died, the white powder was believed to be something far more sinister. Although she had no credible motive, she was found guilty, and the motive was malice or random wickedness.

The threat of the maidservant was equivalent to that of the wife. Resentful servants such as Liddy Wilson poisoned a whole household with ratsbane. Ratsbane was a common poison in this period, as was henbane, monk's blood, nightshade and arsenic. 

A 17th century peddler hawking his apothecary's wares

Poison was easy to obtain - there were no regulations governing its purchase, and many plants could be found wild. It was very difficult to detect once ingested, leading to physicians searching for 'signs' through an external examination. 'Signs' included altered skin colour, vomiting, strange bruising of the skin, even bleeding wounds. In 1662 the first autopsy to discover poison was performed on Anne Mennin by David Shevell and Charles Clerke. What the actual evidence was is not on record, but they pronounced that they had found 'the poison'. Nightshade berries perhaps?

In the case of Mary Bell, where it took six years to come to a verdict - the extra evidence was supplied by witnesses. Often witnesses were the main form of evidence. Margaret Armestronge said that the chickens ate Mary Bell's husband's vomit and they promptly keeled over and died. Such tales to bolster the evidence were very common and taken as tangible proof.

Because there was such fear of poison, the prevention and cure of poisoning was big business in Tudor and Stuart England. It was quite common to have mistakenly eaten poisonous roots, fungi or herbs, and physicians often diagnosed poison as the cause in the event that the patient deteriorated and their cures failed to produce better health. Add to this the nation's fear of poisoning, and you have a large market for peddling a cure.

Weird cures involved unicorn horn and Bezoar stones. A Bezoar stone (often from the Far East) was like a gallstone from the intestines of  a llama, goat or stag. The stone was said to detect and cure poison, and the stones were mounted like a jewel on a chain and dipped into drinks to counter the effects of poison. Queen Elizabeth I kept a Bezoar stone 'sett in golde hanging at a little Bracelett … The most parte of this stone being spent' implying that the Queen used it well.

17thC Bezoar stone mounted in gold

Needless to say, I shan't be dunking one of those in my morning coffee!

Sources

Murder in Shakespeare's England by Vanessa McMahon

The Recipes Project - cures for poison 

A Blast From the Past - Mike Dash's blog 

Early Modern England - Sharpe

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www.deborahswift.com