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5 things you (probably) didn't know about the Tudors
Ruth Goodman, who teaches our new HistoryExtra Academy course on Tudor life, shares five insights about the dynasty’s legacy
1. The Tudors brought peace and prosperity to England Bringing peace was probably the most important thing the Tudors did for us. The British countryside is littered with the sites of medieval battles – places where opposing forces stomped over crops, burned barns and rounded up people’s sons. For centuries, rival aristocrats made and broke alliances, and killed those who got in their way. Henry Tudor took the throne in exactly this way at Bosworth in 1485, when he persuaded a number of warlords to desert their king, Richard III. But there it stopped. Intrigue and power politics were thenceforth undertaken by more covert means. Everyone became a bit safer, the day-to-day became a bit more predictable, and lots of people got a little bit richer. Less war meant that more crops made it to market, more young men were available for work, and there was less damage done to buildings, less thievery with menaces and safer travel. In turn, this meant more trade and a greater willingness to invest. The peace the Tudors brought to their lands benefited all – rich and poor alike. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2025/10/GettyImages-540735906webready-614eaac.jpg" width="5572" height="3714" alt="An engraving shows Hugh Latimer, Bishop of Worcester during the Reformation, presenting an English translation of the Bible to Henry VIII (Image by Getty Images)" title="An engraving shows Hugh Latimer, Bishop of Worcester during the Reformation, presenting an English translation of the Bible to Henry VIII (Image by Getty Images)" /> 2. Henry VIII was a reluctant reformer When the Tudors came to power, the Catholic church was already struggling to maintain its grip upon the minds and souls of Europe. New ideas about the nature of God and the state of Christianity were circulating. So when Henry VIII lost patience with the pope, there were plenty of people delighted by the opportunity to rethink England’s official religious position. Read more | Tudor England had no standing army, but this humble hobby kept its people ready for war Henry himself seems to have been happy to leave the religion as was. He just wanted the power and money the pope had been leveraging from his kingdom. He was quickly convinced, though, that he should also have the money and assets of the monasteries. A significant number of influential and vocal people wanted much more, however, pushing for a ‘purer’ form of Christianity that did away with priests entirely and abandoned the rituals and traditions of Catholicism. Others, of course, wholeheartedly defended the time-honoured form of faith. The result was a fracturing of society. Hundreds, both Protestant and Catholic, were executed for refusing to change their form of faith and follow the state-sponsored format – one that changed radically several times. But for all the death and fear, the upset and soul-searching, a new freedom of thought also emerged. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2025/10/GettyImages-463916919webready-ea853dd.jpg" width="3432" height="2288" alt="A painting showing a person, holding the page of a book which sits on a table" title="During the Tudor era, literacy grew, in part because Protestantism emphasised reading the Bible rather than the word of God being mediated by a priest (Image by Getty Images)" /> 3. The Tudor era brought a rise in literacy A few years before Henry Tudor took the throne, in 1476, William Caxton printed his first book on English soil. As printing presses became established and the price of books plummeted, reading became affordable to many more people. There was also more choice. Alongside religious texts, books of popular stories, advice manuals, joke books, medical texts and scandal sheets were published. At the same time, there was a new religious pressure for Britons to learn to read. The Protestant faith required its adherents to stop relying on priests and to read the Bible for themselves. This applied to everyone: shepherds and ploughmen as well as nobles and merchants – even women. Teaching people to read became a new religious duty and literacy rates started to climb. Read more | What did the Tudors think was ‘good’ sex? These tips and tricks were key to relationships in the 16th century 4. They drove the expansion of industry The Tudor monarchs – Elizabeth, in particular – were very keen to kickstart new industries and update old ones. In order to do this, specialist workers from Europe were encouraged to resettle on these shores. Some came as refugees fleeing religious persecution in France and the Low Countries, bringing new textile-making skills. Others were purely economic migrants with mining expertise or knowledge of new glassblowing and brass-founding techniques. The strategy worked – and these new arrivals provided the core of know-how and experience around which English industry could grow. Read more | 5 things you (probably) didn't know about Victorian Britain 5. The health of the nation improved Rates of fatal illness fell during the Tudor period – though this was the result of sheer luck, as certain major diseases mutated into less virulent forms. When a new, often lethal form of the plague arrived in England in 1348 – the Black Death – it killed around a third of the population, suddenly and catastrophically. Plague returned to Britain many times over the centuries that followed but, by the start of the Tudor era, the outbreaks were becoming smaller and more people were surviving. Meanwhile, another major killer known as the sweating sickness – a mysterious disease causing rapidly developing symptoms including shivers, headaches, dizziness, pains and, soon afterwards, sweating and commonly death – came and went. The first epidemic broke out in 1485, just as the Tudor era was beginning, and the last came in 1551, after which it apparently vanished completely. With both of these big killers in retreat, the population began to grow. Ruth Goodman is a social and domestic historian and broadcaster. Her books include How to Be a Tudor (Viking, 2015) This article was first published in the December 2025 issue of BBC History Magazine Want to step even further into the world of the Tudors? In her brand-new HistoryExtra Academy series, Ruth Goodman takes you inside everyday life in the 16th century — from food and fashion to faith, work, and even love and marriage. The first three episodes are available now on the HistoryExtra app, with more to come soon. Start watching today Want to ask Ruth a question? Join our live virtual Q&A on 19 November. Find out more here
What did the Tudors think was ‘good’ sex? These tips and tricks were key to relationships in the 16th century
From the importance of female pleasure to why you might need ribbons in the bedroom, historian Ruth Goodman explores the world of Tudor sex
Is there any better way to understand the deadly politics and high drama of the Tudor era than through the lens of their audacious romantic entanglements? After all, King Henry VIII had six wives, instigating the Reformation in the name of love (and presumably lust, too), meanwhile Queen Elizabeth I grew a cult of personality around her virginity, developing it into a sharp instrument of power and control. Sex, or lack thereof, was clearly important to the Tudor royals. But away from the courts of kings and queens, what role did intimate romance play in the lives of ordinary Tudors; the people who were farmers, millers, bakers and blacksmiths? What did they get up to in the bedroom, and what was the role of sex in their lives? Good vs bad sex “[Sex] was seriously important to people in Tudor Britain,” says Ruth Goodman, speaking in her newest HistoryExtra Academy course, Tudor Life, “it marked the moment of adulthood. A single person [as opposed to someone who was married] wasn’t considered to be fully adult”. Watch now | Ruth Goodman on Tudor life As a watershed moment in a person’s life, sex was incredibly important, both practically and symbolically. However, it wasn’t necessarily straightforward – there were social norms that dictated how people should be having sex. Sex was only considered ‘good’ if it took place within marriage and, as Goodman explains, “so long as it fulfilled one of two purposes: one was to bond a couple together, and the other was procreation”. No matter what sort of sex it was, if it happened outside of the marital bed, it was immoral. Anything that fell outside of the “traditional marriage picture of a man and a woman creating babies” was a transgression and ‘bad’ sex. But that didn’t mean that the Tudors discouraged pleasure. The importance of pleasure One of the main Tudor beliefs about sex was that a woman could only conceive if she was enjoying the act, and this would ideally include a female orgasm. “Just as a man needed to be interested in order to produce seed, a woman needed to be interested in order for that union to occur”, explains Goodman. It may seem surprising that there was such a focus on women’s pleasure in what was a largely patriarchal society. But, while some good husbands may have used this belief to ensure their wives had a good time, there were some more sinister repercussions to this too. “The bad side of [this belief] is that if a woman is forced [to have sex] and she conceives, then nobody in society believes she was raped; they think she must have been enjoying it,” explains Goodman. So, while female pleasure was considered to be a crucial part of sex, and essential to procreation, it was a double-edged sword that had inadvertent negative consequences too. Getting the position right But pleasure wasn’t the only thing needed for procreation, according to Tudor ideas about sex. There was some biological backing to their understanding of reproduction too. “It’s thought in the Tudor period that a woman’s reproductive organs are a mirror image of a man’s … if you want to have children, you should [be positioned in] a nice straight line to allow the seed to get where it needs to go”, says Goodman. Read more | The Virgin Queen? Elizabeth I's forbidden love This meant that the ultimate position to optimise conception was the missionary position. The idea was that the straighter the couple’s bodies were lined up, the more likely they were to conceive. “Any [position] in which the bodies were bent, particularly a woman’s body, which might prohibit the movement of the seed [was] not so good,” notes Goodman. It wasn’t just the position of the couple that mattered, though. The Tudors had detailed notions about how the testicles affected the success of conception and the gender of the baby. Tudor understandings of the body proposed that the right-hand side of the heart carried fresh, more vigorous blood around the body, so the right side had more energy than the left. It followed that the more ‘powerful’ right testicle would therefore be responsible for creating male children – and the left, female. As we know from Henry VIII’s succession crisis, having male babies was of great importance. So, what did Tudor men do if they wanted to ensure a male heir? Well, as Goodman reveals, “if you wanted to be sure of having a boy, it was a really good idea to tie a ribbon around the left-hand testicle, just to ensure that the correct seed made the journey”. Although we now know that this would not have had any impact on a baby’s sex, it’s intriguing to think that men in the 16th century – including King Henry VIII himself – may have been tying ribbons around their genitals in an attempt to conceive a much-wanted boy. What did Tudors think was sexy? While the main reason for sex in the 16th century was to conceive a child, that doesn’t mean people were only having sex to procreate. Many couples were simply in love and just wanted to have fun. To do that, they had to be attracted to each other. But what was considered sexy in the Tudor period? According to Ruth, linen was considered a very sexy material because it was the “layer that sits next to the skin, [highlighting] that intimacy between you and your clothes”. Read more | 7 things you (probably) didn't know about Tudor fashion The same principle applied to a woman’s hair. As something that would usually be either covered or pinned back in polite society, a woman unveiling her hair to a man was considered a great honour and an intense act of intimacy. “A woman’s hair is her crowning glory and her husband’s delight”, says Goodman. “It is a private sexual pleasure, not something to be shown to [just anyone]”. For Tudor women, they might be drawn to a man’s legs. Those tight stockings that are a familiar image of the Tudor period were a way for men to show off the shape of their “nicely turned calf”. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2025/10/HM0CN5CALF-ee388bc.jpg" width="1552" height="1610" alt="A painting showing a man dressed in white stockings and a dark brown doublet and cape. He has an orange beard. He is standing in a marble arch, surrounded by marble statues and two red and blue shields" title="A 1546 portrait of Earl of Surrey, Henry Howard, sporting the characteristic tight Tudor stockings (Image by Alamy)" /> The Tudors had rules – but they weren’t prudes With all these rules and expectations, and the notion that hair and calves were sexy, you’d be forgiven for thinking that the Tudors were prudes. In reality, they were quite open about sex. Tudor society had its deep-rooted beliefs about what sex was for, who could have it and how they should do it, but they weren’t shy about it. As Goodman explains, “The Tudor world was not particularly prissy. There was an awful lot of talk, and quite open talk, about relations between men and women, about attractiveness and sexiness”. Want to step even further into the world of the Tudors? In her brand-new HistoryExtra Academy series, Ruth Goodman takes you inside everyday life in the 16th century — from food and fashion to faith, work, and even love and marriage. The first three episodes are available now on the HistoryExtra app, with more to come soon. Start watching today Want to ask Ruth a question? Join our live virtual Q&A on 19 November. Find out more here
From fatal foliage to the perils of ploughing: the Tudor calendar of death
Delving deep into reports of coroners’ inquests from Tudor England, Steven Gunn and Tomasz Gromelski show how accidental deaths reveal the rhythms of work, travel and leisure throughout the year
January Deadly cold and woodland woes Tudor England languished in the chill grip of a ‘little ice age’, and winters were especially harsh. Decembers were bad enough: in one 1542 blizzard, eight travellers – seven of them women and girls – died on the roads of Herefordshire and Shropshire. January was worse still. Snowstorms in January 1541 wreaked havoc across the Midlands. In Nottinghamshire, William Johnson lost his way heading home from Burton Joyce to his house at Shelford, and perished after falling into an unseen tributary of the Trent. In Derbyshire, three members of the Crabtre family died when their house in Kinder was flattened by a “snowe dryft”. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2025/07/BAL3294700cmyk-53b87bf.jpg" width="620" height="413" alt="A man dressed in a green smock and red tights is in the middle of cutting logs with an axe. Around him are other people, including a woman in a blue dress with a baby and another woman bent down on the floor to pick up more logs" title="A man wields an axe in an early 16th-century illustration. Chopping wood in icy conditions was fraught with danger (Image by Bridgeman Images)" /> January 1571 claimed victims in East Anglia. Peter Eade, a runaway servant just nine years old, died in snowy Rushford, Norfolk, wandering and hungry. And Robert Kyng, aged 40, fell into a snow-covered “sawyng pytt” in Holton Hall Wood at Stratford St Mary in Suffolk. Many people had to brave such cruel weather to undertake their work, not least felling leafless trees in a season when dormant wood was less likely to crack when cut. William Smale paid the ultimate price when tackling an oak in Bagborough Wood, Somerset in 1513. He cut through it with his axe, but it caught on an ash tree as it fell. To free the oak, Smale hacked three or four times at the ash. It shattered and sent sharp fragments flying at his head, piercing his brain. He died three days later. February Fatal foliage and football February brought more trouble with trees, especially for those gathering greenery to top up dwindling winter stocks of fodder for livestock. In 1565, the keeper of Castle Camps Park in Cambridgeshire sent John Spycer out into the cold to cut leafy branches to feed animals. As Spycer stood on “a smale or slender bowghe”, he fell to his death. In 1505, Thomas Cleygate of Westhumble, Surrey was cutting “mistell bowys” – mistletoe – from a tree to feed sheep when he plunged 9 feet. At the same time, February offered excitement. It was a popular month for playing football, a game that was then much more violent than the modern sport, more akin to American football but without the padding and helmets. Dangers lurked everywhere: in the opposing team, the pitch, even players’ personal accessories. Playing at Allerston, Yorkshire in 1523, John Langbern and Roger Bridkirk crashed into one another as they ran after the ball. Roger – clearly a big lad – landed on top of John, fatally crushing him. In 1564, at St Peter’s in Berkhamsted, Hertfordshire, Walter Brassett was “plaing at the foteball” with neighbours in Edward Bugge’s field when he fell onto a maple tree stump, cut his leg and bled to death in half an hour. It seems, too, that players didn’t remove knives from their belts before getting stuck in. At Bedale, Yorkshire in 1550, George Robynson tackled George Stapper, who was fatally wounded in the belly by Robynson’s blade. Read more | Tudors in turmoil: deciphering Hans Holbein’s masterwork The Ambassadors March The price of poverty, the cost of crows As winter ebbed, so did food stocks – and perhaps charitable instincts – meaning that March was a tough month for the poor. One such unfortunate was octogenarian Elizabeth Purseglove, who fell into a ditch in Chilcote, Derbyshire while begging in 1531. Another, William Dungkyne, fell into a pit as he returned home to Cambridge from begging in Barnwell in 1538. No one even knew the name of the vagrant pauper who fell down “the side of the lower clyffe” at Church Hougham, Kent in March 1596. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2025/07/2A2D892cmyk-WL-6f63f5c.jpg" width="620" height="413" alt="A black and white sketch shows a man laying on the ground with a rifle, lying in wait to shoot a bird" title="A 16th-century engraving of duck-hunting in winter. Shooting at birds with relatively rudimentary guns, which might misfire alarmingly, could be a hazardous activity in the Tudor era (Image by Alamy)" /> Work was relatively scarce, too, though there were always tasks to tackle – scaring birds away from growing crops, for example. At Revelstoke, Devon in 1564, Andrew Wylloughby was trying to disperse crows by firing lead pellets from his “handgonne” when it misfired and burned his face; he dropped it, accidentally shooting John Kinkham in the leg. Older technologies weren’t necessarily safer: in April 1556, Thomas Branches was using his “lether slynge” to drive crows off barley in Patching, Sussex when one stone “sudenlye slypte owte of the slynge backewarde” and felled Richard Sowton with a point-blank blow to the head. April Risking it all for birds and blooms A tempting new source of food appeared in April: recently hatched rook chicks, ready for plucking from their nest and baking in a pie – if you could climb safely up and down a tree, that is. In Warwickshire in 1548, George Gybbes fell 40 feet from an elm at Hunscote. In 1564, Thomas Harmon plummeted 60 feet from an ash at Moxhull. In Suffolk, Robert Beamont came down 50 feet from an elm in the “Rookewood” at Brightwell in 1588. At Clyst Honiton in Devon in 1518, Benedict Page managed to cling on in his oak tree when a too-slender branch snapped beneath his feet. But he dropped the pointed pole he was carrying onto Richard Kellegh, who died six days later. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2025/07/TA8AB8cmyk-ade569b.jpg" width="620" height="413" alt="Rook hatchlings might make a tasty Tudor pie filling for springtime – if you could collect them safely from their nests in tall trees (Image by Alamy)" title="Rook hatchlings might make a tasty Tudor pie filling for springtime – if you could collect them safely from their nests in tall trees (Image by Alamy)" /> Picking flowers should have been less perilous – but children were prone to collecting blooms in risky spots. Four-year-old Margaret Bockyn fell into her father’s garden pond at Rollesby in Norfolk while gathering “pryme roses” on the bank in 1579. Similarly, five-year-old Barbara Fell plunged into a pond just outside Walmgate Bar at York during a flower-picking session the following year. Eight-year-old Robert Hudsone avoided water while collecting blooms at Stutton near Tadcaster, North Yorkshire in 1562, but wandered too close to a grey horse, which kicked him fatally in the head. Read more | The most common accidental way to die in Tudor England reveals surprising truths about daily life May When leisure turned lethal In this prime month for recreation, revellers needed to be wary of the maypoles set up for dancing. Alice Wasse was hit in the head by one that fell in the wind at Mansfield Woodhouse in Nottinghamshire in 1578. Elsewhere, John Richardson was killed while a pole was being erected on Abbey Green, Bath in 1594, and Thomas Wylkes died while one was being taken down at Marsh Baldon in Oxfordshire in 1543, having failed to heed the workmen’s cries of “aware, aware, avoide”. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2025/07/GettyImages-598816499cmyk-f68e73e.jpg" width="620" height="413" alt="A very colourful image of many people milling about at a village fair. People are dancing together around a pole and in the background, people barter over a table" title="Villagers dance around a pole in an illustration from c1530. Even such an enjoyable activity wasn’t without risks (Image by Getty Images)" /> Clement weather also encouraged more permanent construction. Robert Catley died while working on a barn at Thornton-in-Craven, North Yorkshire in 1539, as did John Hodges toiling on a “wayn house” at Hope under Dinmore, Herefordshire, and James Breythweth and John Wood building a house at Worksop, Nottinghamshire in 1566. Authorities encouraged men to practise shooting arrows rather than dancing – and May saw more archery accidents than any other month. At Horsley, Gloucestershire in 1504, John Snowe rushed to the target after taking his shot, and was hit by those firing after him. And at Dagenham, Essex in 1591, John Skoggyn was so focused on checking where his arrow had gone that he “dyd not go aside” when John Cartnayle “dyd crye” to warn him that he was about to shoot at the same mark. Skoggyn suffered an arrow in the head. June Drowning by numbers Many people perished in the water in June, when early summer heat drove working men to bathe at the end of the day. They flocked to rivers and ponds in large numbers – irrespective of whether they could swim. In June 1583 alone, 11 men died by drowning in places ranging from Dorset to Northamptonshire, Somerset to Suffolk. In Maidstone, Thomas Carpenter was within sight of other young men in the millstream when he fell into a whirlpool, but they could not save him without endangering themselves. In the Thames, Martin Robinson buckled on two bladders to help him stay afloat at Paris Garden in Southwark, but the buckle broke and he perished. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2025/07/BAL234051cmyk-8ee7af6.jpg" width="620" height="413" alt="A woodcut from a 1587 treatise on the art of swimming. Not all who enjoyed a dip could handle strong currents in rivers and millstreams (Image by Bridgeman Images)" title="A woodcut from a 1587 treatise on the art of swimming. Not all who enjoyed a dip could handle strong currents in rivers and millstreams (Image by Bridgeman Images)" /> Many workers died while washing sheep in preparation for shearing. This practice claimed two dozen victims – two-thirds of them in June and a quarter of them women – as panicking sheep knocked over the labourers or slipped out of their grasp and were chased into deeper water. Such deaths occurred in major rivers including the Avon, Calder, Great Ouse, Severn, Thames and Trent, but also in creeks, brooks and millstreams. Read more | Trade, religion and diversity: how Tudor London became a global city July The hidden horrors of harvests and haystacks Harvesting the hay from meadows and marshes in high summer, workers wielded extremely sharp scythes that they swung with force. Mowers walked in staggered lines to try to avoid slicing one another, but fatal accidents were not uncommon. At Welford in Northamptonshire in 1559, Richard Goodall safely worked his way across Widow Symes’ field for four hours. He was then caught in the leg by Ralph Billinge’s scythe. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2025/07/GettyImages-1199902989cmyk-3ccbdc7.jpg" width="620" height="413" alt="Three men cut crops with scythes. In the background, other harvesters are at work and there are many farming fields" title="Harvesters cut crops with scythes in a 16th-century painting. Systems were put in place to reduce the risks of slicing fellow workers – but didn’t always prevent fatal accidents (Image by Getty Images)" /> Troubles were not at an end when the hay was carted away, because haystacks were unstable, leading to misfortunes for those working on them. William Awdeley of Botolph Claydon, Buckinghamshire, aged over 60, fell off the “heye mowe” in his barn that he had climbed to “trede his heye” in 1555. This work was more typically undertaken by young women; one such was Jane Turney, who fell off a stack at Tidburst in Aldenham, Hertfordshire, and died in 1574. Harvest-time also saw people playing various sports – forerunners of field athletics – many of which involved throwing things. Spectators were warned, but couldn’t always take evasive action. July brought mishaps with quoits in Berkshire in 1538, a pikestaff in Yorkshire in 1526, a plough coulter (blade) in Cumberland in 1564, and a sledgehammer in Dorset in 1591. August Carts, crops and pitchforks August brought the grain harvest – and more dangers in the forms of reaping and carting, especially when workers made haste in the uncertain English weather. Jumping on and off carts to pile crops and rope them down often resulted in falls, cracked heads and broken necks or backs. Snapping ropes took the lives of John Helder at Tuddenham, Suffolk in 1553; John Edmunds at Shoddesden, Hampshire in 1551; and John Stacye at Newbury, Berkshire in 1539. William Gybbys of Woodnesborough in Kent fell in 1551 while standing on slippery sheaves of wheat. John Cowper of Rodmersham, also in Kent, was dislodged by a sudden gust of wind and fell to his death. At Plash in Elworthy, Somerset in 1580, John Selacke faced a different kind of problem when the lower of his two cartwheels “did sodainlye sincke so depe into the grownde” that the whole cart fell over and he was fatally injured. Vehicles often crashed en route to the barn, where more perils lurked. Carts manoeuvring in tight spaces, crops piled in towering stacks and sharp-pronged pitchforks interacted alarmingly. In August 1579, for example, Richard Taylor climbed up to the “pytch hole” in Henry Boughtone’s barn at Pattishall in Northamptonshire, where the sheaves were pitched through from the carts to the stacks inside. The unfortunate labourer slipped and landed on a pitchfork propped by the wall. Wounded between the ribs on his left side, he died just over two days later. September Mellow fruitfulness – and falls Most fruit and nuts ripen in September, when pickers – who ranged in status from labourers to gentlemen and included women, boys and girls – climbed trees, frequently falling to their deaths in the process. An apple tree branch broke as Hugh Pritfoote sat on it at Dewchurch, Herefordshire in 1578. Thomas Chapman came off his ladder as he picked apples at Borden in Kent in 1520. And Jane Acton fell out of a pear tree at Stanford-on-Teme, Worcestershire in 1586. Maturing acorns attracted pig-farmers, who climbed oaks to knock down the nuts to fatten their swine. In September 1559, Thomas Way fell in the New Forest, and in September 1540 Ralph Colley’s quest for “okehornez” at Bakewell ended with his neck broken on a stone below the tree. October Perils of ploughing The agricultural cycle began each October with ploughing. Draught animals – oxen on heavy clay soils, horses for easier ground – could be hard to handle: restive during harnessing, distracted by dogs, kicking out when whipped. And if anything went wrong, being run over by the ploughshare resulted in horrible (and often fatal) injuries. At Ledbury, Herefordshire in 1539, John Bradford’s thigh was cut down to the bone by the plough’s blade. And in East Sutton, Kent in 1578, Thomas Seman was wounded in the right side with a gash three inches (about 7.5cm) long, three inches wide and four inches (10cm) deep. This month also saw one instance of a fate all too common year round. At Bramerton, Norfolk on 16 October 1579, a 19-year-old maidservant took “a payle” from her master’s house and headed for a pit on the common to collect water. The ground there was slippery, and she fell in and drowned. One in eight accidental deaths of women and girls over five years old was the result of such work – traipsing backwards and forwards to wells, ponds, rivers and streams day after day to keep households supplied with water. The thing that made the sad case of this ill-fated young woman notable was her famous namesake: she was Anne Bulleyn. November High drama on rooftops and bell-ropes An ideal time for re-roofing buildings was November, when straw was abundant after harvest. Professional thatchers and handy householders alike clambered up with thatching needles and yelms – straightened bundles of straw. The dangers were many: ladders broke, thatchers slipped off roof beams, and springles – thin, flexible sticks used for pinning down thatch – could be treacherous. In 1564, one sprang back and hit Richard Hotchkis just below the right eye as he thatched Richard Askall’s house at Atcham in Shropshire. And when John Houson fell off his ladder at Newcastle-under-Lyme, Staffordshire in 1563, he landed on a springle that pierced his left side, penetrating 5 inches deep. During the reign of Elizabeth I, bells were rung on 17 November to celebrate the anniversary of her accession to the throne in 1558. Curiously, bells comprised the main cause of accidental death at church – and three mishaps on that pivotal day reveal the various ways death could occur. At York Minster in 1599, Robert Grymstone got the bell-rope caught between his legs, and was lifted high before being dropped on his head. At Cobham, Kent in 1592, a bell-rope snagged the bench on which John Robinson stood, hauling it 6 feet into the air; John slid off and down onto the paved church floor. At Beaumont, Essex in 1581, William Taylor found that neither the great bell nor the middle bell had ropes, so he climbed into the steeple to ring them on the headstock. He misjudged the swing of the middle bell, though, and his head, neck and shoulders were crushed between bell and frame. Read more | The poet, the gardener and the witch: forgotten voices of Tudor England December Frosty falls and fatal festivities Cold set in once more in December. Ice often caused accidents at watermills, where workers slipped into the millrace off frosty footbridges or fell while clearing encrusted waterwheels. It might also break under those who ventured out to hunt otters or to take short-cuts across frozen watercourses. It formed floes on rivers, too; in 1532, ice tipped over a ferry on the Wye at Bredwardine, resulting in the loss of all 10 passengers. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2025/07/HIP2677878cmyk-d060c95.jpg" width="620" height="413" alt="A large crowd of people and a carriage with two horsees take part in various activities on the frozen river Thames" title="A coloured 17th-century engraving shows revellers on the frozen Thames. Venturing out onto the ice, whether for fun or for work, could be risky (Image by TopFoto)" /> Christmas was, of course, a time for going to church, for celebrating, for feasting – and for accidents. Hurrying from church to the rectory in Croxton, Cambridgeshire on Christmas Day 1521, Robert Bakar fell into the parson’s pond and drowned. Jane Jenden tumbled off a table while hanging greenery in her home in 1562. And Jane Typtott stabbed herself in the leg while slaughtering her pig on Christmas Eve 1567. Seasonal pastimes posed threats, too. Wrestling in the hall at Kneesall Rectory, Nottinghamshire in 1549, Thomas Bunting fell on Lawrence Mylner’s knife. And in Houghton, Hampshire in 1563, John Hypper crushed his testicles while “playinge Christenmas games” with his neighbours. Tudor life was rich in variety – and so was Tudor death. Steven Gunn is professor of early modern history at Merton College, University of Oxford. Tomasz Gromelski is a researcher at Wolfson College, University of Oxford. Their new book is An Accidental History of Tudor England (John Murray) This article was first published in the July 2025 issue of BBC History Magazine
Tudors in turmoil: deciphering Hans Holbein’s masterwork The Ambassadors
Hans Holbein’s masterwork The Ambassadors is an exquisite portrait of two 16th-century diplomats. But it is also crammed with symbols and hidden messages. Tracy Borman deciphers the clues that betray the turbulence of a fateful year
Europe was teetering on the brink of a major rift. Relations between England and continental powers, always fragile, were at risk of fracturing fatally. Often violent confrontations between the Catholic Church and burgeoning Protestant adherents were spreading like wildfire, and the English king seemed determined to add fuel to those flames. Tensions could scarcely be higher. It was at that moment, in 1533, that Hans Holbein the Younger – the most celebrated court painter of the Tudor age – accepted a commission from a recently arrived visitor to the English court. A portrait would be produced, celebrating the wealth of those depicted. But in its extraordinary details, some more obscure and cryptic than others, the picture also reveals important aspects of the sitters and the tempestuous era in which it was painted. As London’s National Gallery celebrates the reopening of its Sainsbury Wing and a major redisplay of its collection, it seems like an apposite moment to take a fresh look at this masterful painting and the turbulent year that spawned it. In the eye of the storm Henry VIII, king since 1509, had recently defied the pope by setting aside his first wife, Catherine of Aragon, to marry Anne Boleyn, the woman who had captivated him for the previous seven years. This sparked a seismic shift in England’s religious, political and social life that would reverberate down the centuries. Jean de Dinteville, ambassador of Henry VIII’s great rival, Francis I of France, instructed Holbein to capture this extraordinary moment with a portrait of himself and his fellow diplomat Georges de Selve, both of whom were caught in the eye of the gathering storm. The result would become one of the artist’s most celebrated works. Dinteville, then aged 28, was a member of one of the most influential families in France. His first embassy to England had been in 1531, the year when Henry was granted the title of supreme head of the English church. With the king of England now on the verge of severing all ties with Rome for good, the stakes were even higher on Dinteville’s second visit in 1533. It was vital for his royal master to receive accurate information about events in England as they unfolded. It was not a task that he accepted with any relish. He would have preferred to stay at home in his château of Polisy in the picturesque region of Champagne, close to the city of Troyes, south-east of Paris. Read more | Inside the six wives' bedchamber: the stories of Tudor ladies-in-waiting Upon arriving in London, Dinteville was lodged in Bridewell Palace on the banks of the Fleet river, the usual residence for French ambassadors. The splendour of his surroundings provided cold comfort. His correspondence is full of complaints about the English weather, and he was ill for most of his stay with an affliction similar to malaria. In a letter, he assured his brother that his illness was not serious, but wryly remarked: “You know how I love this country. I truly believe that as long as I am here, I shall never be entirely healthy.” The misery of Dinteville’s stay was alleviated in April 1533 by the arrival of Georges de Selve. As well as being bishop of Lavaur, de Selve served as ambassador to Emperor Charles V, the Venetian Republic and the Holy See. Being a cleric, de Selve was deeply affected by the religious divisions in Europe, and had witnessed the repression of Lutheranism (which became known as Protestantism) in German districts in recent years. It is not known how the two ambassadors – who were of similar ages – knew each other, but the affection with which Dinteville wrote of de Selve, and the fact that he commissioned a portrait of them together, suggests friendship, even intimacy. By the time of de Selve’s arrival in England, religious tensions had worsened and the political situation was on a knife edge. In May 1533, Henry VIII’s marriage to Catherine of Aragon was finally annulled and Anne Boleyn was confirmed as his legitimate queen by Thomas Cranmer, archbishop of Canterbury. For all the elaborate cordiality between the kings of England and France, their alliance was now under threat – which destabilised the entire power balance in Europe. It is not clear exactly when Dinteville commissioned Holbein to paint the double portrait, but de Selve had left England by early June so it must have been before then. Swirling upheaval Holbein came from a family of artists in Augsburg, southern Germany. He had first visited England in 1526 under the patronage of Thomas More, one of the most influential members of Henry VIII’s court. As well as undertaking portraits of More and his family, Holbein worked as a decorative painter at the royal court. His fame spread and, by the time he returned to England in 1532 (or possibly 1531), he was inundated with commissions. These included designs for table fountains and fireplaces, goldsmith’s work and other embellishments for the king’s palaces, as well as the portraits and miniatures of prominent courtiers for which he is best known today. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2025/06/BAL4572772-CMYK-b84315b.jpg" width="3175" height="2115" alt="A sketch shows a man with a serious expression on his face. He is turned to the left, facing back to the viewer." title="Hans Holbein the Younger c1542–43, likely sketched by his own hand. Having earlier visited England, the artist was inundated with commissions on his return in c1532" /> Dinteville’s commission, though, would be unlike any that Holbein had undertaken in England before then. The ambassador clearly intended the painting to be very different from the conventional portraits of prominent figures that had become the artist’s stock-in-trade at the Tudor court. Laden with clues, iconography and messages, it reflects a very particular and pivotal moment in time. England and Europe stood on the edge of a precipice, with religious turmoil, political and social upheaval swirling below. Dinteville knew that events were rapidly spiralling out of control; here, suspended in the painting, they would be captured for posterity in symbols, their complexities hidden in plain sight for future generations to discover. It is highly unlikely that Dinteville and de Selve ever posed for the portrait in the sumptuous and complex interior featured in the finished composition. Already accustomed to working with busy courtiers who had little time to sit, Holbein preferred to construct his paintings piecemeal, making numerous preparatory drawings and sketching the sitters from life so that their presence was not required during the longer process of painting. We don’t know how long it took Holbein to paint The Ambassadors, but he was in great demand as an artist and completed a number of other works in 1533, so it’s likely that he worked quickly. He took various shortcuts, such as the inclusion of a green curtain as a backdrop – a device that he had used in his paintings since the 1520s. The tiled floor that appears in the foreground was painted quite simply, and the tufts of the oriental carpet were created with a thick brush, possibly for speed as well as for effect. The finished portrait, though, was breathtaking. Measuring just over 2 metres square, it is one of the largest paintings Holbein ever produced – and one of the most unusual and intriguing. The two ambassadors dominate the composition. In contrast with the head-and-shoulders portraits popular with Henry’s courtiers, the men are shown full-length, standing on either side of a piece of furniture with two shelves. Their stances, each with an arm resting on the carpet that covers the shelves, seems to invite the viewer to study the objects displayed. These include scientific, astronomical and musical instruments: items on the upper shelf relate to the heavens, those on the lower to the Earth. In creating the double portrait, Holbein showcased an array of painting techniques that he had refined during his career to date. The sumptuousness of Dinteville’s clothes, with the sheen of his pink satin doublet and the play of light on the folds of the material, appears exquisitely lifelike. In contrast, de Selve is dressed in sombre colours, which was typical of many of Holbein’s sitters in the 1530s – notably Henry VIII’s chief minister, Thomas Cromwell, who had sat for the artist within the past year. However, the result is just as rich in depth and texture. Holbein also showed off his technique for decorative gilding to dazzling effect, picking out details such as Dinteville’s chain, hat badge and dagger sheath. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2025/06/2G2NDPK-CMYK-0237e0f.jpg" width="1785" height="1189" alt="Holbein’s sketch for the huge mural of Henry VIII and his family that graced Whitehall Palace. Was the king inspired to commission this major dynastic portrait after admiring the artist’s earlier The Ambassadors? (Image by Alamy)" title="Holbein’s sketch for the huge mural of Henry VIII and his family that graced Whitehall Palace. Was the king inspired to commission this major dynastic portrait after admiring the artist’s earlier The Ambassadors? (Image by Alamy)" /> There is no record of Dinteville’s reaction to the finished painting, nor of who else might have seen it. Dinteville attended Anne Boleyn’s coronation on 1 June, and was instructed by Francis I to remain in England until the birth of her child, to whom his master had agreed to be godfather. On 7 September 1533, though, the new queen gave birth not to the hoped-for boy but to a girl – the future Elizabeth I. “The King’s mistress was delivered of a daughter, to the great regret both of him and the lady,” reported the gleeful imperial ambassador, Eustace Chapuys. The celebratory jousts and fireworks were quietly cancelled, and the French king was no longer expected to stand as godfather to a mere princess. Dinteville left England two months later, returning to his home at Polisy. Though he almost certainly took The Ambassadors with him, the first recorded reference to it at the château is dated more than 50 years later – by which time Dinteville was long dead. The painting was later taken to England during the tumult of the French Revolution. It was acquired by the 2nd Earl of Radnor for the gallery of his Wiltshire home, Longford Castle, and then sold by the 5th Earl to London’s National Gallery in 1890. Read more | The swordplay’s the thing: Henry VIII's Masters of Defence and the thrilling world of 16th-century fencing Mystery men After some restoration work, The Ambassadors went on public display. The intense interest in the painting sparked debate about the identity of the sitters, which was not known at the time. It was widely assumed that they were English, given that Holbein produced numerous portraits of Henry VIII and his courtiers. Various names were put forward, including Anne Boleyn’s former companion and admirer, the poet Thomas Wyatt. It was thanks to detective work by the historian Mary Hervey, whose account of the painting was published in 1900, that both men were correctly identified. After sifting through numerous documents in French archives, she found a fragment of a 1653 inventory that correctly named the sitters. The Ambassadors is now one of the most famous paintings in the National Gallery, and millions of visitors admire it each year. Although it’s not known who among Holbein’s contemporaries saw the finished work, it is tempting to speculate that it inspired Henry VIII to commission one of the most famous paintings of the Tudor era. In 1536–37, Holbein painted a huge mural for the palace of Whitehall. It featured the king with his parents, Henry VII and Elizabeth of York, and his third wife, Jane Seymour, to whom he was betrothed a day after the execution of Anne Boleyn for adultery and treason in May 1536. The original was lost in the fire that destroyed Whitehall in 1698, but Holbein’s sketch for it still survives in the National Portrait Gallery. Just like the sitters in The Ambassadors, Henry was painted full-length, and his broad frame and strident pose are reminiscent of Jean de Dinteville’s. This portrait became the most famous depiction of the Tudor king – and an enduring image of royal power. The Ambassadors deciphered The shepherd's sundial The shepherd’s dial, a type of cylindrical sundial, appears to indicate a date of either 11 April or 15 August. On the former day in 1533, the court was told that Anne Boleyn would be accorded royal honours. However, the readings shown on this and other instruments in the painting can’t be relied upon, being dependent on sunlight but painted indoors. It’s possible Holbein intended the divergent times and dates to convey the message that Europe was out of joint – a world in transition. The terrestrial globe The terrestrial globe focuses on France – with Dinteville’s château, Polisy (spelt Policy, perhaps a pun on his diplomatic mission), in prime position. Centuries later, this would provide one of the most important clues to the identity of the sitter. Paris is shown as well (spelt with a ‘B’, which might be how Holbein pronounced it), along with Lyon, where the French court was also based. Europe is shown upside down – a reference, perhaps, to the religious turmoil sparked by the Reformation. The broken lute Another clue that this is no ordinary composition, the broken lute (on the table, centre-right) string symbolises discord. One flute is missing from the nearby case, inferring a lack of harmony; the music of flutes was also commonly associated with war. Left of the lute sits a German arithmetic book, propped open with a set square at a page about division – it begins with the word Dividirt (‘let division be made’). The Lutheran hymnbook It was dangerous to possess a Lutheran hymnbook like this (pictured open, on the right-hand side of the centre table) in England or France at the time, so it was probably there to convey a message about religious division. The hymns shown are not in the right place according to the original book on which this is based, suggesting disorder. Both were traditional Catholic anthems, but were published in German at the Lutheran town of Wittenberg in 1524. This may indicate Georges de Selve’s desire to bring together the warring sides of the church. The skull Viewed from below and left, this large anamorphic element snaps into view as a human skull. Dinteville’s personal motto was: ‘Remember thou shalt die.’ (His hat badge also features a skull.) Peeking out from the top left-hand corner of the painting, partially concealed by the green curtain, is a silver crucifix. This symbol of salvation and eternal life offered hope to Christians everywhere, Catholics and Protestants alike. The exquisite pavement The two ambassadors stand on an exquisite pavement inlaid with coloured stones set in an elaborate geometric design. It’s reminiscent of the Cosmati Pavement before the high altar in Westminster Abbey, named after the 13th-century Italian family of marble workers who completed it for Henry III in 1268. Dinteville would certainly have seen this pavement – because it was in that precise location that Anne Boleyn was crowned on 1 June 1533. This article was first published in the June 2025 issue of BBC History Magazine
Tudor spymaster: the secret machinations of Robert Cecil
Stephen Alford reveals how Robert Cecil played a vital role in steering late-16th century England through some particularly perilous waters
Late Tudor England was a dangerous place, with plots both at home and abroad, and no certainty about who was going to succeed the ageing queen, Elizabeth I. Into this perilous world stepped Robert Cecil, a brilliant but unglamorous statesman and spymaster who played a pivotal role in keeping the country together and ensuring a smooth transition to the Stuart monarchy. Professor Stephen Alford speaks to Rob Attar about this unheralded titan of the Tudor and Stuart courts. Stephen Alford is the author of All His Spies: The Secret World of Robert Cecil (Penguin, 2024) Buy now on Bookshop.org Buy now on Amazon Buy now on Waterstones
Explore Hampton Court Palace with Professor Tracy Borman
HistoryExtra Academy Elizabethans course
Professor Tracy Borman and Charlotte Hodgman discuss the life and reign of Elizabeth I at one of the Virgin Queen's most extraordinary royal palaces
View Green Video on the source website Want to learn more? Why not explore our HistoryExtra Academy course on the Elizabethans, led by Professor Tracy Borman. Free with your subscription to HistoryExtra
Who was the real Thomas Cromwell? Your guide to Henry VIII's "faithful servant"
How much do you know about Thomas Cromwell? As Henry VIII's chief minister, he became one of the most powerful men in England – but little is known about his origins. Here, historian Tracy Borman answers all the questions you need to know – from his meteoric rise to his spectacular fall from favour…
What is Thomas Cromwell remembered for? Thomas Cromwell enjoyed a meteoric rise from the son of a Putney blacksmith to the chief minister of Henry VIII. A man of exceptional ability and with an enormous capacity for hard work, he dominated England’s political and religious life for a decade. He ruthlessly dispatched those who stood against him and his royal master, notably his rival Thomas More and Henry’s notorious second wife Anne Boleyn. He also masterminded the seismic religious changes of the 1530s, playing a key role in the split from Rome, the establishment of Henry as ‘Supreme Head’ of a new Church of England, and the dissolution of the monasteries that followed in its wake. When and where was Thomas Cromwell born? The man who would one day become the most powerful in England was of such humble origins that nobody can be sure when or where he was born. The likeliest date for his birth is 1485, which would be appropriate, given it was the year the Tudors seized the throne following the battle of Bosworth. His birthplace is often cited as Putney, which at the time would have been a small village by the river Thames, west of the City of London. What were Thomas Cromwell's origins? Records suggest that Thomas was the youngest of three children – and the only boy – born to Walter Cromwell and his wife Katherine née Meverell. Considerably younger than his sisters, he may have been an unexpected child. In the only recorded reference to his mother, Thomas made the unlikely claim that she was 52 when she bore him. He made the remark during the debate about Henry VIII’s annulment with reference to whether Catherine of Aragon was still capable of bearing a living son. Walter Cromwell was an enterprising if disreputable man with a number of different professions, including blacksmith, fuller (cloth dresser) and cloth merchant. He had ingratiated himself with the new Tudor dynasty by serving as a farrier in the future Henry VII’s contingent at the battle of Bosworth in 1485. He also owned a hostelry, called the Anchor, and a brewery. This was situated close to their home at the top of Brewhouse Lane, which today still runs the short distance from Putney Bridge Road to the river Thames. A house by the river in modern-day Putney would demand a premium, but the area was a good deal less salubrious in the 16th century. Cromwell’s father was often in trouble with the law. He was fined six pence by the manor court on no fewer than 48 occasions between 1475 and 1501 for "breaches of the assizes of ale" (which meant that he had been watering down the beer that he sold). But his most serious conviction came in 1477 when he was found guilty of assault. Although the sources reveal little of Thomas’s relationship with his father, a remark he made many years later suggests he had inherited some of Walter’s less admirable traits. He confided to his friend Archbishop Thomas Cranmer what a "ruffian he was in his young days". But he was eager to escape the family home. In 1503, when he was aged about 18, Cromwell left England for what would be a lengthy spell abroad. After a brief spell as a mercenary in the French army, he entered the household of the wealthy Florentine merchant, Francesco Frescobaldi. Living in one of the most culturally vibrant cities in the world had a profound impact upon Cromwell’s character, beliefs and interests. Artists such as Michelangelo were regular visitors to Frescobaldi’s house, and Niccolò Machiavelli was beginning to exert his influence in the government of Florence. Cromwell showed far more promise as an apprentice merchant than he had as a soldier, and by the time he returned to England in around 1512 he had both the experience and contacts to flourish in that profession. But like his father, he was not content to follow just one career path and soon after arriving back in London he was practising law. It was this profession that would win him greatest renown. Cromwell’s years on the continent had transformed him from a poorly educated, if precocious and streetwise ‘ruffian’, to a cultured, well-connected and successful man of business. If he had stayed in Putney and become an apprentice blacksmith or brewer, history would have turned out very differently. Did Thomas Cromwell marry? Soon after his return to England in 1514, Cromwell married Elizabeth Williams, née Wykys, a wealthy widow. It was a sign of how far he had come that he was able to make such a good match. It would prove a successful marriage and produced at least three children: Alice (or Anne), Grace and Gregory. The family lived in Fenchurch, on the eastern side of the City of London, a popular area with merchants, before moving to nearby Austin Friars. The contemporary sources provide very few details of Cromwell’s marriage and family life, but it appears to have been settled and harmonious. Tragically, Cromwell lost both his wife and daughters to the sweating sickness within the space of a year (1528/9). He never remarried and instead focused all of his affection upon his surviving child, Gregory. Although it is sometimes claimed that one ‘Jane Cromwell’ who appears in the contemporary sources was his illegitimate daughter, there is no proof of this. What was Thomas Cromwell's relationship with Cardinal Wolsey? By the time of his wife and daughters’ deaths, Cromwell was one of the most successful businessmen in London. He had also secured an influential patron in the form of Cardinal Thomas Wolsey, Henry VIII’s chief minister. It is not clear when Wolsey first enlisted Cromwell’s services, but he soon rose to become one of his most trusted servants. Wolsey once wrote to express his gratitude for Cromwell’s "good, sad, discreet advice and counsel". It is to Cromwell’s credit that in stark contrast to the majority of Wolsey’s sizeable entourage, Cromwell stood by his patron when Wolsey was thrown out of office in 1529 for failing to secure the annulment of the king’s marriage to Catherine of Aragon. Indeed, he went further still by going to court in order to secure Henry’s pardon for his master – apparently oblivious to the dangers of doing so. How did Thomas Cromwell come to power? Against the odds and within the space of just one year, Cromwell had not only succeeded in rehabilitating his fallen master but had won such favour with Henry VIII that he was appointed a member of the Privy Council. In consistently defending his fallen patron, Cromwell not only softened Henry’s mind towards Wolsey but also impressed him with his own loyalty. Cromwell’s quick-wittedness, irreverence and obvious ability also attracted the king. Self-taught rather than formally educated, he was more intelligent and articulate than most of the nobly born members of court, and he soon gained renown as an orator. His cosmopolitan upbringing also gave him an edge over them. But his lack of refinement showed in what one observer described as a "rough" style of management. While this upset his noble rivals, his direct and bullish approach appealed to a king who had spent so much of his life surrounded by sycophants and flatterers. In April 1532, Henry awarded Cromwell his first formal office, that of Master of the Jewels. The 17th-century antiquarian John Strype opined that this appointment was a sure sign that Cromwell had "grown in great favour with the King". Many more promotions would follow, bringing Cromwell great riches as well as immense power. His private businesses were also continuing to flourish, and together with his court appointments it has been estimated that by 1537 his annual income was around £12,000 – equivalent to more than £3.5m in today’s money. What is the story behind Hans Holbein's famous portrait of Thomas Cromwell? It was almost certainly to celebrate his appointment as Master of the Jewels that Cromwell commissioned Hans Holbein, the most celebrated artist of the age, to paint his portrait. Far from flattering the sitter, it offers a brutally honest appraisal. The first impression is of a pensive and rather grumpy bureaucrat. Cromwell has a bulky frame and appears to be of middling height, although as he is seated this is difficult to judge. Turned slightly to the right, his small, prying eyes stare intently at something in the middle distance. His eyebrows are slightly raised in a questioning, vaguely cynical stance, and his long, thin lips are pressed together in a line. Little wonder it is often thought that Holbein disliked Cromwell. In fact, though, they were firm friends. It was as the public statesman, not the private man, that Cromwell wished to be remembered. The portrait presents a compelling – if unflattering – testament to his brilliant mind and enormous capacity for hard work. It is as if the painter has happened upon him in his study, deep in thought on some weighty matter. This is no unworldly academic, consumed by the ideas contained within the letters and books by which he is surrounded; it is a man of action, a shrewd and decisive pragmatist driven by a desire to succeed in all things. When did Thomas Cromwell die? Thomas Cromwell was executed on 28 July 1540, Tower Hill, London. It took three blows of the axe by the "ragged and butcherly" executioner to sever his head. There is a theory that, in a particularly cruel fit of revenge, the Duke of Norfolk had either bribed the axeman or plied him with alcohol. Where is Thomas Cromwell buried? According to the established tradition for traitors, after his execution in 1540, Cromwell’s head was displayed on London Bridge. It was then reunited with the rest of his remains and buried at the Tower’s Chapel of St Peter ad Vincula, where his erstwhile rivals Anne Boleyn and Thomas More had been laid to rest. The woman whom Henry had married on the day of Cromwell’s execution would join him there just 18 months later. Are Thomas Cromwell and Oliver Cromwell related? Yes, Thomas Cromwell and Oliver Cromwell are related through Thomas’s nephew, Richard, the son of his sister Katherine and her husband Morgan Williams. Richard changed his name to Cromwell upon entering his uncle’s service. Oliver Cromwell was Richard’s great-grandson. Given the fate he suffered at Henry VIII’s hands, Oliver’s great-uncle Thomas might have approved of the fact that his descendant would one day rid the country of monarchical rule.
The Evil May Day Riots of 1517: what happened?
In 1517, a mob terrorised the streets of London and took up arms against foreigners. Why did they turn to violence? And what happened in the so-called Evil May Day Riots?
What were the Evil May Day Riots? The Evil May Day Riots (also known as the Ill May Day Riots) were violent disturbances that took place in London during the evening of 30 April 1517 and early hours of 1 May against foreigners living in the city. It is considered to be one of the earliest race riots in the world and early modern London’s largest outbreak of violence against immigrants. What were relations like between immigrants and the English residents of London beforehand? As a thriving port and international city, London was home to people from many nations, including Italy, the Netherlands and France. The capital’s thriving economy attracted merchants and artisans from all over Europe. It’s thought that around two per cent of early 16th-century London’s population came from overseas. While relations were cordial on the whole, some Londoners complained of being cheated by ‘foreigners’, people they claimed received protection from their nations’ ambassadors, instead of facing the punishments that English citizens would receive. London was also suffering from an economic downturn. The previous winter had been tough, with prices rising and wages decreasing after a difficult harvest, and some blamed foreigners for their troubles. What caused the riots? According to Edward Hall, a lawyer and historian who chronicled English life during these years, a preacher called Dr Bell (or Beal) gave a xenophobic speech in mid-April 1517. Bell, who had been persuaded to give his speech by a broker, John Lincoln, accused immigrants of taking jobs from English workers. Read more | The Gordon Riots: how an anti-Catholic petition escalated into the most destructive riots in London’s history “The aliens and strangers eat the bread from the poor fatherless children, and take the living from all the artificers, and the intercourse from all merchants, whereby poverty is so much increased that every man bewaileth the misery,” said Bell. He declared the land they were on was given by God to Englishmen and therefore they “ought to cherish and defend themselves, and to hurt and grieve aliens for the common weal”. Over the following days, arrests were made after several random attacks against immigrants. Rumours began to spread that May Day would see a citywide ‘rebellion’ against foreigners. The Venetian ambassador, Sebastian Giustinian, described the events that led to the riots a few days after they happened: “After Easter, a certain preacher, at the instigation of a citizen of London, preached as usual in the fields, where the whole city was in the habit of assembling with the magistrates. He abused the strangers in the town, and their manner and customs, alleging that they not only deprived the English of their industry, and of the profits arising therefrom, but dishonoured their dwellings by taking their wives and daughters. With this exasperating language and much more besides, he so irritated the populace, that they threatened to cut the strangers to pieces and sack their houses on the first of May.” Concerned about these rumours, the ambassador had visited Cardinal Thomas Wolsey, the lord chancellor, as well as King Henry VIII, who assured Giustinian that no harm would come to any foreigner in London. How did the riots unfold? On the evening of 30 April, the mayor of London announced a 9pm curfew. This was done at the behest of Wolsey, who was wary of trouble in the city. That same evening, two young men were spotted by John Mundy, an alderman (a government official). He tried to enforce the curfew, but soon Mundy was surrounded by many men intent on causing him harm and he swiftly fled. Eventually, about a thousand male apprentices gathered in Cheapside in the heart of the city, no doubt helped along by alcohol after the holiday celebrations. Storming Newgate, the city’s largest prison, they freed all the incarcerated prisoners. They then proceeded to St Martin Le Grand, an area north of Old St Paul’s Cathedral and home to many immigrants. Thomas More, under-sheriff of London and advisor to the king, met the rowdy mob and tried to persuade them to disperse and return home. However, the terrified inhabitants of St Martin Le Grand, afraid of what might happen, began to throw stones and boiling water on the crowd. Panic ensued. The mob began looting and attacking homes and businesses. City officials tried to calm the crowds, but they were overwhelmed. For five hours, between 1,000 and 2,000 people – mostly men – terrorised London. Possessions were thrown into the street, livelihoods were destroyed, and many people were injured. Those who were targeted included merchants from the Hanseatic League (a confederation of merchant guilds from northern Europe), bankers who worked around Lombard Street, and foreign courtiers, although it’s not thought anyone was killed. May Day was possibly chosen as the day for the revolt as many people, including apprentices, had the day off work. The national holiday was celebrated by journeying into the fields to collect branches and flowers to decorate the home and commemorate the arrival of spring, so it was perhaps thought that these festivities would conceal the planned violence. What was the response to the riots? During the early hours of 1 May, the earls of Shrewsbury and Surrey led the king’s forces into the city in a bid to control the violence, and soon, around 5,000 troops had descended on the capital. By around 3am, peace had been restored to the streets and over 300 people were arrested for their part in the disturbances – some as young as 13. Giustinian suggested that many would have been killed had the troops not arrived in time: “Greater mischief and bloodshed would have taken place, had not the Cardinal, being forewarned, taken precautionary measures. He and other lords on that night came with considerable forces to the city by several roads. Six Wives: A HistoryExtra podcast series Member exclusive | In this six-part podcast series, we’ll be peeling back the layers of mythmaking to take another look at these fascinating women, who shaped the course of Henry’s reign – and the history of England. Listen to all episodes now Meanwhile, Edward Hall blamed immigrants for the riots. He claimed they had been goading and mocking Englishmen, and boasting of their closeness and favour with the king: “The multitude of strangers was so great about London that the poor English could get any living... The foreigners... were so proud that they disdained, mocked, and oppressed the Englishmen, which was the beginning of the grudge... The Genoans, Frenchmen, and other strangers said and boasted themselves to be in such favour with the king and his council that they set naught by the rulers of the city... How miserably the common artificers lived, and scarcely could get any work to find them, their wives, and children, for there were such a number of artificers strangers that took away all the living in manner.” What happened to the rioters who were arrested? John Lincoln, who instigated the riots, was arrested for treason and disturbing the peace. He was hanged, drawn and quartered for his actions, and his head was put on display as a warning. As he was being carried through the streets to meet his end, he still proclaimed his view that foreigners posed a threat to England: “My lords, I meant well, for and you knew, the mischief that is ensued in this realm by strangers.” Thirteen other rioters were executed, and countless others were supposed to suffer the same fate. However, upon being brought to Westminster to face the king, Queen Catherine publicly pleaded for their lives and Henry duly pardoned them, sparking much celebration among the gathered crowds. How have the Evil May Day riots been remembered? While few today have even heard of the Evil May Day Riots, this wasn’t the case in the century that followed. In the 1590s, the riots played a prominent role in Sir Thomas More by Anthony Munday and Henry Chettle, a biographical play thought to have been revised by William Shakespeare, among others. The late 16th century saw a new wave of immigrants to England – many of them Protestants fleeing religious persecution in France and the Netherlands – and there were concerns that another anti-immigration riot was looming. It is no coincidence, then, that the play sees More make an impassioned plea for a sympathetic refugee policy while trying to quash the unrest – something he calls “the strangers’ case” against “mountainish inhumanity”.
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7 things you (probably) didn't know about Tudor fashion
Dr Jane Malcolm-Davies shares a selection of lesser-known tidbits about Tudor clothing – from underwear to headgear
1. Fabrics and layering reflected social standing The types of material used in clothing reflected the hierarchy of Tudor society. Linen and wool were worn by all people, with the best types of wool and silk reserved for the wealthiest. In the 16th century, an ordinary woman would wear a kirtle over a linen undergarment called a smock; a wealthy woman might also wear a petticoat. A kirtle comprised top and bottom sections – a slit and laced bodice, incorporating stiff canvas for support, plus a full skirt with a front slit – fitted to each woman’s measurements, with different tailors catering to rich and poor. More affluent women displayed their wealth through layered clothing and underneath such finery as crimson silk petticoats. Men’s underwear took the form of a long shirt and tightly fitted leg coverings known as hose, which was cut on the bias of the fabric to give it elasticity. By the end of the Tudor era, full-leg hose had evolved into knee-length breeches made from leather, wool or silk, depending on the individual’s status and wealth. On the podcast | What did the Tudors wear? 2. The codpiece was the ultimate men's accessory Increasingly popular from the mid-15th century, codflaps and codpieces served a functional purpose by fastening the bias-cut hose and covering the crotch area. Gradually, they evolved into elaborate fashion statements: wealthy men flaunted codpieces adorned with ornate decoration. Although the precise reason for their increasingly extreme protuberance is unknown, codpieces combined function with fashion, catering to both comfort and societal expectations of display. Surviving examples indicate a range of styles, from opulent to extremely simple. The popularity of codpieces ebbed by the late 16th century, but they remain intriguing artefacts, reflecting the interplay of function, culture and style during the Tudor period. Read more | Dandies, fops & macaronis: fashionable men through history 3. Tudors wore conventional garments A Tudor man wore a doublet – a type of short, padded jacket – fitted and buttoned at the front and often paired with a jerkin (another fitted torso- covering garment) or a gown for layering. Gowns were worn for formal and special occasions and church attendance, with distinctions between best, middling and everyday wear. Meanwhile, women’s accessories – notably headwear – became surprisingly complex. The early flat linen kercher (tied headscarf) gradually acquired structure, incorporating wire at the edges to form a ‘cornered kerchief’. For those of a higher social status, the French hood became very popular, made with expensive silk and interchangeable jewels and pearls. These headdresses required time to assemble, and were secured on top of laced and braided hair. Read more | Five outrageous moments in royal fashion history 4. Colour choices were limited by law Central to the Tudor wardrobe was an appreciation of colour, with choices typically reflecting both wealth and status. An individual might own multiple garments of the same type – a man might have three doublets, a woman three kirtles – but in different colours. Natural, less-expensive ‘sheep colours’ were the norm, whereas red – produced using dyes such as madder – and tawny were pricier options. Black emerged as the most important colour in Tudor clothing. More vibrant hues – yellow, green, blue – were fashionable in the early 16th century, but diminished in popularity over time. One notably enduring colour was violet, a less-costly alternative to purple, which was reserved mainly for royalty. Violet could be achieved by blending woad and madder, but orchil – a dye obtained from certain lichens – was the best source. Violet long remained a surprisingly popular shade for clothing for both men and women because it was close to purple, a colour long restricted to royalty by law. 5. Tudor folk were dedicated followers of fashion Trends shifted over the course of the 16th century, notably in garments worn by the noble and middle classes. There was, for example, an evolution in the shapes of skirts, with wealthier women sporting conical, close- fitting and drum-shaped gowns as the decades progressed. Sleeves developed, too, changing from a fitted cut to elaborate, farthingale sleeves with whalebone supports. Men’s attire, such as doublet and hose, also underwent alterations in shape. The most pronounced change was in neckwear, evolving from small shirt ruffles during Henry VIII’s reign to the flamboyant ruffs of the Elizabethan period; and by the late 16th century, falling bands were de rigueur. Exchange between nations also influenced trends, with royalty embracing foreign styles. Indeed, the English were teased for sporting an eclectic mix of European styles. Hybrid fashions were partly the result of thrift: those buying clothes second- hand couldn’t be too picky about where they came from. Read more | Beyond fashion: 6 accessories that reveal changing attitudes in society, from the Georgians to the 20th century 6. Tailors were highly respected artisans Few people crafted their own clothes, relying instead on skilled artisans to make and repair them. A prospective Tudor tailor took a seven-year apprenticeship, then developed his craft as a journeyman who travelled and trained under various master tailors to hone his skills. Master tailors excelled in cutting fabric efficiently and fitting it precisely, whereas apprentices and journeymen focused on stitching, undertaken under their mentors’ supervision. Although women often sewed household and body linen, tailors fashioned complex garments in wool and other, more luxurious, fabrics. Tailors’ expertise reflected diverse needs across the social hierarchy, and some specialised in producing specific garments: for example, hosiers made hose. This specialisation of artisans, and the apprenticeship-journeyman-master progression, was intended to assure customers they would receive service of the highest quality and professional standard from their tailors. But there are many records of complaints, with tailors being fined for poor or inappropriate work. 7. People cared for their clothes Tudor people took a pragmatic approach to cleanliness, aiming to increase the longevity of their clothes through targeted cleaning and care. Common sense dictated that prevention was best: table napery protected clothes during meals, and aprons were worn by both men and women for work and even on special occasions. Oversleeves, often knitted, also protected clothing from daily grime. Washerwomen worked along riverbanks or at designated washing facilities in towns. For example, Nottingham had washing stairs where flowing water enabled people to clean garments communally. Surviving 16th-century washhouses on hillsides in Italy show how the plumbing worked by gravity. Tudors tended to care for their outer clothing in the way we care for modern winter coats: they seldom washed items made from wool, instead brushing or spot-cleaning for a quick spruce-up. Stains were removed from soiled garments by spritzing with alcohol followed by brushing. Underwear and accessories were washed frequently because having clean linen was a sign of respectability. This content first appeared in the October 2023 issue of BBC History Revealed Discover more content from week one of the HistoryExtra Academy Elizabethans course The Elizabethan Court, with Professor Tracy Borman – watching time 15 mins Where history happened: Tudor courtiers with Suzannah Lipscomb – reading time 13 mins Elizabeth I's personality: the unfathomable queen – reading time 9 mins In conversation: Tracy Borman on Queen Elizabeth I – watching time 16 mins Princely pleasures at Kenilworth: Robert Dudley's three-week marriage proposal to Elizabeth I – reading time 6 mins Elizabeth I's Accession Day Celebrations – reading time 7 mins Robert Dudley: Queen Elizabeth I's great love – reading time 12 mins