August 16th and September 9th, 1513: His and Hers Battles (or the ‘Battle’ of Spurs and The Battle of Flodden if you’d prefer).

Before we start with this one, lets just set the scene…

You’re a young and handsome newly appointed King. At 21 years old, you’ve already been in post for 4 years and inherited your miser Dad’s fortune, but you’re beyond desperate to move away from the reputation of being a tight-arse that he inherited for himself. So, you like to party and like to spend. Afterall, you need the public to know how radiant you are, if your reign isn’t to be a steaming pile of dog shit.

You’re a gobshite at the best of times and there’s clear issues with your over-inflated, yet immensely fragile ego… not that you’ve noticed it yourself. Your confidence is at a record-breaking high, some might even say verging on cuntishness, and your balls are bigger than your brains. However, there’s a problem! So far, you’ve done fuck-all to show what an absolute God you are on the battlefield. If you don’t sort this unwelcomed predicament out pronto, your subjects will start to think you’ve got a tiny dick.

But wait!!! Opportunity presents itself. The bigger boys in Europe that you so desperately want to impress have a gang which roam about Europe, battering the French because the Pope wills it. This might just be what you need to show what a top lad you are. Furthermore, your wife’s old man, the dirty shagger and not so much Dad of the Year that is Ferdinand of Aragon, is a big hitter with these lads. It would be daft to not get involved right?

The year is 1513, and you are of course Henry VIII, (though only in this scene setting activity I have taken you on, and hopefully not some sort of horrific reincarnation. If you are indeed a reincarnation of the big man himself, may I suggest you please stop reading as I fear your pride might not be able to cope with the rest of this post)

A young Henry VIII

At this time, it was all kicking off in Europe in what was called the “Italian wars”. Basically, this was a series of scraps whereby people seemingly pissed off the Italians by trying to steal land. This included the Turks and the French. The Italian wars went on and on, and between 1494 to 1559 countries scrapped and swapped sides at ridiculous rates. The situation in 1513 was that the Holy Roman Emperor, Maximillian I, the Pope, and Ferdinand of Spain were all trying to stop the French taking parts of Italy and keeping parts of France. They formed a little boys club and called it the ’Holy League’ like some sort of shite medieval vigilante posse. This is 100% true. I have no words for this.

This presented Henry with an opportunity to become an ally. A year or so earlier, the previous Pope, Julius II, had said Henry could have France after deciding Louis XII, the French King, wasn’t allowed it. So, Henry got his shit together and, with his dad’s saved ‘tax everybody’ cash burning a hole in his pocket and his testosterone permeating the air like a wet fart, he sends his troops to war to fight the French. In May1531, he packed them off to Calais under the command of George Talbot, Earl of Shrewsbury – a personal fave of mine as he’s a local boy. Henry remained on standby in England until he was needed, (and I use that term loosely).

In June of the same year, things were looking juicy across the channel, giving Henry opportunity to look like he knew what he was doing, and prove his place as a warrior king. Henry’s ever bad-ass wife number 1, Katherine of Aragon, was left to reign as regent, protecting the country in his absence, as Henry popped to France. He’d also called in the back up, taking with 11,000 more men with him, all supplied to him by his pal Wolsey, holder of the almes funds. Say no more.

When Henry arrived in Calais, he was greeted by Maximillian I. Katherine was made up with this; making an impression on the Holy Roman Emperor himself would only help Henry to secure his place in history as one of the greats. Little did Henry know at this point it would be Katherine that would make the biggest impression, (well with me at least). But we’ll get to that in due course.

On August 16th, 1513, in Guinegate, just south of Thérouanne, Calais, the English troops managed to successfully outflank the French army. The French cavalry were completely outnumbered and taken by surprise, so turned on their heels and fled, running into the horizon like proper scaredy-cats. The spurs on their boots glistening in the sunlight. Hence the “Battle of the Spurs”.

The Battle of Spurs… I suspect this isn’t the most accurate depiction of the event.

Now, this is where the story divides, as there are two accounts of what happened at the battlefield that day. The first is Henry’s own account as recorded in his letters to Margaret of Savoy. This story tells of a great battle with casualties on both sides, of how the English faced three times their numbers and how they captured nine or ten different standards. It speaks of Henry’s bravery at the battle, and how he fought proudly at his men’s sides.

The second story is the truth. This is a tale of how a cowardly King stood back at a safe distance, so as not to get hurt, whilst his men chased off the French for 3 miles before stopping, and how only a few standards were left behind as the French fled.

What’s clear though is the so called ‘battle’ of spurs, wasn’t really a battle at all. More a poncey game of tig that the just so English happened to win. Henry didn’t let this small detail derail him though. He marched onto Thérouanne to help secure the hold there, Billy Bullshitting all the while with crap about what a top lad he was and how the battle was won all thanks to him. When he arrived at the garrison in Thérouanne, the soldiers there were apparently unimpressed at the feeble effort that had gone into capturing French colours. Something else Henry wasn’t so quick to talk about.

After a few days, Thérouanne and nearby Tournai were captured with minimal fuss and Henry had a ‘battle’ under his belt – though, let’s be honest, it wasn’t much to brag about. Meanwhile, back at home, whilst seemingly proud of her husband’s glory, Katherine was having a hard time holding the fort against the enemies in the North- the Scots.

The sharper amongst you will recall the title of this post hinted at his and hers wars, and I wasn’t lying. Before Henry left, the relations between England and Scotland had been starting to fray at the seams, and Henry and Katherine were both concerned that whilst Henry was away playing Barry Big Bollock, the Scots would seize the opportunity to invade. This was of course just what they did.

Now the temptation here is to think this was a dick move by James IV, the Scottish King, but in hindsight it was sort of fair enough. A few years earlier in 1502, James and Henry VII (or Henry Senior, if you like), had signed the ‘Treaty of Perpetual Peace’, and agreed to put the previous bad blood between the two countries behind him. Henry Senior even gave his daughter, the Princess Margaret, to James to marry to sweeten the deal. One slight issue was that James had an old allegiance with the French, something that made it particularly awkward for him a few years later when Henry Junior decided to fuck off and scrap with them.

Prior to Henry leaving, James had begged his brother-in-law not to go to France, knowing the situation would become dire for him and mean he’d ultimately have to pick a side. Of course, Henry being  Henry went anyway. James, being the gent he was and in accordance with ‘the rules’ of war at the time, sent a polite letter to Katherine and the English council stating that he would invade England within a month in an attempt to bring Henry home and for all the awkwardness to stop. Obviously, this didn’t work – Henry was preoccupied with building a reputation as a badass with the Holy League and his public to give a shit about James threats, so Katherine prepared for battle.

James’s call to arms amongst the Scot’s was very popular. Within no time at all he’d rallied together more than 40,000 men to go and lay waste to the English…after all the English men were in France so realistically, how hard was it really going it be?

The problem is that to Henry’s credit, (and it’s not often I say that), he knew James would try some shit like this so had prepared. He’d sent men from the south counties to fight in France, keeping men in the north to protect against possible Scottish invasion. Henry’s army of 25,000 men didn’t really match James’ army in numbers, but this didn’t matter. The English army geared up and headed North, where James was already winning in Northumbria.

Henry’s army, led by the formidable Earl of Surrey, played a bit of a blinder. They let James’ army advance south into the northern towns as they snuck off around the back of them to block their retreat.  A lot of James’ armies had been looting the small towns and castles along their way down, filling their pockets with riches as they went, so had decided to fuck off back home as rich men, leaving the rest of James’ men to face the English.

The reduced numbers only served to make an easier attack for the earl of Surrey, who advanced on the Scots from behind and handed them their arses on Flodden Field. This time it was a proper full-on blood on the floor, bodies piled high kind of battle, unlike whatever the fuck that was Henry had led in France. James IV was killed on the battlefield, along with a third of his men. It was a fucking disaster for the Scots and loss at the battle of Flodden removed the Scots reputation as hard hitters from the European stage from that point on.

This amazing painting is called the News of Battle: Edinburgh after Flodden, by Thomas Jones Barker. Courtesy of Fife Council.

Katherine on the other hand was made up. She’d been on her way North with her English and Spanish banners, ready to get involved in the action herself. She only made it to Buckinghamshire when news of the victory came through. Surrey’s men had the Scottish kings decapitated body and were heading home with the mother of all trophies. Where the Henry’s men had captured a few flags and a couple of political prisoners in France, Katherine’s men had killed the Scottish king and sent the message through to their neighbours not to play their silly games in their back yard for threat of severe consequences.

Katherine sent James’ coat to Henry in France to be used as a banner. She was going to send his head but reported to Henry in her letter that the English nobles were a bit soft for this kind of thing, so had restrained herself and kept it, storing the body in the lumber room at Sheen Priory.

The irony of going in search of glory boasting like a motherbitch, only to have your wife who sat humbly before dethroning a King was not lost on Henry. The fragile masculinity that he was famed for was getting him down and despite being a victor over 2 countries at the same time, was annoyed that Katherine has stole his thunder. Katherine on the other hand sat quietly proud knowing that England had at least one badass warrior monarch sat on its throne. Well, until he did the dirty on her at least. What a nasty little cock end he was.

If you’re interested in reading more about James IV and Margaret Tudor, you can do so here: 8th August, 1503: The Rose and the Thistle – The Tudorials. Likewise, if you want to follow my rather tenuous link to a post about Hardwick Hall (and not so much about George Talbot), you can do so here: Hardwick Hall; More Glass Than Wall – The Tudorials

10th October, 1562: Elizabeth gets the Pox

Imagine this… Your dad kills your ma, your childhood is mental, your legal guardian’s husband nonces you up, and your sister has you thrown in the tower on charges of treason. Then, when you eventually take the throne yourself, you get the fucking pox. Welcome to the pure bullshit that is the early life of Elizabeth I.

On the night of 10th October, in 1562, Elizabeth, now 29 years old, was convinced she was coming down with a cold. With a distinct lack of Benylin in the Tudor period, she decided to do the most British thing in the world and have a hot bath. Obviously that didn’t work because: a) it never does and; b) she actually had smallpox, not a cold.

Pox had been rife at court, with a high proportion of the female courtiers contracting it – so it shouldn’t have actually been a surprise to anyone when Elizabeth started to display symptoms. As soon as the spots started to appear, the Privy Council began to shit themselves.

An early depiction of the stages of smallpox. As you can se from the pure grossness of this image, a hot bath was going to do fuck all.

Elizabeth had only been on the throne for 4 years, and had no heirs. This presented an enormous problem as the new protestant Queen had just about managed to quieten down the catholic gobshites that sought to depose her, and now it looked as if one of them might be eligible to swoop in and inherit her crown. Plus, The past hundred or so years had seen England dragged through the Wars of the Roses; the shitstorm that was Henry VIII’s obsession with having a male heir; religiously reforming the country so he could wet his dick; followed by a series of two-minute Tudor monarchs (Edward VI, Jane Grey and Bloody Mary), and now this. How much more could the people take?!

As Elizabeth’s fever roared, and she became more and more sick, she asked the Privy Councillors to make her BFF, Robert Dudley, the Lord Protector of England, and give him an annual allowance of £20k (aprox.£4million these days). Gossip had been rife around court about these two. Everybody thought they were secretly shagging, and expressed concern about Elizabeth wanting to marry beneath her station. Furthermore, Dudley’s wife had recently been found dead in suspicious circumstances, which some say Elizabeth had been involved in. There was no fucking way the council would agree to him being top dog. Elizabeth knew this and went out of her way to make sure her last days would be spent maintaining that nothing untoward had happened between them and upholding her virginity – though this claim was slightly weakened by the fact that she had also paid off Dudley’s groomsman to shut his gob about the coming and goings in Dudley’s bedchamber.

Dishy Dudley

The Privy Council didn’t have much choice as the Queen wasn’t dead just yet, so agreed to Dudley’s new rise to power to save face in front of the dying Queen, but the actual consensus was ‘fuck that, there’s not a chance… we’ll just wait till she’s dead and then thrash it out between ourselves’. There was no way the council was going to let that little upstart take the role they all craved. Plus, there were contenders around with a better claim to the throne – Mary Queen of Scots being one (though that was never going to happen either). The council now had some big decisions to make and with a mortality rate of 30%, they hardly even entertained the idea that the Queen could actually recover.

Meanwhile Elizabeth, who was being nursed by Lady Mary Sidney (Dudley’s sister), drifted in and out of consciousness. The Spanish Ambassador wrote to Phillip of Spain to inform him that his ex-sister-in-law was potentially on her way out, and William Cecil was called to council at midnight to come and sort shit out. There were no known cures for smallpox at the time apart from prayer, which is clearly not a recognised protocol by the World Health Organisation, and only a slightly better suggestion that drinking bleach could cure Covid. Elizabeth was treated with barley water and poppy seeds, and wrapped in red sheets (to reflect the pox… obviously). Miraculously, she started to recover.

The commemorative coin that was minted to celebrate Liz’s recovery

The Privy Council quickly pulled out their fingers and made Dudley a member, and started setting to work minting a commemorative coin to celebrate the Queen’s recovery and the near miss with yet more civil unrest. Although Elizabeth survived smallpox, she didn’t come away unscathed. Her face was heavily scarred and the beauty she had been renowned for throughout Christendom had been compromised. Elizabeth now had to rely on heavy lead and vinegar based makeup to hide her scars, which ironically poisoned the shit out of her, and led to yet more disfigurement, but that’s a Tudorial for another time.

Elizabeth 1: Smallpox 0

Elizabeth had it mild compared to her pal Mary Sidney. Mary also survived, but was so severely affected by the disease that her husband described her as ‘as foul a lady as the pox could have left her’. What a fucking charmer eh?! No wonder Elizabeth never married. She did however go on to rule pox-free for another 41 years; hiding her scars and rebranding herself with the thick, white make-up she was famous for – the absolute trademark of the Virgin Queen.

You can read about the mysterious death of Robert Dudley’s wife here:

Eyam Plague: The Ultimate Quarantine (1665-1666)

OK, I think it’s important for me to tell you as we go into this Tudorial that there are NO Tudors in it at all. Not one. At the time of writing the UK is in complete lock-down as a response to the Coronavirus pandemic, and whilst I have a list of about a million Tudor related subjects to write about, now seems like a good time to write about the absolute badass villagers of Eyam and how they chose to make the ultimate sacrifice for the greater good. Buckle in – it’s a tear jerker (sorry not sorry)

Here goes…

Most people are familiar with the Black Death, and understand that it ravaged through Europe and Asia from the mid-1300’s onwards. It was responsible for killing 50million people in Europe in the 14th century, eventually fucking off for good in the late 17th century*. The last serious epidemic in England occurred between 1665 -1666, and was rather originally named ‘The Great Plague’, (the title of ‘The Black Death’ had been taken in 1348 after a mass outbreak, but it was all the same shit).

The Black Death… with very little happening in the way of social distancing.

The plague itself was an utter bastard of a disease, claiming the lives of around 100,000 English people between 1665-66, and giving rats a reputation that they didn’t really deserve. The disease itself was basically a sneaky little cockweasle of a bacteria that hung out in the goz of fleas. The fleas then went about happily, riding on the back of rats who unwittingly went about their ratty business, ignorant to the fact that these fleas were biting everything in sight, infecting them and spreading the plague at a rate of knots.

If you caught the plague, you were more than likely fucked – and if you shared living quarters with an infected person, you were more than 100x more likely to catch the infection. If you caught it you knew about it. The bacteria (Yersinia pestis if you want to get scientific), would enter the body through fleas saliva when you got bit, travelling straight to the lymphatic system and causing some pretty shitty reactions. Firstly, as your body tries (pointlessly) to react, tennis ball sized ‘plague-boils’ would sprout up in your groin and armpits, leaking pus and blood all over the place. Then would follow headaches,  fever, aches and chills, accompanied by an onslaught of diarrhoea and sickness which made light work of both orifices… and then you died.

The plague was rife in London in 1665. The rich often fled to hide in their country estates (usually taking the disease with them), whilst the infected poor were boarded up in their houses. The government had very little by way of a plan, and it started to become every man for themselves, (sounds familiar eh?!).  London was in absolute chaos, and since quarantine regulations didn’t place restrictions on trade routes, the rest of the country quickly found themselves at risk; seamlessly taking us to the heroes at the heart of our story: the villagers of Eyam in Derbyshire.

Eyam is a tiny village in the heart of the Peak District in Derbyshire. It lies between Bakewell (of tart fame) and Sheffield (of steel fame), and quite close to Chesterfield (of bent church fame). In 1665, its population is estimated to be around 350-800. Historical records differ, but either way you can tell by the numbers that it was, and still is, fucking tiny. Despite being small, Eyam was a known stop-off for travelling merchants from London taking goods up north. One such merchant who lived in the village was a tailor named Alexander Hadfield.

In August 1665, Alexander sent for cloth from London, which was now under the ravages of the Great Plague. When the bale of cloth arrived at his home, Alexander’s assistant, George Vikers, opened it and upon noticing it was damp hung it out by the fireplace to dry. Unbeknownst to George and Alexander, the cloth was riddled with infected flea larvae which were pure digging on the heat from George’s fire. On September 7th George became Eyam’s first fatality of the plague. By the end of the month another 5 people had died. Knowing now that the plague had well and truly hit the village, panic and hysteria ensued, and people began to consider leaving.

In this historical period and in this part of the world, religion was everything and people began to turn to the church for answers. The local rector was a man named William Mompesson, who had only recently taken up post (and was now probably wishing he hadn’t).  He, his wife and children had moved to the village a year or so previously to replace the previous rector, Sherland Adams.

William Mompesson.(c) Museums Sheffield; Supplied by The Public Catalogue Foundation

Sherland has no importance to this story except that he was sent to replace the previous minister, Thomas Stanley, and then promptly died only to be replaced by Mompesson. Stanley however, is pivotal to this story. He had been appointed as rector to the parish of Eyam in 1644 under the rule of the puritan leader Oliver Cromwell, and being that way inclined themselves, the villagers loved him. However, as times changed and the royalists crept back in, Stanley was given the boot after he refused to take the Oath of Conformity and use the Common Book of Prayer.

Thomas Stanley soon found himself in exile under the ‘5 mile act of 1665’, which stated that no member of the clergy could live less than 5 mile of his previous parish. Luckily for his beloved parishioners, Stanley was belligerent enough to decide he would stay in Eyam only to watch the utter royalist dickhead, Sherland Adams, promptly followed by the cocky youthful gobshite Mompesson, waltz in and steal his parish. This didn’t really matter though as the people of Eyam were loyal to Stanley, and had no time for these new royalist pretenders.

When the plague hit Eyam, it hit hard. Mompesson was desperate to maintain some sort of order and control, to restrict the spread of the disease, and to prevent it from reaching the neighbouring industrial city of Sheffield as well as the other surrounding villages. His idea was for the village to go into self-quarantine, shutting its borders and preventing anyone from leaving or entering in an attempt to quash the spread. Knowing this meant imminent death, and not really giving two shits for the words of the new vicar, the villagers understandably told Mompesson to fuck right off. That when Mompesson realised that if he was stop the spread of the plague, he would need to enlist the help of his predecessor, Stanley, so made the 2 minute trip down the road to drag him out of exile.

When reading about Eyam, many sources give conflicting accounts; for example the number of villagers that inhabited the village, or whether it was Mompesson or Stanley who was to take the credit for the whole quarantine idea. However one thing which resonates through them all is how well the two men put their religious differences aside, and worked together for the greater good. Using Stanley to win over the villagers, Mompesson convinced them that the only way to stop the spread of the plague was for them to take the hit and let the disease die with them, there, in the village.

Mompesson persuaded the villagers not to flee Eyam by telling them that he’d be with them until the bitter end, and reiterating the importance that nobody leaves as they were all in it together blah, blah, blah. Then, after sending his own kids to live in Sheffield, he closed the town boundaries to stop people from leaving or entering. By all accounts, the people did this willingly. Possibly because they believed that the harsh winter months would kill the disease – which to an extent it did limit the transmission, but 42 people still died between September and December and, of course, the following summer was one of the hottest known, causing the fleas to go fucking mental.

Not being self-sufficient, Eyam’s successful isolation depended on the grace of other local villages to support them. ‘Plague stones’ were set up around Eyams parameters whereby money was placed in a well of vinegar in the stone to disinfect the coins, in trade for food. The stones can still be seen around the village.

Mompessons well as it stands today. This would be filled with vinegar for the villagers to disinfect their payments for good in.

The villagers also took other precautions. Mompesson had put a hold on all funerals so he could tend to the dying, and held church services in the open fields to reduce contact between parishioners. To reduce the risk of contamination it was also ordered that people were buried with immediate haste in a grave near where they died. This mean that the consecrated grounds of the cemetery were now out of bounds for many of the God-fearing villagers, who were forced to bury their loved ones in their own gardens and fields close to their homes.

Many of the survivors had the added indignity of moving their deceased loved ones by tying ropes around their feet and dragging them to the fields, so as to not be in contact with the infection. By far the shittest account of any is that of Elizabeth Hancock, who was forced to bury six of her children and her husband who were all taken by the plague within 8 days of each other. The graves are still in Eyam today under protection by the National Trust. Surviving the plague, it’s hard to imagine if Elizabeth would have felt blessed or cursed by the events.

As the plague ravaged the village people began burning their clothes and soft furnishings at the advice of Mompesson who led by example. One man who failed to heed this advice was a bloke called Marshall Howe. Marshall had caught the plague and, against all odds, recovered. Believing that he could not catch it twice, he decided to make some extra cash by turning his hand to grave digging. Marshall stood to earn a pretty decent income from this alone, but he still he topped this up by stealing the clothes and other possessions of the dead. Although Marshall survived the plague, he lost his young child and wife. It is thought that they had caught the plague from the infected clothes of the deceased that Marshall stole from.

Things were looking grim. Mompesson’s own beloved wife, Catherine, had died and Stanley had set to helping the villagers write their wills (a few of which survive in Eyam Museum). They kept detailed records of every member of the village who lost their life. People were forbidden to see their families and friends in neighbouring villages and all ties to life, with the exception of aid, outside Eyam were cut.

Another famous story is that of Rowland Torre and Emmot Sydall who were betrothed when the plague hit. Emmot lived in Eyam with her family and Rowland in the neighbouring village. Each night they would sneak out and meet secretly, whispering (or shouting more likely) sweet nothings across the river to each other, until one night Emmot stopped coming. The story goes that as soon as the quarantine was lifted, Rowland was one of the first in the village, eager to find Emmot, but she’d already died, leaving him heartbroken forever more. Fucking horrific.

The stained glass window in Eyam church, with Emmot and Rowland (bottom right).
I’m not crying, you are!

Having no cure for the plague, the villagers were utterly left in the shit and forced out of desperation to resort to the absolutely fucking ridiculous treatments prescribed by the 17th century. One of the best being to pluck a pigeons tail feathers out and rub the bald bird on your boils until it dies. What cunt came up with this is not known. Another was to lay a frog onto a boil until it bursts. That is the frog bursts, not the boil! It’s amazing that this shit was prescribed by physicians during a period when the number 1 pastime was witch-hunting.

On November 1st, 1666 the last victim of the Eyam plague had died. It claimed the lives of 260 men, women and children from 76 families. Comparatively, Eyam had a higher percentage of plague deaths than London. It was due to the bravery and sacrifice of the villagers, and the leadership skills of Mompesson and Stanley that the plague did not take hold elsewhere. They had saved the lives of potentially thousands by preventing the spread to the nearby and densely populated city of Sheffield. Absolute fucking badasses.

With all of this happening during such a religiously charged time in history, it is interesting to think of how the villagers (and indeed Eyam’s neighbouring villages) saw God’s role in all of this. Were they being punished for past sins? Were they doing the lords work by quarantining themselves, acting as the chosen ones, giving their lives to stop the disease? It’s hard to know.

Eyam ‘plague cottages’. If you take a walk through Eyam you will be guided by the green plaques of doom. To walk through it will take about 35 seconds because its fucking tiny, giving you the full magnitude of the horror).

Both Mompesson and Stanley survived the plague of Eyam. Mompesson left the village in 1669 to go and work in Nottinghamshire. What’s really wank (aside from all of the aforementioned death) is that his reputation became as a plague minister, and not as the brave bastard he was. Consequently he was forced to live in isolation in a hut from the fear of his new parishioners who suspected that he may bring the plague to them. Shitehawks.

The word ‘quarantine’ derives from the Italian phrase ‘quarantina giorni’ meaning ‘40 days’. This was the standard period of time expected of those isolating from the plague. For the people of Eyam, their quarantine lasted 14 months and took the lives of over a third of their village.

  • With special thanks to Eyam Museum for being so frigging good If you’re ever in Derbyshire you should visit Eyam; the pictures I have borrowed are only small pieces of it’s history, you have to see it to really feel it).

*Although the plague left Europe at this time, the World Health Organisation report that there are still to this day around 1000-3000 new cases of it confirmed each year, (mostly in African countrie

Kenilworth Castle

img_5005A few weeks ago I decided to go and visit Kenilworth to do a bit of research for a write up. It’s been on my hit list for a while and, let’s be honest, if a big fuck-off castle doesn’t help me find my motivation for writing Tudorials again, then nothing will.

The original grounds for Kenilworth were built in the early 1100’s by King John, and then later modified and extended by other historical legends such as John of Gaunt and Henry V. In fact, Kenilworth is apparently where Henry V was when Charles VI of France sent him a box of tennis balls, suggesting him such a child that he might prefer to stay at home and play tennis, and leave war to real men… Needless to say, Henry battered the shit out of him.

Originally, the surrounding grounds had been flooded, creating a large mere which not only provided a strong defensive structure, but it also gave the castle’s inhabitants generous hunting grounds. It’s hard to believe this when you visit now, as the land around Kenilworth is green as far as the eye can see -which is miles and miles; the views alone are worth visiting the castle for.

All this is reason enough to visit Kenilworth, but to put the final cherry on the top of an already amazing cake, in 1563 Elizabeth I gave the castle to her bestie, Robert Dudley. Dudley wasted no time in proceeding to pimp the living shit out of it in an attempt that she might choose him to marry, or drop her knickers for him at least.

Elizabeth had many reasons to grant Dudley such a magnificent, and historically important property. Firstly, Dudley was her beloved childhood friend and favourite, and having been through so much together, (such as both finding themselves in the tower during the downfall of Jane Grey, and Dudley’s brother, Guildford), Elizabeth possibly wanted to celebrate their rise in fortune. Secondly, the castle held significance for Dudley and his family as it had previously, yet very briefly, belonged to his father, that right honourable prick, John Dudley, Duke of Northumberland. However the castle had been passed back to the crown after Northumberland had married his son, Guildford, to the nine day queen, Jane Grey, and tried to control the crown himself, like the greedy shitehawk he was.

Anyway, back to Robert Dudley and Kenilworth. Upon being granted the castle, Dudley wasted no time in continuing the improvements his father had already started. In the summer of 1575, when Elizabeth came to visit Dudley at Kenilworth, he pulled out all the stops. He had a new tower added to the castle in an attempt to wow the queen. The tower comprised of private chambers and must have been impressive as Elizabeth spent 19 days there, the longest period she ever spent at any of her courtier’s houses.

Upon her arrival, it’s said that Dudley had ensured the castle was draped with symbolism, in a vain attempt to woo the Queen and profess his love to her, in hope that she might marry him. He hired musicians to sing ballads of love and marriage at the Queen, masques, bear baiting, hunting expeditions into the Warwickshire countryside. There were even fireworks. Dudley was so hell-bent on expressing his love for the Queen that he commissioned two life-size portraits of them both to hang on the walls of the palace and paid a fool to jump out of a bush as she left, singing a cheesy as frig song about how she should just stay and marry him – subtlety clearly not being his strong point. He spent a fucking bomb on trying to get laid, and though impressive, it didn’t work because Elizabeth never caved, (this might be something to do with his wife’s suspicious death, but that’s a story for another page).


The bed in the gatehouse. Apparently the only bed in Warwickshire that Elizabeth never slept in. Not sure if the insinuation is that Liz was bit easy (more than likely gossip spread by the Catholics), or just a dig at Dudley and his futile efforts to knob her.

Upon Dudley’s death in 1588, the castle passed firstly to Dudley’s brother and then to his illegitimate son, also rather originally named Robert Dudley. In 1611, he sold it to James I son, Henry, Prince of Wales. After that, the castle changed hands several time, passing between royalty and nobles, becoming nothing more than a tourist attracting in the 18th and 19th centuries. Now you can visit courtesy of English Heritage, and I suggest you do because even in ruins, the castle is bursting with stories of past heroes, villains and lovers.

If you’re interested, you can read about the Duke of Northumberland’s downfall here, and if you’re curious about the dodgy death of Dudley’s wife you can read that here.


How the Protestant Reformation Rapidly Changed  Life For people With Disabilities in England in the Sixteenth Century.


Horowitz (2002), states that the ways in which disabilities are categorised are controlled by the ‘dominant mode of thinking’ at a specific period of time. It is precisely this ‘mode’ of thought that affects the way in which a society responds to certain positions, such as disability and poverty. Sixteenth century England proved to be an excellent example of this. By marking a momentous turning point in religious history, it offered new ‘modes’ of thought in regards to disability, as well as creating a shift in the way that people with disabilities, illness’ and impairments were cared for, and perceived.

Whilst the teachings of Martin Luther were gaining momentum, and support for his attack on Papal control was rising throughout Europe, in England it provided a perfect opportunity to be exploited for monarchical gain by Henry VIII. With the implementation of the protestant reformation, England saw rapid and significant change of perceptions towards the disabled and infirm. This change in attitude appears to be catalysed by closures of monasteries and abbeys, which previously served to provide aid to such individuals.

Prior to the reformation, England had seen a support system for individuals with impairments and disabilities akin to that outlined by the social model of disability, with focus on integration and support (Stone, 1984 as cited in Sheer and Groce 1988). Stainton (2002), states that there was, in fact, no medical remit for institutions assisting those with intellectual disabilities prior to the reformation, and suggests that the fact that ‘inmates’ had intellectual disabilities was merely incidental. This illustrates that although individuals with disabilities may have still faced socially constructed barriers, emphasis was still placed on the care of individuals within communities; with disability often a secondary complaint next to poverty. Likewise, with Horowitz’ statement in mind, the ‘mode’ of disability at the time appears to be considered spiritually-derived and socially addressed, rather than medically labelled and treated.

Along with the reformation, other factors contributed to this shift in treatment of disabled individuals; a rising population, advancements in communication and a move towards an interest in science and medicine, meant that Europe was undergoing social and cultural change at an exponential rate. The political and economic issues of the mid-16th century had serious consequences for the most vulnerable within society. Within England the closure of religious caring institutions, such as monasteries, led to an increase in vagrancy and poverty. Poor laws were thus adapted in response to these changing times.

The ever evolving laws, ironically only served to heighten the social disparity for those with disabilities and eventually the economic crisis resulted in greater upheavals, such as increased vagrancy and disease spread. It became a cyclic, and destructive series of amendments that responded to immediate pressures placed on the state, rather than seeking out long term solutions. Religious and communal support systems were rapidly replaced by public hospitals and medicalisation, and those most in need, (categorised by Sheer and Groce (1988), as ‘unmarried mothers, orphans, mentally and physically disabled, and sick person’s’) faced new forms of discrimination and stigmatism.

Stone (1984, as cited by Sheer and Groce, 1988), suggests that disabled people did not become detached from traditional methods of support until industrialisation in the 19th and 20th centuries, and that institutionalisation did not begin until this time also. However, I would dispute that claim and argue that the initial movement away from traditional care systems occurred as a consequence of the reformation, with the foundations for institutionalisation and social control being laid during this time period.

Here I will set out an argument that outlines the mechanisms behind the changing of attitudes towards disabled individuals during the period of 1485 to 1700. I will evidence how the aftermath of the Protestant reformation in England brought about social change for people with disabilities; shifting from a structure of religiously led support systems, and social integration and care, to an economic crisis resulting in vagrancy, exclusion and discrimination. I will compare attitudes towards disability, both pre and post reformation; discussing how the closure of religious caring establishments moved care of the disabled and sick from a family and communal based system of care, to one of duty-bound state institutions.

Additionally, I will go on to argue that the consequence of this cultural shift further reinforced a negative view of disability within society, changing people’s perceptions of disability from one of an ingrained sense of care, to a perception of burden. Where disability was seen as a holy and spiritual act prior to the reformation, it was soon deemed disdainful, and draining to state finances post reformation.


Pre reformation attitudes towards Disability within Europe; 1485 – 1532.

The concept of ‘disability’ is a modern idea; The World Health Organisation describes to the term as the restrictions observed by an individual as a consequence of their impairments. The term ‘disability’ was not recorded in English history until the late 16th century, during which time it was used to refer to a ‘want of power, strength or ability’(Wasserman et al, 2016), as opposed to a social disadvantage brought about through impairment. It is clear that disability was not viewed then as it is now, within its modern day meaning. Indeed, prior to and during the 16th century, individuals were not considered ‘disabled’ within the modern meaning at all, as social integration was viewed as a normality, and persons with impairments did not face the same social construct of disability that people do in society today. However, for clarity and the avoidance of repetition, I shall use the term ‘disability’ to refer to individuals with impairments or illness that may have potentially caused disability, as we would understand it within the modern meaning.

During the middle ages, (5th-15th century), impairments and illness were commonplace, regardless of age, wealth or social status. It was prevalent amongst both peasants and nobility, and accepted equally by both. Although disability was viewed differently between different societies within Christendom, it was not usually seen as a cause for complete segregation or isolation from normal society. In the middle ages, ‘non-normative’ bodies were seen to be a canal for God, with the rich donating alms in exchange for spiritual encounters (Row-Heyveld, 2009; Jarrett, 2012; Metzler, 2006). Others, such as those with physical impairments, were believed to be suffering punishment for their past sins, or those of their parents (Covey, 2005). Whilst those suffering from mental illness could be viewed as undergoing demonic possession.

There were various examples of the consequences of sin, and teaching of how such actions would lead to imperfections n the human form, outlined in biblical passages as a warning to those who may succumb to temptations (Metzler, 2006). The impact of these cautionary teachings for most, would have resultantly relied on the clerical interpretation from Latin, therefore widely inaccessible for the poor pre-reformation.

Attitudes towards disability had seemingly changed very little by the turn of the 16th century, and although the social structures of European countries remained complex, they remained under the governance of the Catholic Church, and led by ancient doctrines. The monarchs of Christendom still took dictation from the Pope and papal representatives, and so a certain degree of uniformity was maintained throughout the Holy Roman Empire.

Society during the period is best described by Miles (2001), who, when discussing the Germanic region of the early sixteenth century, suggested that it was:

pre-scientific, pre-printing, narrow, inflexible, dominated by hierarchical religion and supposedly all-embracing doctrine, characterised by superstition, credulity and dependant on translated and packaged knowledge from ancient authorities’.

Due to the nature of the environment, accidents and illnesses were common place, and frequently left individuals with permanent disabilities and impairments, which were often regarded as ‘divine interventions’, (Loimer et al, 1996). Some individuals would face life changing disabilities brought about by common practices, for example swaddling, which prevented vitamin D uptake and ultimately caused Rickets (Penny-Mason & Gowland, 2014). Disability also came in the form of congenital defects, learning disabilities and ‘mental illness’. Regardless of the mode, attitudes towards disabilities were mixed during these times, as I shall go on to discuss. Despite this, the upkeep of such individuals was viewed as a civic duty of care, rather than a need to treat or cure. This is not to say however that all individuals were cared for, some were abandoned by society, and forced to turn to begging in order to survive (Erskine & McIntosh, 1999).

Prior to the reformation, vagrants with disabilities had been viewed as the responsibility of religious institutions, such as monasteries, and were able to seek refuge and shelter throughout the land. As such, they were deemed by the state as the ‘deserving poor’ or ‘worthy poor’ (Sheer & Groce, 1988), and likely to receive donations and religious help, (Row-Heyveld, 2009). However, as the population increased towards the early 1500’s, more disabled beggars were seen on the streets, putting an increased demand on religious institutions and local parish’s, and for those who were not in a position to be assisted by communities, they were forced to either find work or move on. It is important to note here, that for the ‘worthy poor’, those with disabilities or impairments restricting them from work, begging was legally allowed by means of survival.

For the majority of those with disabilities and impairments who were able to work, and not forced into vagrancy, there is abundant evidence to suggest that they were well integrated into society, often maintaining employment and engaging in community life (Metzler, 2006; Row-Heyveld, 2009; Jarrett, 2012). Those that were able to participate in such activities were cared for by relatives or the parish, and often in receipt of alms from rich sponsors, usually in the form of housing or monetary donations. This was usually a non-altruistic exchange, as it enabled the sponsor to encounter divine presence by assisting the ‘blessed’, (Row-Heyveld, 2009).

Prior to the reformation in England, Religious institutions played a pivotal role in the care of the disabled. Whilst basic hospitals catered for the poor and infirm, the expectation was that the sick, customarily pilgrims, would reside there short term, ordinarily one night, in order to receive rest and a hot meal (Mahood, 2015). These ‘spytalls’ did not offer diagnosis or medicalisation in the sense that we would observe today, although more long-term establishments  did ensure quarantine against infectious diseases such as leprosy, which was prevalent in England during the Middle Ages. Leprosy was regarded as an act of divine penance for sexual sins (Augente & Gilchrist, 2011), with those in care receiving religious prayers and interventions, rather than long term, medical assistance.

The spytalls were still closely overseen by religious authorities (Augenti and Gilchrist, 2011), sparse in their locations, and in short supply (Mahood, 2015). Those with disabilities who were unable to seek long term care from their families, often had very few options but to travel to spytalls away from their home towns, thus travelling vagabonds became common. Spytalls which offered long term provision were in short demand, and thus overcrowded and underfunded.

One such notable establishment was the priory of Bethlam, (or ‘Bedlam’ as it became later known). Although predominantly caring for the sick poor, Bethlam started to gain a reputation for its attentive care towards those with mental illness, and by 1403 cared for an inordinate amount of such individuals (Andrews, 1991). At this time, Bethlam, like the other spytalls and priories, was known as a place of respite, and did not become known as an ‘asylum’ or medical institution until 1634,  (Andrews, 1991).

As a disability was seen to be an act of God in one capacity or another, the monasteries, priories and abbeys served to help those who may be afflicted to understand their circumstances; seeking atonement for past sins, whilst simultaneously acquiring refuge and understanding from the community within the monastery walls, which acted as a ‘surrogate family’ for those who society had rejected (Crislip, 2005).

Medical care in the late 15th to early 16th century was limited to those who could afford it, with practitioners being of wealthy and educated backgrounds (Augenti & Gilchrist, 2011). Royal physicians were seen in courts across Europe, however there role was little more than the preservation of the monarchs health, and advising in the acquisition of male heirs (Nutton, 2018). The physicians seemed to have little responsibility regarding permanent disability. Since court life was centred on politics and status, physicians often played additional advisory roles within the court. This remained common practice prior to the reformation through to the 19th century, (Nutton 2018).

Medical intervention at court was little more than management of pain caused by illness. Long term and life changing disabilities were still perceived to be a consequence of divine providence, and those with certain ‘intellectual impairments’, were thought to have been derived as a direct result from holy blessings and spiritual connections (Lipscomb, 2012, as cited in Jarrett, 2012; Levitas & Reis, 2003). This belief led to the employment of ‘fooles’, (or ‘naturals’ and ‘innocents’ as they were otherwise named), by monarchs, whose purpose was to entertain wealthy courtiers. This practice was common with monarchs throughout the sixteenth century, and across Europe, and changed little post reformation. Although this remained relatively unchanged, I feel it important to include it here as I believe the contradictory discourse concerning the employment of fools provides much evidence of the treatment of those with learning disabilities, and mental illness during the late antiquity, through the 16th century.

Some academics state that the presence of ‘fools’ at court highlighted the close proximity of the monarch with sentient beings, and those who were blessed (Lipscomb, 2012, as cited in Jarrett, 2012). Evidence to support this is found in artwork such as the painting ‘The Adoration of the Christ Child’, circa 1515, which is believed to depict an image of an angel with Downs Syndrome (Levitas and Reid, 2003). This suggests a link between the perceptions of such conditions with divinity. However, others argue that the ‘abnormality’ observed in fools was a ‘sentence passed by God’ for previous sins, and they were therefore placed with in society to be ridiculed as penance for this (LeGoff, 1988, as cited in Metzler, 2006).

I would argue that the latter suggestion is somewhat misleading, as there is a large body of evidence to suggest the ‘fools’ were valued members of court, and admired for their honesty and innocence, hence considered spiritual. For example, the famous fool of Henry VIII, Will Sommers, received the highest forms of gratitude and privilege from the King; in the form of monetary rewards, and heightened social status. This was not an isolated case, as fools across Europe were granted similar privileges. Conversely, the language used when discussing fools in literature would suggest that all too often, especially in older citations, academics confuse the treatment of those with mental illness during the period, with that of those who we may identify in present day as having learning difficulties.


The reformation, vagrancy and a change in perception.

The trigger of the reformation in England, between 1532 and 1534, generated a rapid political, economic and cultural reconstruction. As Henry VIII broke from the Holy Roman Empire, he turned to other reformist countries to take their lead, which inadvertently lead to a change in the way society treated people with disabilities, impairments and illness. This change was in part the responsibility of practical factors such as the dissolution of the monasteries, but also due to a social need to seek out new religious influences and biblical interpretations; mainly those of the Germanic reformer, Martin Luther.

There has been much discourse concerning Luther’s opinions towards disability; some academics perceive Luther to hold great prejudices towards disabilities, focusing on his warnings of ‘changelings’ and ‘witchcraft’ (Miles, 2001), and his attitudes towards ‘mentally retarded children’ (Colón, 1989, as cited in Miles, 2001). However others, such as Miles (2001), take a more subjective approach when evaluating Luther’s teachings. It is impossible to correctly infer Luther’s thoughts on disability as we do not have his opinions concisely recorded. Nevertheless, it should be accepted that Luther’s attitude towards vagrancy had a direct impact on the disabled poor of England.

Luther’s preface in the book Liber Vagatorium (Anon, 1528), states clearly Luther’s attitudes towards vagabonds and beggars. It proposes that the public should be ‘prudent and cautious in dealing with beggars’, and that parish councils should know and register their poor, so as to eliminate vagrancy and ‘knaveries’. By these means, Luther suggests that councils can ensure monitory donations are only given to ‘honest paupers and needy neighbours’. This publication, along with many other of Luther’ works, had a substantial impact on the reformation movement, as it coincided with recent advancements of the printing press, enabling propaganda material to be easily published and distributed. Indeed, the Protestant reformation was first major campaign to utilise the printing press in order to expand communications across Europe, (Edwards, 2005), and literature regarding Luther’s interpretations of biblical texts, and his thoughts regarding vagrancy, were now readily available to the English reformers; possibly indirectly contributing to the stigmatisation of the disabled that followed.

Between 1532 and 1534, the reformation gained ground in England. The country witnessed a devastating effect on the disabled, brought about by the dissolution of the monasteries, and closure of over 260 religious ‘spytalls’ and almshouses: more than half that were present in England at the time (McIntosh, 1988). The closures forced the poor and disabled onto the streets, increasing levels of vagrancy. This happened with almost immediate effect after the reformation, as outlined in a petition to Henry VIII, in 1536, which called for:

an immediate reopening of the hospitals as ‘the miserable people lyeing in the streete, offending every clene person passing by the way’, (Strype, 1820).

In response to the emergency, Henry VIII legislated the ‘Act for Punishment of Sturdy Vagabonds and Beggars’ as part of the English poor laws. This act served to ensure that parish councils were held accountable for their poor and disabled parishioners (Slack, 1995).  However, the new amendment to the law proved to yield little by the way of outcomes for several decades and England saw a period of sixty years where religious sanctuaries had been eradicated, and the new hospitals and alms-houses that would replace them, not yet built (Penny-Mason & Gowland, 2014). Those with disabilities who could not be supported by their family or community members, now had very little choice but to turn to vagrancy.

In 1547, Edward VI gave permission for parish’s to increase taxes in order to fund the new building of hospitals. For example, In London, taxes were raised to fund the erection of St. Bartholomew’s hospital (McIntosh, 1988), which arguably led to a replacement of the religious caring establishments, with medicalised institutions. Other cities soon followed suit, and the heavy burden of tax inflations further took its toll on the poor. The hospitals, though being constructed, were still not built, and the state placed increasing responsibility on local parish’s to care for their infirm. Rich investors were now invited to sponsor the erection of new almshouses, though this provided to be little more than an opportunity to increase personal popularity, than to assist those in need (Jarrett, 2012). I would suggest that this was the turning point from the caring nature of the church, to a civic duty of the councils.

The responsibility of religious institutions as care providers was removed officially in 1572, by Elizabeth I, with the introduction of the Vagabonds Act. This legislation set out the new obligations to parish councils with respect to their poor and infirm, and ordered the Justice of the peace for each ward to distribute donations to those unable to work. The act set out governance stating that any ‘able bodied poor’ should be put to work to reduce the vagrancy population, these individuals faced heavy penalties if they failed to comply, such as whipping, branding and ‘ear boring’ (McIntosh, 1988). The ‘impotent poor’, those individuals known to parishes as too infirm or disabled to work (Sheer and Groce, 1988), were to be supported by the state, suggesting this was the initial precursor to the welfare system in England.

Although designed to protect the ‘impotent poor’ – that is, those with genuine conditions preventing them from work – it could be argued that the act served to further persecute them. With local parish’s now being responsible for their budgets, and the religious caring institutions gone, the disabled were beginning to be viewed as a burden on local societies and communities. As poor laws were refined to punish those who were seen to be undeserving, more individuals turned to feigning impairments to exploit the alms given to the ‘worthy poor’. One account suggests that some beggars would consume soap to induce convulsions similar to epilepsy, (Erskine & McIntosh, 1999), others were known to feign blindness, (Row-Heyveld, 2009). This generated stigmatism and provoked a negative backlash for the ‘worthy poor’, and those with genuine disabilities and impairments, who were now more commonly viewed as fraudsters.

Between 1563 and 1598, the poor population had increased so significantly that now over half of the population were unable to work through issues such as disability (McIntosh, 1988). MacFarlane (1990, as cited in McIntosh, 1988), suggests that the lack of assistance offered by wealthy families to their poor neighbours led to a rise in witchcraft charges around this time. I would go further and argue that that the collapse of social care from monastic provisions, coupled with the increase in poverty, not only promoted witchcraft charges, but also led to a direct persecution of those with disabilities by means of early eugenics; that is the deliberate eradication of those with disabilities and impairments to relive their ‘burden’ on the state.

By the late 16th and early 17th century, attitudes towards the disabled had changed significantly from the pre-reformation days of social and religious care. The late 16th century saw an upsurge in interest in scientific and medical interventions, and institutions such as Bethlam had begun to specialise care, placing focus on medical interventions rather than traditional methods (Jarrett, 2012). Although thorough the 16th and 17th century the care of those with mental illness was still mainly allocated to families (Covey, 2005), a large proportion of individuals remained on the streets (Jarrett, 2012), with no care or social support akin to that they would have received prior to the reformation. I would also suggest that it is apparent through the change in langue found in records such as parish census’ and hospital registers, that stigmatism and labels for those with such conditions, were now being formed; with a shift of language from terms such as ‘natural foole’ and ‘impotent poor’, to ‘idiots’ and ‘lunatics’.

The late 16th and 17th century also saw a rise in ‘witch hunts’ which saw direct discrimination of those with physical and mental disabilities. Though many disabilities were still perceived to be a consequence of sin, the treatment towards disabled individuals had now shifted from one of a duty of care, to a right to persecute, ridicule and stigmatise.


Conclusion and Discussion.

Horowitz (2002), stated that society will always label and stigmatise. Whilst evidence would suggest this statement to be partly correct, in that people with disabilities have always faced prejudiced attitudes and persecution throughout history, it is also clear that the treatment of such individuals is influenced by the social and political pressures of the time period.

It can be said with a high level of certainty that disabled people were confronted with a rapid shift in legislation, as well as a change in the level and method of delivery of care, as a consequence of the economic aftermath of the reformation. Where there had previously been an inclusive and social support system, focused on spiritual healing, refuge and acceptance, the disabled citizens of post- reformation England faced vagrancy, institutionalisation and discrimination as consequence of the political upheaval. I believe this marked the initial shift from an early version of the social model of disability, toward a society beginning its journey down a path towards a medical based model of disability.

Not dissimilar to modern day, the economic position of the country throughout history has dictated the support received by disabled individual. However, unlike modern day, I would argue that prior to the reformation, there resided an ingrained system of social care, with families and religious institutions being the keys to inclusive provision. Stainton (2002) proposes that that it was poverty as opposed to impairment that drove the change in support during the sixteenth century. Whilst I agree with this statement, I would also add that it was also this poverty that lay the foundations for medicalisation of disabled individuals at this time.

The impact of the reformation on disabled members of society runs far wider than the issues addressed here. Further reading will undoubtedly highlight how the evolution of language, led to the formation of certain labels becoming common parlance, thus reinforcing stigmatism and discrimination at this time. Evidence may also be uncovered when further evaluating the impact on Luther’s teachings on disability, or how the English poor laws affected the early American settlers, and their views of disability in the sixteenth century. The reformation clearly proved to be an important, and pivotal turning point in the history of disability, having consequences not only for our disabled ancestors, but also shaping the future of disability and social care.



Andrews, J. (1991). Bedlam revisited: A history of Bethlam hospital c.1664-1770 [Ph. D. Thesis]. London. Queen Mary and Westfield College. London University.

Anon. (1528). Liber Vagatorium. (J. Camden-Hotten, Trans.) Wittemberg: unknown.

Augenti, A. & Gilchrist, R. (2011). Life, death and. The Archaeology of Medieval Europe, 2, 494-515.

Covey, H. (2005). Western Christianity’s two historical treatments of people with disabilities or mental illness. The Social Science Journal, 42, 107-114.

Crislip, A. (2005). Monastic health care in a functional context: The monastery as a surrogate family. In A. Crislip, From Monastery to Hospital: Monasticismand the transformation of health care in late antiquity (pp. 39-68). Michigan: The University of Michigan Press.

Edwards, M. (2005). Printing, Propaganda and Martin Luther. Minneapolis: Fortress Press.

Erskine, A. & McIntosh, I. (1999). Why begging offends: Historical perspectives and continuities. In H. Dean, Begging Questions: Street Level Economic Activity and Social Policy Failure (pp. 27-43). Bristol: The Policy Press.

Horowitz, A. (2002). Introduction: The proliferation of mental illness. In Creating Mental Illness (pp. 1-18). Chicago: University of Chicago Press.

Jarrett, S. (2012). Disability in Time and Place. Retrieved from

Levitas, A. & Reid, C. (2003). An Angel With Down Syndrome in a Sixteenth Century Flemish Nativity Painting. American Journal of Medical Genetics, 116A, 399-405.

Loimer, H. M. (1996). Public Health Then and Now. Accidents and Acts of God: A History of the Times. 86(1). American Journal of Public Health, 101-107.

Mahood, H. (2015). The liminality of care: caring for the sick and needy on the boundaries of monasteries. The Reading Medievalist, 2, 50-70. Retrieved from

McIntosh, M. (1988). Local responses to the poor in late medieval and Tudor England. Continuity and Change, 3(2), 209-245.

Metzler, I. (2006). Medieval theoretical concepts of the (impaired) body. In Disability in Medieval Europe (pp. 38-65). London: Routledge.

Miles, M. (2001). Martin Luther and childhood Disability in 16th Century Germany. Journal of Religion, Disability and Health, 5:4, 5-36.

Nutton, V. (2018). Medicine in the Courts of Europe. London: Routledge.

Penny-Mason, B. & Gowland, R. (2014). The Children of the Reformation: Childhood Palaeoepidemiology in Britain, ad 1000–1700. Medieval Archaeology, 58(1), 162-194.

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13th February, 1542: The Execution of Katherine Howard


Portrait of a Young Woman (Catherine Howard), ca

Katherine Howard: The rose among thorns

Of all of the Tudor queens, it is Katherine Howard that I have the most empathy for.  It seems her whole life, albeit a very short one, was filled with predatory men taking advantage of her circumstances. At a young age, she was forced to go and live with her step-grandmother – Katherine’s father had fallen into debt, and had to do a bunk out of the country before his debtors caught up with him. So she was sent to the Dowager Duchess of Norfolk, who, if I’m honest, was utterly shit and apparently well out of her depth at taking care of the young women in her protection.

In my professional* opinion, Katherine had significant attachment issues because of this, which rendered her vulnerable and extremely likely to accept the attention of anybody willing to give it; queue the gross, rapey, sex-pest-esque, Tudor fuckwits, who preyed upon young girls to get their thrills…men like Henry if were being entirely honest. As you can probably see already – I am on Katherine’s side in all of this!

It was in the Dowager Duchess’s care that Katherine had her first sexual encounters; one of which would testify against her, and the other would face his death as consequence. However, this blog is about Katherine’s execution, not the gobshites who caused it, so I shall put a link to a page about them at the bottom of this piece if you are interested in knowing about their part in it all.

Katherine was only 17 when she was stripped of her title as Queen, and sent to the block. She was executed because she had been seduced by yet another little buttmunch, Henry’s Privy Council pal, Thomas Culpepper. Thomas was seemingly yet another self-entitled piece off work, who managed to talk his way into Katherine’s knickers when the King was out of town. Though if certain history books are to be believed, it was Katherine that did the seducing.

The affair was aided by Katherine’s lady-in-waiting, Lady Rochford, who helped Thomas and Katherine to meet in secret and get their rocks off. Not content with simply being aware of the affair, but actively encouraging and supporting it, Lady Rochford implemented herself in the treasonous act. When Henry found out the affair, the intimate details of Katherine’s sexual past were investigated and all the unfortunate misgivings of her past were aired out like knickers on a clothesline. He immediately set to work summoning Katherine’s past conquests and gathering evidence against his young bride.

Katherine was defenceless. She had all but been caught red-handed and the evidence was overwhelming. Both she and Lady Rochford were sentenced to death. Henry, despite being a massive pig-dog of a man, was smitten with Katherine and her betrayal hit him hard. Henry had entered the marriage believing that Katherine would be the bride that his previous wives had not. Despite being 49, partially lame and riddled with cock-rot, Henry’s hyper-inflated ego meant that he thought he was irresistible to all women, even the 16 year old Katherine. There was no way his new Queen would look elsewhere right? I mean, what girl in their right mind would look elsewhere when they have to put up with an obese, stinky dad-man, with a pustulous leg and breath like a dead hookers minge, gyrating his syphilitic ramrod against her kirtle?!  I mean, the very idea of such a catch has me wiping my chair as I write… oh wait, no. No it doesn’t, and Henry was both naive and arrogant to think that Katherine would find him to be the man of her dreams, regardless of his status.

Execution of Catherine Howard

The execution of Katherine Howard 

The main sticking point for Henry was that he thought Katherine was a virgin when he married her. He had undoubtedly also boasted to his privy boy-gang about deflowering her, and felt like a knobhead when he found this to not be true. In fact, Katherine had been with a couple of men prior to Henry, to one of which she had promised herself to be his wife. This was a man called Francis Dereham. When Henry learned about her relationship with Dereham, a man now in employment at the royal palace, he went fucking mental and ordered that Dereham, along with Culpepper, be sentenced to a traitor’s death. Culpepper was able to talk his way out of such a fate, but Dereham was not so lucky. Nor was Katherine or Lady Rochford.

On the night on 12th February, 1542 Katherine awaited her execution. Being a Sunday, it was postponed until the next morning. The extra day’s wait must have been agonising for the young girl. Katherine spent her last evening preparing for her death by practicing placing her head on the block so she didn’t fuck it up the following day. At 7am the following morning, dressed in a black velvet gown and weak from emotion, she was escorted to Tower green: the very place her cousin, Anne Boylen, had met her fate at the hands of Henry just less than five years earlier. She was accompanied by Lady Rochford.

After mustering the courage to address the crowd, she placed her head on the block and was executed with one swift blow of the axe. Lady Rochford followed, kneeling in the blood of her former Queen as she too was beheaded. Their bodies were taken to St. Peter-ad-Vincula within the grounds of the Tower, and covered in Quicklime. Interestingly enough, during renovations of the church in Victorian times, the bodies of the women were never uncovered, although they do say her ghost haunts the halls of Hampton Court.

So there it is, the sad tale of Henry’s ‘Rose without a thorn’. May her ghost shit on the heads of all who sailed in her. If you are interested in the executions of Francis Dereham and Thomas Culpepper, you may like this Tudorial here.





*I feel that I am allowed to say ‘in my professional opinion’ as I work with young people with such issues and recognise the pattern…plus it’s a no-brainer…plus it’s my blog so that surely makes me qualified *ahem*!

February 7th, 1527: The Vicar of Hell loses an eye.

On 7th February, in 1527 Francis Bryan – or “the Vicar of Hell”, as he was otherwise known – lost his eye in the Shrove Tuesday joust. Bryan took the loss of his eye in good humour (I fucking wouldn’t), but it is thought that because of this, there are no pictures of him…but fret not, I have found one to give you a general idea, please see below, (apologies in advance). Since little is really known about Bryan’s accident, and I have unwittingly duped you into reading this article, I decided to collate a few top facts about the man, so here goes:

Bryan was one of Henry’s privy chamber, boy’s club pals, who had a reputation for being a bit of a debauched man-whore, with a silver tongue that could talk the coldest of nuns into bed. It was this ability of persuasion that made Henry rely on him so much to do his bidding.

As much as I hate everything that Francis Bryan stood for, I can’t help but like the bloke. He was a total character, and although I hate to relate anything I write about to ‘The Tudors’ TV show, (because it’s a steaming pile of shite that I seemingly only watch to give myself a rage hernia, like an absolute self-destructive bastard…*and breathe*), his character in it reminds me of the literal cock weasel from Ice Age 3, or 6 or whichever one it is.

Anyway, enough ranting – these are the reasons that Francis Bryan is a badman:

  1. He pretty much smooth talked his way in and out of any situation, because of this he was sent to Rome to sweet talk the Pope into Henry’s annulment to Bryan’s cousin, Anne Boleyn. Henry also placed such high faith in him, that he asked him to talk shit to the Pope about the Holy Roman Emperor, Charles V, who was incidentally his wife, Katherine of Aragon’s, nephew. Bryan cocked it up, and failed to get the Pope to agree. Now, at this point you might be thinking that he wasn’t such a great negotiator after all, but ask yourself this: How did he fail in his mission, and not only have the balls to return home, but still remain Henry’s pal, and also be the one to tell Henry that he had been excommunicated?! Cos he could talk his way out of fucking anything and everything, that’s how!

(Sidenote: Francis Bryan was so good with words that he moonlighted as a poet, undoubtedly using this skill to convince girls to hop on the good foot with him).

Which brings me swiftly onto my next Francis fact…

2. Francis Bryan was the cousin to Anne Boleyn, Catherine Howard AND Jane Seymour. It’s actually not as impressive as it seems since everyone and anyone at court was related by one incestuous link or another, but to be Anne and Catherine’s kin, and remain THAT close to the King?! That just serves as yet more evidence of how canny Francis Bryan was.

Seamlessly leading onto my next fact…

3. “The Vicar of Hell”?!…How did he get such a badass nickname?’ I hear you ask. Well, in short, by being a bit of a dick. Basically, Bryan looked out for number 1, using Anne Boylen’s influence over Henry in the early days to rise up the ranks at court, and then working with Cromwell to throw her under the bus when it all went south. Not only had that, but his interest in shagging, gambling and general lewdness never went unnoticed. The term itself was apparently coined by Henry after Bryan made some gross reference about ‘ruining’ both a daughter and her mother, being akin to eating a hen and then the chicken…a comment that Henry found hysterical (because of course he did, the fat prick). Cromwell used the name to refer to Bryan in a letter to the stuffy little oink, Stephen Gardiner…and it stuck.

4. Henry, being an absolute fanny-monger himself, could not believe that his pious and loyal daughter, the Princess Mary, could be so innocent. In order to get validation, he told Francis Bryan to chat pure filth down Mary’s ear and gauge her reaction. Being no stranger to sexing up women, off he went to drip innuendos and euphemisms down the Princess’ ear; a treasonable crime should anybody else have done this, and even grimmer that it was set up by Mary’s own father. But, to everyone’s relief, it turned out that Mary had no fucking clue what Francis Bryan was on about, and thus her reputation remained intact.

5.Francis Bryan married Joan Fitzgerald, an Irish noblewoman. After her first husband’s death, Joan was planning on marrying her cousin in order to maintain the family inheritance and their hold over Ireland. However, Bryan boldly and selflessly stepped in to offer his services, marrying Joan, and securing himself the title of Lord Chief Justice of Ireland. Now in all of Bryan’s years of womanising and monarchical arse-kissing, playing one person off against the next and gobshiteing around, it was his wife who caused his ultimate and final indignity. Whilst lying on his death bed, Joan fucked off hunting with her cousin Gerald. She married Gerald the following year…

Not a conclusive or exhaustive look at Francis Bryan’s life, just the highlights. Francis Bryan was indeed a massive bastard face but, credit where credit is due, he was a fucking clever one.

Haddon Hall, Henry Vernon and the Runaway Bride.


Haddon Hall is one of the most beautiful and well-preserved Tudor houses in the country. It was originally built in the 12th century, and was occupied right up until the 1700’s. Its history is vast and overwhelming, and you could literally spend a day there, learning about the house’s occupants. During the Tudor period however, the house was owned by a favourite of Henry VII; a nobleman called Henry Vernon. The house has passed down his family line ever since.

During the War of the Roses, Henry Vernon proved himself to be a rather clever bloke. The throne changed hands more that the bed sheets in a knocking shop and so, like any wise nobleman of the time, Henry learned to keep his nose clean and just say ‘yes’ when needed. He was however a Yorkist supporter at heart, so quite how he ended a favourite of Henry Tudor is a bit of an oddity.

There are probably a few contributing factors to Vernon’s rise. Firstly, he managed to avoid most of the battle-fields during the wars of the Roses. He was also summoned by Richard III to attend Bosworth, but there is no evidence of him either being there, nor of him sending any troops. Had Richard won, Vernon would’ve royally fucked himself with this act of defiance. Luckily for Vernon, Richard got his arse handed to him, and Henry Tudor nicked his throne.

It would’ve also helped Vernon’s cause that he was married to Anne Talbot; the daughter of the Earl of Shrewsbury, who was a staunch Lancastrian. He was at Bosworth, and kicked the shit out of the Yorkists on behalf of Henry VII, who would’ve rewarded him and his family after his ascension. Henry VII was also in the forgiving game after Bosworth, and those who had now ditched their Yorkist ways and pledged allegiance to him, were pardoned. Henry VII needed pals after all.

Now the country seemed settled, and the wars were apparently over, Henry Vernon apparently leapt at the chance to embrace the stability that the new crown offered, and set to making his house the Tudor jewel that it is today. Vernon was so well thought of by Henry VII, that he was made the treasurer and governor to Henry VII’s son, Prince Arthur. His son George was also appointed as Arthur’s tutor, and Arthur was apparently a frequent visitor to the house. In fact, Henry Vernon was so loved by Henry VII that he was knighted, and even invited to Arthur’s wedding to Katherine of Aragon, and allowed to locally go by the title of ‘King of the Peak’, (Peak referring to the Peak district…obvs).

The Vernon family stayed in favour with the Tudors throughout their reign, and seemed to manoeuvre their way through shit like the reformation, and Mary Tudors attempts to thwart the Protestants, relatively unscathed.

One of the most famous events that (possibly) happened at Haddon was the scandalous marriage of Henry Vernons great-granddaughter, Dorothy.  As the legend goes, in 1563, Dorothy Vernon did a legger and ran off with a bloke by the name of John Manners. It’s thought that Dorothy’s father, George, disapproved of Dorothy’s love for John, who was the son of the Earl of Rutland – the smallest county in England.

Dorothy, clearly not giving two shits what her dad thought, left Haddon amidst a great ball that kept the occupants of the house distracted long enough for her to leave the house and meet her beloved John. The couple then fucked the party right off and went and ‘eloped’, much to George’s dismay. I say ‘eloped’ in that sarcastic way because according to records, they were either married in Haddon chapel, which is about 20 meters from the banqueting hall where the great feast was happening, or the village of Bakewell, which is about 2 miles away.

All must have been forgiven, because two years later, George Vernon died; Dorothy and John inherited the house and, in similar style to her great-grandfather, went to town decorating the shit out of it, and putting both hers and John’s family sigils on just about every bit of wood and plaster in the place. Credit to them though because it looks mint.

The house has been home to the Earl of Rutland from then on, with many of its Tudor features remaining intact. Because the house is so fucking amazing, it’s used in pretty much any and every TV program and film about the Tudors, and it’s not hard to see why. It’s bloody gorgeous and if you get the chance to go, you totally should. However, in case you can’t go, here is a special Tudorials tour of the place, with facts and crappy mobile pictures, and all.

The Chapel

The chapel is the oldest part of the house, with parts of it being built during William the Conquerors reign. It’s chatted about in the doomsday book, when Bakewell village had a fucking huge population of 32 – I am informed that this was actually massive for a village of that time.

The chapel has the most impressive medieval wall drawings that I have ever seen. They’re understated, intricate and beautiful, and were painted in the 15th century. They were painted in a special kind of mould-proof powder, and later painted over during the reformation. Over the years, as the covering paint came away, the mould-proof powder protected the works, which is why we see them in all their original glory today.


The church alter


I have no idea whats happening here. No idea at all. I’m going to pretend its pirates, on a boat, on grass. That seems about right.


So, this hideous painting is called the ‘trois mort’. The skeletons have rosemary in their mouths which was commonly associated with death as it stopped the smell of rotting flesh from corpses wafting around the place. Exactly what you need to be reminded of during one of your 5 daily prayer times.

The Banqueting Hall

The banqueting hall at Haddon is just full of stories. When Dorothy and John Manners inherited the hall, they built a minstrel gallery for the performers to entertain their guests, at one end of the hall. The minstrel gallery is basically a posh balcony that would’ve faced the head table, which is raised from the other tables by a daïs. The daïs was basically a small, passive aggressive step whose purpose was solely to point out the fact that those sat on it are wealthy and important, and those not sat on it were a bunch of shit-houses who should know their place.


The banqueting Hall in all it’s glory.


The daïs, or ‘posh twat step’ as I have just renamed it, over which hangs a tapestry from the reign of Edward IV (badman). It bears Edward’s coat of arms and was given to the Vernons by Henry VIII.


If you ever go to Haddon, try and spot the ‘sobriety manacle’ in the banqueting hall. It was put there in medieval times to chastise anybody who had not had their daily quota of alcohol. Apparently, if you weren’t pissed up you were a heretic, and you would be cuffed whilst liquor was poured down your sleeves. There is some tenuous link to Jesus’ first miracle being turning water into wine, but I think they were just piss heads. I bet fucking nothing got done, and we could’ve had the TV centuries sooner if our medieval ancestors had sorted their shit out.

The Kitchens

The kitchens at Haddon freak me out. There is something about them – you can just imagine a maniacal Tudor cook coming running at you with a butcher’s hook and a dead swan, threatening to burn you alive if you don’t turn the spit. Ok, Ok, they’re not that scary, but still, you get the picture.

The most terrifying of the kitchen rooms is the butchery, with its blood drain and meat hooks. However, in the actual main kitchen itself sits a trough used to keep live trout for the house. This particularly freaks me out because I hate fish; they are slimy little fuckers with beady eyes, so the thought of having big fucking trout ambling about my kitchen on one side and cows being literally murdered alive on the other makes me want to shit with fear.


The butchery, or ‘meaty murder room’ as I call it. Complete with its blood drain, original feature meat hanger and axe marked chopping block…not gross at all.


One of the kitchen rooms. Looks quaint doesn’t it? Well now imagine it with live fucking trout in that tub on the floor! Not so quaint now is it?!

  • Fun Fact: During feasts, the whole of the kitchen and banqueting hall would have been draped in fine clothes, as this showed how rich the family was. During a feast, servants would wash the hands of the top table prior to their meal and then place their napkins over their left shoulders. They did this because the Tudors didn’t use forks, just their knives and hands, so when their hands were soaked in food grease, they  could easily just wipe them clean on their cloths without cutting into too much scoffing food time.
  • Another fun fact: women servers were not allowed in the banqueting hall at all during the feast, in typical Tudor misogynistic bullshit style.
  • A third fun fact: Tudors ate early so they didn’t have to sit in the dark. Makes sense really

The Great Chamber

This room is absolutely draped in Tudor arse-kissery. There are wall-to-wall carvings and paintings of Tudor roses and portraits. Above the fireplace is a carving of the Tudor coat of arms, with the initials ‘E.P.’ serving as a little fanboy nod to Henry VIII’s son, Prince Edward. Henry Vernon was no stupid man, he clearly realised that by praising the apple of Henrys eye, he would obviously score favour with the big man. There are also some small carvings on the wall of Henry VII and Elizabeth or York, and also, rather curiously, one of Will Somers; Henry VIII’s court fool.


The carvings in the Great Chamber are awesome. The boar is the Vernon’s sigil and on the ceiling is painted a Tudor rose, as standard, and a small dog. The dog is the Talbot’s sigil; Henry had it painted as a little nod to his wife’s (rather influential) father.


The Gardens

Now, I don’t like gardens that much so I didn’t take any pictures of them. This is for a couple of reasons; the first being that they mean that I have to go out in the cold. Secondly, they are constantly being changed, and dug up and moved,  and thirdly, if I take pictures of flowers, I will be expected to name them, and I don’t have time for that shit. I can barely point out daisy’s so would stand no chance with the proper shit they have in stately homes and such.

Having said that, the gardens at Haddon are well worth a visit. They seem to have a lot of Rosemary, (which is morbid really given the trois mort in the chapel), but they are really pretty, and people seem to like to go and paint them. Since I didn’t take any picture of the gardens, I thought I would treat you to some shots of the exterior of the hall, which is fucking great as well.



These are called the ‘Lady Manners steps’, as it is said that this is where  Dorothy made her escape when she ran off with John. I appreciate they are not that interesting, but they are well worth stopping off at  for a few minutes if you go to the Hall. Here you can laugh at the hilarity that is every Mum who comes across them, trying to resemble a ‘Tudor rose’, whilst screeching  ‘take the picture!’ at her husband, before somebody comes and stands behind her.



This is the courtyard. It is the part of the house that is shot on every programme or film ever made. Please appreciate this shot, I waited forever for everyone to fuck off out of the way so that I could take it.



The parts of Haddon that are open to the public are tiny in comparison to the full size of the house. The house was only reclaimed by the Rutlands in the 1920’s, and they have been living there since then so vast parts of it are no go areas. There are only a few rooms open upstairs, and none of them are bedrooms, (though I swear I went in the bedrooms there as a kid which makes me wonder why they are now out of bounds… how much house do the Rutlands need!?).

Of the rooms that are up there, the Long Gallery is the most impressive – the other rooms are ace, but this one really is shit hot. The chances are that if you go to Haddon, and you have seen literally anything Tudor based ever, you will recognise this room. It seems to be THE ONLY place to film court scenes, but it’s not hard to see why. It’s reputedly built by Smythson, who built Hardwick Hall. I say reputedly because there is no actual evidence, but you just have to have 5 minutes nerding out about the plaster work and design of both houses to see that it clearly WAS built by him.


The Long Gallery: Unlike the courtyard, I could not get people to move. In the slim chance you happen to be in this picture, then congratulations! You’re famous.

In Elizabethan times, it was popular to have a long gallery in your house, not only for entertaining, but also for ‘exercise’ (mincing about), when it was raining or cold outside. The Long Gallery at Haddon is chock full of peacocks and boars – in fact, who am I kidding – the whole house is. These were the family sigils of the Vernons and the Manners, and Dorothy and John had them created and stuck up to show their love and unity. It’s sweet really.



There is an absolute shit-tonne of stuff I have left out of this piece, because to be quite honest, I could write about Haddon all day. You will just have to either visit it yourself, or drop me a message, and I will geek out trying to answer any questions.


The house itself is just outside the village of Bakewell in Derbyshire. Bakewell itself is worth a visit because you can grab yourself a proper Bakewell tart, which is not anything like that Mr. Kipling bullshit that masquerades as one, and is made in fucking Stoke or some nonsense.

Also, if you go to Bakewell, you can pop into the church and see the rather grand grave of Dorothy and John Manners.

Haddon Hall’s admission is around £15 adult, free to under 16’s, and £3 for the car park. Please check opening hours before you go, as it operates on a seasonal calendar and may close for weddings etc. You can have a look at the website here. I should also say too, that the staff at Haddon are amazing.

Bakewell’s All saints Parish Church is open every day, 9-5 and is free to visit. You can view their web page

The Tudorials’ Whistle-stop Guide to the Tudors… (try and keep up)

So…It all starts back with a beef within a family who had been scrapping for years about who the throne really belonged to. They were all related, but they were also a collective bunch of gobshites, and the family split into two sides: Lancaster and York. Thus began a series of scraps called ‘the Wars of the Roses’.

Anyway, this civil war went on for aaaaages, and the throne swapped back and forth between the houses. Most of the men in England were killed in the fighting, and people were getting pissed off. It all only came to a head in 1485, when both sides put up their front men, neither of which really deserved to be King.


The Battle of Bosworth

On the Lancastrian side there was Henry Tudor; (a distant relation to the current King, and who had previously been exiled in France), and on the other side, Richard III; the current reigning King, who had nicked the throne from his nephew, (noticed I didn’t say killed his nephews in the tower…that’s cos I believe that to be some straight up bullshit).

Anyway, it all kicked off at the Battle of Bosworth when Henry Tudor kicked arse, thanks to his Mum’s husband. His mum was a crazy biatch called Margaret Beaufort, who had married a bloke with an army, called Henry Stafford. This prick Stafford had already vowed an allegiance to Richard III, and promised the reigning King his army. With this in mind, Margret had tried to win him over, saying shit like, ‘if you fight for Henry and win, you will be the step-father to a King, rather than a noble married to a traitor’s mum, with a small shit army’. This gave him much to ponder on.

Stafford  was a man with an interest in his own advancement, so not knowing what to do or who to fight for,  he sat on a hill  with his army, whilst the battle took place, watching and waiting until last minute to pick a side. It was in this last minute, quite literally, that he decided to rush in, switching sides, coming through for his step-son, Henry Tudor. This was the main reason that Henry won the battle of Bosworth. Think Jon Snow – Ramsey Bolton style, GoT Battle of the Bastards,  when the Arryn army came swooping in…which is clearly where that shit was nicked from.


Richard III: King of the Car Parks

So, Richard III was dead, and the throne swapped back to the Lancastrians. This time it was different though, because Margaret had secretly plotted with the previous Yorkist Queen, a pure badass called Elizabeth Woodville. The women had planned that if Henry won, he would marry Elizabeth’s daughter, Princess Elizabeth of York, and thus unite the houses, and bring about peace.

It’s worth pointing out three things here: 1). Elizabeth Woodville had been married to Edward IV, Richard III’s brother. When Edward died, Richard sort-of nicked the throne from Edwards’ son , so Elizabeth hated him and could not wait to fuck him over. 2) Rather grimly, Richard was in love with his niece, Elizabeth of York and they may have been having a secret romance.  3) Using fact 2 to her advantage, Elizabeth Woodville had also secretly agreed to marry the princess to Richard, should he win the battle of Bosworth. This would guarantee her families safety and Yorkist success, and since she  hated Margret Beaufort, she didn’t give too much of a shit about fucking her over… Woodville was nobodies bitch.

So it went…Henry won, married Elizabeth of York, made the Tudor rose to represent the combined houses, ending the civil unrest, and ruling for ages. Their first kid, Arthur (the heir), was married at 15 to a Spanish princess called Katherine of Aragon. When Arthur died a few months after the wedding, Katherine was kept in the country so Henry didn’t lose her dowry. When Elizabeth of York died, Henry was going to marry her himself but eventually, nine years later, married her off to his youngest son, Prince Henry (soon to become Henry VIII).


Henry VII and his newly-won wife, Elizabeth of York

Henry and Katherine were SOOOOO IN LOVE. She was a badass too, but had about 9 miscarriages and only produced 1 living child, a girl called Mary. After twenty odd years of marriage, Henry met Anne Boleyn, and decided to cast Katherine aside to marry Anne instead; firstly because he felt he needed a male heir to guarantee Tudor succession and Katherine was now too old to bear children; and secondly because he was a cunt.

Henry appealed for divorce to the Pope, saying his marriage to Katherine was ‘unfruitful’ because he had married his brother’s wife, and God was angry at him so had refused him boys.  The pope was like ‘nice try, now fuck off’ and that was that. Since the Pope was the only man above Henry in the pecking order, Henry decided that he had to go, and that he start to make his own rules.


I don’t think this gobshite needs any introduction, but just in case you are not familiar with him, this is Henry VIII, one of the reasons that the Irish hate us Brits.

By coincidence, Lutheranism was kicking off in Germany, so Henry used this as his excuse to break away from the Catholic Church. He started to use the new movement to get the people of England on side, stating that the Pope had too much control, and that by sacking him off, they would all prosper. And so began the Reformation.

Once Henry broke from Rome, he was free to do whatever the fuck he liked. He kicked off by dissolving the monasteries and reclaiming their lands and monies, making him self an even richer man, and now having the lands to bribe the nobles at court with. He also officially sacked off Katherine, and married Anne Boleyn, who was now preggo.

He declared his first daughter, Mary, a bastard, and said that his kids with Anne would instead be first in line in succession. However, Anne also gave Henry a daughter, a girl called Elizabeth, and after just two years of marriage, he decided to move on from Anne. He now had his eyes on  wife number 3, and in order to get her knocked up with a legitimate heir, Henry had Anne executed on trumped-up chargers of incest and treason, and their daughter Elizabeth also declared a bastard.

Like a massive prick, Henry announced his engagement to his third wife, Jane, the day after Anne’s execution. Jane went on to give Henry his son, Edward, but she died of sepsis after childbirth. Henry was gutted and went into a deep mourning, wearing black for three months, giving the illusion that he actually had feelings of some sort.

Cromwell, his best lawyer, decided that Henry needed to get his shit together, and what better way to do this than yet another wife, (though why the fuck you would think that after Henry’s less-than-glittering track record is beyond me).

Cromwell found Henry a lovely, reformed lady by the name of  Anne of Cleves. She believed in the new religion and was the daughter of the Duke of Cleves, a highly reputable man, so this looked good. Upon meeting Anne, Henry, thinking he was hysterical (and lacking the self-awareness that would’ve told him his courtiers just humored him under worry of losing their heads), had decided to dress as a tramp and jump out on Anne. Not realising the stinking old man was actually the King, Anne told him where to go. If we are absolutely honest here, she probably struggled to hold it together when he did reveal himself to her, because by this point his looks had started to go, he was on the slippery slope to becoming a lard-arse, and his ulcerated leg would have stank. Not exactly a catch.

The wedding went ahead anyway, but embarrassed by their initial meeting, Henry made out that Anne was so ugly that he couldn’t perform in the bedroom on the wedding night. He likened Anne to a ‘Flanders Mare’, and obviously took no blame for the whole sorry event. Anne, living in a foreign country and surrounded by dickheads, carried on with best behavior as Queen, more than likely shitting herself that Henry was looking to do her in at any minute. The whole experience, though not exactly ideal,  did however give Henry a taste of the game again, and it wasn’t long before he was back on the letch.

It wasn’t long before he turned his attention to what was basically a child; a young maid called Catherine Howard. Catherine was a cousin of Henry’s second wife, Anne Boleyn, but she was also his current wife’s 17 year old lady in waiting,. Henry decided to ditch Anne of Cleves by asking her for a divorce, offering her a massive settlement as an incentive. Anne was like ‘yes bitch’, and retreated to her new massive house, with her new title of ‘the Kings Sister’, leaving Henry to crack on with  marrying his poor, abused child bride.

Henry was now 54, fat and vile, and it wasn’t long before his teen wife, Catherine, started to shag one of Henry’s best men. Catherine was a beautiful girl and had always had a fun streak. She had also had a fucking awful past that involved lots of neglect and sexual exploitation, so Catherine was no stranger to men. The bloke who Catherine risked it all for was a young man named Thomas Culpepper,  (he also happened to be a rapist, and her second cousin, but that is a different story). Eventually, Cromwell found out about his wife’s affair and told Henry, who obviously executed Catherine, Culpepper AND Cromwell, (as well as some other blokes who had been responsible for having ‘relations’ with Catherine prior to her marriage to Henry…)

Henry plodded on, getting older, fatter, stinkier and ever more cantankerous, until he married wife number 6, a rich widow called Catherine Parr. Henry knew that it was unlikely that Catherine would give him a child, but married her anyway, possibly just for company. Catherine was amazing to Henry and their marriage, albeit short, was happy. Then in 1547, Henry died, leaving England to his son, Edward.


The annoying little cockweasel that was Edward VI. Seriously, I’m not just being harsh. This little shit ripped the head off a falcon for no good reason, (though I don’t know what would constitute as a good reason of any kind to decapitate birds).

Edward was really young, so was governed by his Uncle, also called Edward. He was an utter shit… if you think Henry was bad, Edward was way fucking worse – but, fortunately, he died when he was 15. Edward, knowing he would likely die young because he was so completely sickly and pathetic, decided to make a will. He wanted his badass protestant sister, Elizabeth, to inherit the throne because she believed in the same shit as him. The problem was that  Henry had declared her a bastard, and Edward knew that to undo that would mean his big sister, Mary, be ‘undeclared’ too. This would then put Mary ahead of Elizabeth in the line of succession, and Mary was a mental Catholic who would flip the country back to it’s old ways… the last thing that Edward wanted. To get around it he appointed his cousin, Jane Grey, also a protestant and close to Edward, as heir.

Jane’s mum, who was Henry VIII’s niece, was ahead of her in line to the throne, but stood down to make way for her daughter. This was the plan that had been made, but Jane’s family saw the situation for what it was: an opportunity to use Jane as a puppet to further their own gains. Jane’s parents married her off to a proper little womanising cunt called Guildford Dudley.

They did this because Guildford’s  dad, The Duke of Northumberland, had approached them with a plan. The Duke had been appointed as the Protector of the Realm after Edward’s Uncle had been sacked but, knowing that upon Edwards death his services would be no longer needed, he was desperate to keep his power. By marrying his son to the future Queen, the parents could manipulate the couple, and rule to country by proxy.

Jane didn’t want to be queen, and HATED Guildford with a passion. There was no fucking was she would be their puppet. In terms of being Queen she was in luck as her rule only lasted 9 days. This was because Mary came in like a badass, with her gang of supporters, correctly stating that she was the rightful heir. Jane was all like ‘yeah take the throne, I’m married to a dick, and never asked for it anyway’. At first, Mary was sympathetic to Jane. she had Guildford and his twatsack of a father executed, but had no choice other than to send her to the tower in order to send a message to her subjects, and quash any potential uprisings.

Mary told Jane that if she would convert to Catholicism she would escape the axe. Jane was an intelligent, and devout protestant, and there was no way she would do this. She would literally rather have died for her faith than convert. Mary begged and was desperate to spare her, but after an unsuccessful rebellion by some protestant subject, it became clear that whilst Jane was alive, the reformists had hope. Also, Mary’s soon-to-be husband, Phillip of Spain, kicked off good and proper, more than likely giving Mary the ultimatum of ‘Jane or me’, so Mary had Jane executed.


The Execution of Lady Jane Grey by Paul Delaroche (1833). The saddest picture in existence, (if you ask me). There are no jokes for this shit…its stone cold, outright heartbreaking.

So came the rule of Bloody Mary. Mary married Phillip, and the pair tried very hard to convert the country back to Catholicism. The problem was that her subjects liked the new religion and the freedom that it brought, times were changing and they didn’t want to go back. Mary’s response? Burn the protestants. She was not the most popular Tudor monarch.


Mary I and Phillip of Spain – I like to think he really did have a massive head and chicken legs.

Mary’s reign wasn’t particularly successful. Her husband was a controlling dickhead, who fucked off and left her alone for long periods of time. She also had a phantom pregnancy that seemed to last forever, and made her a bit of a laughing stock. After 5 years of rule she died in 1558, possibly of ovarian cancer. Which brings us nicely to Gloriana: the reign of Elizabeth I.


The Virgin Queen, (with a fancy bow over her faff to prove it).

The interesting thing to note here is that, had her father not been so hell-bent on having a boy, Elizabeth may never have been the successful monarch that she was. She came to the throne aged 25 and reigned for 45 years, getting shitloads done in the process. She was a total diva who made her ladies-in-waiting wear black and white so as not to outshine her. She kept the country in it’s protestant faith, held lotteries, won wars and crushed rebellions. She was freaking hardcore.

Upon her death in 1603, she named her cousin’s son, James VI of Scotland, as her heir, thus uniting England and Scotland. It’s interesting that the Tudor era started with two plotting, badass women, and ended with one pure and total legend of a queen. No wonder Henry felt threatened by the lack of males.

…and the rest,as they say, is (Jacobean) history.

May 5th, 1547: Wife Number Six Marries Husband Number 4.

In Tudor times, being the daughter of a nobleman would guarantee you one thing, and that was being married off to a rich, older gobshite, who would want to do nothing but squirt kids into you from day one… A thrilling notion I’m sure you will agree, and for a young Catherine Parr, things were no different.

Catherine’s first marriage was to Lord Edward Burgh. Although not that old, (which I imagine Catherine was grateful for), he was sickly and only four years after their marriage, he went and died.

For her second husband,

Catherine wasn’t so lucky in the age department. John Neville, AKA Lord Latimer, was 42 and so more than twice 19 year old Catherine’s age, and she was stuck with him for nine years. On the plus side though, when he died he left Catherine wealthy – and I mean WEALTHY. Like shitting out gold bars wealthy.

Lord Latimer-As Old As Balls

Lord Latimer- As old as balls


Catherine was now one of the most eligible women in England, and it didn’t take long before she caught the eye of a young scal named Thomas Seymour (though in actual fact it’s quite possible that they had their eyes on each other prior to Catherine being made a jolly widow).

Tom Seymour was the brother of Henry VIII’s favourite queen, his family were in favour, and all the girls were wet for him – but he only had eyes for Katherine, and unsurprisingly she fancied him right back. The pair started courting, but never really got out of the honeymoon period before Catherine caught the eye of the biggest (well, fattest) shark in the pond, Henry VIII.

Henry had just removed the head of wife number 5 and was on the prowl, when he met Catherine. She was rich, favoured the reformation and not a child like Katherine Howard, his bride before – so that was it,  and anything between Catherine and Tom was put on hold because yet again, the King needed a wife.

Henry’s marriage to Catherine was possibly his most stable. The pair seemed to enjoy each other’s company, and Catherine was popular as Queen, both with Henry’s children and his subjects. All seemed good.

Catherine, pretending that Henry doesn’t make her want to chunder.

Henry died in January of 1547, leaving Catherine with the title of dowager Queen and the protection of the young Princess Elizabeth in her care. Catherine and Tom were now free to start shit up again, and they didn’t fuck about. Within a few months the pair were married.

“Wait, this all seems very lovely and romantic, what’s your problem?!” I hear you say. Well, before you go thinking Tom is some sort of Tudor Patrick Swayze, who waltzes in and take Catherine out of her metaphoric corner, let me lay some truths down on you.

Firstly, Thomas Seymour was already trying to find himself a royal match, even before he got back with Catherine. His nephew, Edward VI, was after all now King, so things could work in his favour. He asked the Princess Elizabeth, but she called him out as a nonce and told him to get to fuck. He allegedly also asked her sister, Mary Tudor, she shat laughing at the suggestion and called him a ‘ridiculous cunt sack’ (ok, she probably didn’t… but she should have).

Secondly, he had been bribing the King’s guards to chat all kinds of lies to the young boy, encouraging them to push him towards Thomas, and away from Edward Seymour; Thomas’ brother, and the young King’s Lord Protector. These goons must’ve gave quite the sales pitch, because the young boy was easily manipulated by his Uncle.

Thomas Seymour sporting a massive ginger beard

When it became apparent that Thomas was getting nowhere with the royal princesses, he went straight to Catherine. Let’s not forget that Thomas was smokin’ hot, despite being a massive jizz-stain on the royal court. Catherine agreed, and snapped him up before Henry’s rotten corpse had time to cool.

The pair kept their marriage a secret for a while, creeping about like a pair of adolescent nightmares, pretending to be mourning by day, and getting their shag on by night. Catherine would ask her guards to ‘accidentally leave the gate open’ at night so Thomas could slip in, (forgive the pun).

Thomas had now gained such influence over the young King Edward that he went to talk him into marrying the dowager Queen Catherine. Surprisingly, Edward agreed, and wrote to his step mum to inform her. Catherine, made up, acted all surprised and coy, and selflessly agreed to the young King’s idea. The sly bastards.

The pair seemed to genuinely love each other, so you could almost forgive his initial ambition… However, within a year of their marriage, Thomas was full-on kiddie-fiddling the 14 year old Princess Elizabeth, whilst his pregnant wife sat and stressed about the whole thing.

Eventually in order to protect her step-daughter, and more than likely her own reputation too, Catherine sent Elizabeth from her household. The really wank thing is that Catherine and Elizabeth had been exceptionally close, and because of Thomas Seymour, this was the last they saw of each other as Catherine died in childbirth in 1548.

Thomas went off the rails like a full on mentalist, and in 1549 was executed on grounds of treason by his nephew, King Edward VI. Their daughter, Mary Seymour, was sent to live away, eventually falling into historical obscurity.

You can read more about Thomas Seymour, (and what happened to his nephew’s dog) Here

10th April, 1550: Edward Seymour Returns to Parliament, (though this is more about how he fucked it up in the first instance).

So, this whole saga starts back in 1547, with Henry VIII’s death, and the possible tampering of his will. Henry had an inkling that he was on his way out, which made him shit himself because his whole life had been about producing male heirs to succeed him to the throne, and despite shagging anything and everything that had a minge, his rancid, syphilis-filled, dick-hole had only manged to spaff out one legitimate boy, Prince Edward,  and even he was only nine at the time of the King’s death.


Edward VI: Henry VIII’s only son, (he was a right spoilt little shit despite how he looks here).



Now, Henry was a lot of things, but stupid he was not. He knew that upon his death, the nobles would all seek to make power plays for the boy King, trying to monopolise him for their own advancement, and not actually giving a fuck about the crown or realm, so he decided to take action and get it jotted down in his Will before it was too late.

Henry decided that he would name, in his Will, 16 members of a privy council that would govern and advise his son, until he came of age to rule alone. He selected a mixture of conservative Catholics and new reformists, people he had trusted all his life, and people who would guide the new King in the ways of the new reformist faith. Each man would have equal say, and that way nobody would be in full control. That was the idea anyway, but it didn’t go anything like that.

Now here is where it gets a little weird. Edward Seymour, Henry’s old brother-in-law and Prince Edwards uncle, wasn’t named in Henry’s Will as a member of the Privy Council; he was originally appointed as an assistant to one of the councillors, but some historians believe that Henry’s Will was tampered with after it was written – it appeared that amendments had been made which  seemingly favoured the reformers, primarily the removal of  Stephen Gardiner, and the Duke of Norfolk, the two most militant Catholics at court, (though to be fair to Henry, the pair were both utter fucktwats who had not long since tried to have Catherine Parr arrested as a heretic, so it’s also quite feasible that Henry did just bin them off).


Edward Seymour, looking rather judgey I have to say.


There were other slightly odd things about the Will; the main thing being that Henry never actually signed it himself. Henry was far too important to waste his time actually signing any old crap, like his own Will for instance,  so created a ‘dry stamp’ of his signature so his minions could just sign shit off. He did this with most of his documents in his last few years, and just trusted that the job would be done. The thing with his Will was that the dry stamp was dated weeks after it was made, giving any would be fraudsters a good window of opportunity for things to be added or changed, and let’s be honest if the King is on his way out, and you could stand to profit, why would you not get your heads together and change the future of history to suit you? Especially if you’re a high ranking Tudor noble and naturally predisposed to a being a selfish shitehawk.

Anyway, whether the Will was altered or not, the members of the council all benefited from Henry’s death, making successful grabs for land and wealth until it got stupidly out of control. When they realised they needed to stop fucking about, and actually do their jobs, they decided that they should override the Will and appoint somebody to lead the motley crew of jebends in assisting the boy king in ruling the country. That job then remarkably fell to Edward Seymour.

The theory is that Seymour made deals with the council members, promising wealth and powerful positions that they would not have otherwise had, in order to get their vote, and get their vote he did. The whole council present that day voted to make Edward the Lord Protector of England, ruling for the King until he reached age.

Seymour, who had by now also given himself the title of ‘Duke of Somerset’, had his work cut out for him. Henry had left the country near bankruptcy, with food shortages, increased poverty and crime, a distinct lack of jobs and a constant threat of peasant uprisings…(so not totally unlike Conservative governed England in present day). There was also a constant threat of invasion from France and Scotland, just for a change, and Edward needed to make some cash and quick.

He decided to start by using his new power to scrap the Heresy Act, and throw in some protestant favoured changes such as allowing Latin scriptures to be published in English, incorporating some protty god stuff into the prayer books.

Seymour then decided that there was no real need for chantries, as they were expensive and a bit wank and pointless. The chantries were priests hired to sing for the souls of deceased people, usually their founders. How fucking ridiculous is that?! They were given estates and gold so it made sense to Seymour to get rid, seize their gold and melt it down to make money. Also, so as to make things a bit sweeter for the church, he gave permission for priests to marry, obviously thinking that if their dicks were kept wet they might not whinge about the whole reformation stuff, and therefore keep him in business.

Ok, so far so good; these changes may have had ‘reformist’ written all over them, but surprisingly they didn’t cause too much friction which was good. Seymour hadn’t wanted to rock the boat too much between the two faiths, but had wanted to let the people know that the reformation was still in full swing and going nowhere. The only people who kicked off about it were Gardiner and another staunch influential Catholic called Bonner, but they were both told to cock off and Bonner was soon shipped to the tower.

It was a balancing act alright, but up to now Seymour had been winning. However, whist bridging the gap between the old religion and the new, (even though they were all but the exact same fucking thing), he had taken his eyes off the bigger problem – the divide between the rich and the poor.

Seymour realised that it was pointless to raises funds by raising taxes – you can’t get blood out of a stone after all – so decided the next best option would be to sell more of the church property to nobles and get everyone possible into work in a bid to boost the economy. With that in mind he created ‘The Vagrancy Act’. This was to be about the most stupid thing he did. The Vagrancy Act was yet another one of Seymour’s new proclamations which stated that any able-bodied man who had been out of work for three days or more, would be sold into slavery for 2 years, and branded with a ‘V’. Not a popular proclamation as you can imagine. It caused mayhem and the authorities and peasants began to lose faith in their new boss, which in turn made the Privy Council start to think twice about Seymour’s competency.

Seymour made 77 proclamations in his short time as Lord Protector, on average this worked out as more per year than Henry had made. Some of them were so inflammatory that he had to write new ones to compensate for his previous ones. He did rash stuff like tax people on sheep ownership, causing landowners to build fences and hedges on their common ground to keep their sheep in, in turn causing villagers to burn the fences because IT WAS FUCKING COMMON GROUND. The wedge between rich and poor was widening and widening, and the government seemed to be pissing petrol onto an already rampant fire.

Tensions were starting to bubble, and some authorities refused to enforce the act. To counter any possible uprisings from subject, Seymour then decided to ban football and mass public gatherings, (Tudor football to be fair was a mass public gathering, with whole villages playing and more people dying football-related deaths than sword related ones, so I imagine in Seymour’s defence, that there was always scope for it to all kick off… forgive the pun). Anybody found guilty of ‘unlawful assembly’ would be shipped off to the Navy to clean shit up on deck. Again, not a popular decision, and now tensions were going through the roof.

Unsurprisingly, the poor were going batshit mental about the new Lord Protectors proclamations, because let’s face it, they were a fucking car crash of ideas all shitting out of one man’s brain who wasn’t even supposed to be in charge in the first place. It really didn’t take long before rebellion broke out in Devon, Cornwall and East Anglia, and there was fuck all Seymour could do. He had spent what bit of gold he had managed to collect on defending the county from Scotland and France, well, more saving face and trying to show that now the mighty ‘Henry’ was dead, that he was no pushover.

In Norfolk, the rebellion was running a real risk of becoming something serious. A man called Robert Kett had gathered forces 16000 strong, and was about to lay some serious smack down on Seymour’s plans. Kett had a list of demands that the people wanted enforced in order to establish a fairer society, and eventually Seymour had to put his hands in his pockets, dig deep and fork out for reinforcements to go to Norfolk to quash the rebellion. This cost the treasury dearly as they had to hire German mercenaries to accompany what little of an army they had. After three days of fighting, 3000 deaths and 50 hangings, (which was actually a very low figure because Seymour didn’t want to look like a complete cuntsack), Kett was arrested and the rebellion fell apart. Seymour also had to send out gold to local councils to supress the smaller uprisings.


The Kett rebellion – bet you didn’t expect it to look like that!


The Privy Council decided that enough was enough and The Lord Protector had to go, and with that a unanimous vote was cast and Seymour was out. But like a complete tit, in a last ditch attempt to protect himself, Seymour seized the King himself, and fled to the fortified Windsor Castle, asking the people of London to protect him from the mean men who were chasing him. That shit didn’t fly, and on 14th October, 1549, Edward Seymour was taken to the tower, where he confessed to all charges and was stripped by act of parliament of his position of Lord Protector, a post which then conveniently fell to a complete cockweasle called John Dudley who had coincidentally been instrumental in Seymour’s downfall.

On 10th April, 1550, Edward Seymour was allowed back to parliament, though not as Lord Protector, that was now John Dudley, Duke of Northumberland’s post, and Dudley was beginning to think that Seymour wanted his old job back – which to be fair, he did. There are two things to know about John Dudley: 1) he was a complete bastard who sought after power and influence and didn’t give a shit who he hurt to get it, and 2) he was really good at it. So the long and short of it was that an incompetent bloke like Edward Seymour stood no chance.


John Dudley, 1st Duke of Northumberland. What a total prick.




On 16th October 1551, Dudley had Seymour arrested on partly fabricated charges, claiming that Seymour had been overheard plotting to invite Dudley and his cronies to a banquet and having them killed either there or on their way there. Prior to this, Dudley had been doing some ground work too; brown nosing the 14 year old egocentric King by pretending to be full of the faith of reformation, (as Edward VI was), and treating him like an equal rather than a King in waiting. Edward VI’s was totally won over by Dudley’s manipulation of him.

Seymour was executed at the hand of his nephew, the King, on 22nd January 1552, but to what extent Edward VI was maneuvered into signing his Uncles execution warrant is unclear. The execution document had additions made to it after the time of signing, but this time by the young King’s own hand, and the only other dude who could agree the sentence was the chancellor, and one had been newly appointed by Dudley that day. Maybe Edward VI was encouraged to change the warrant, maybe not, who knows?


Seymour’s execution – curiously he is still referred to here as Lord Protector. 



At his execution crowds rushed forward to soak up his blood in handkerchiefs and rags, believing that Seymour was innocent of any charge and a victim of foul play. He might have pissed the people off as Lord Protector, but they didn’t want to see him dead.

I’m not sure if Seymour was such a bad bloke, I think he was just more one of those men that tries to do what’s best but cannot help but fuck it up by making rash and stupid decisions, and pretending to know what he’s doing but not actually having a fucking clue. One thing we can say for sure is that he was certainly incompetent and greedy, but then most of the men of the chamber were led by their own selfish desires, so he wasn’t really any different in that respect.

The following year, the King himself was dead too, which was probably for the best because he was a psychotic gobshite too, evenmore so than his Dad. What of Lord Dudley? Well he got his just deserts, but that’s another story which you can read here.

On an interesting side note, Edward Seymour had two siblings: Jane (Henry’s fave wife), and Thomas. The fact that Jane did herself a favour and died before Henry got bored of her was the reason the two brothers were in favour with the crown. Thomas was another fucking mentalist, and Edwards’s main rival to the position of Lord Protector, which is a fucking amazing story in itself. You can get on that here.

8th March, 2018: It’s International Women’s Day so Let’s Learn About Cutpurse Moll!


It’s International Women’s Day, and to celebrate I planned on writing a Tudorial about  one of my fave ladies from the Tudor period, Moll Cutpurse. To be honest she was more a Jacobean badass than a Tudor one, but she was born at the end of Elizabeth’s reign, and it’s my page, so that’s that.

Left hand for smoking, right hand for killing.



Moll was not a Tudor queen or a courtier, and she wasn’t a member of the gentry or nobility. She didn’t have a fancy house or posh clothes, and didn’t hold a title. She was an ordinary paupers child, turned pickpocket, highway woman, pimp and total legend.

She was born in London around 1583 to parents who doted on her; her dad made shoes and her mum was a housewife, teaching Moll sewing and other boring woman’s work of the day. However, despite the loving family, Moll grew up mean. She became such a pain in the arse, beating up boys and gobbing off, that she was sent to live in the newly colonised Newfoundland in an attempt to straighten her out.

That shit simply didn’t fly with Moll, who escaped and just took herself off home again. It is said that she jumped off the ship and swam back to shore, but I think that’s doubtful as most people could not swim at that point. Anyhow, that was the real birth of Moll Cutpurse.

Moll’s real name was Mary Frith, but she was known as Moll Cutpurse because she spent her days hanging out around St. Paul’s, cutting the money pouches off peoples pants and liberating the contents. She also had a stint of robbing on the road, a bit of a ‘Highway Woman’, if you like. This ended when she picked the wrong punter and was caught after shooting him, (not fatally), and his horses (super fatally), after he refused to hand over his cash. Shooting him made him change his mind about objecting to Mills request of his gold, and Moll rose off with a small fortune, but was eventually apprehended and sent to Newgate which scarred her forever, both literally and metaphorically.

After Newgate, Moll re-established herself as a pimp and a dealer of stolen goods. She not only found the odd mistress here and there for dirty old men, but did a roaring trade in supplying randy old rich women with strapping young men, in order to ‘blow the cobwebs away’ shall we say?!

I love Moll Cutpurse; she gave ZERO fucks. Constantly slated for not acting like a lady, she thought ‘fuck it, if I’m not a lady I must be a man’ and so dressed as a man, smoked a pipe and reaped all the privileges that women of the time were deprived of.

She was obviously arrested for this, as it was seen as inappropriate and perverse to dress as a member of the opposite sex at the time, but that didn’t stop Moll. Of course, like anybody who does not  conform to societies norm, she was persecuted by the people.  She was called ‘ugly’ and  rumours spread that she was a hermaphrodite because no dress suited her – but let’s be sensible about this, history writes its characters as it wants them to be remembered. She dressed as a man so therefore she was ugly… It’s insane to think how little we have moved on in 500 years. I like to think that she was too hot to handle, and her beauty intimidated the men of the time by giving them ‘confusing feelings’ about their sexuality, and that’s why she was shamed.

Moll died of dropsy, which we now call Oedema, in 1659. She deserves to be the celebrated lady on my page today because although her life may not have been on the straight and narrow, she was a strong woman who faced the adversity of the time with her middle finger in the air. Nobody fucked with Moll!

Nothing says ‘badass’ quite like a smack bird and a pilfer monkey.



If you would like to read a bit more about Moll (or indeed any other amazing ladies of the East-end), you might like to visit the East-End Women’s Museum page, HERE

…or, for a more detailed account, get onto the exclassics page, found HERE!

24th January, 1536: Henry VIII Becomes More Of A Prick

1536 was a pretty busy year for Henry VIII, though its events were disasters he brought about himself because he was naturally a bit of a wanker, they all had a significant impact on Henry’s life. They changed the way he acted, the way the people saw him and the nervous constitution of both his subjects and his privy council. It was in this year that Henry lost yet another child, and had two wives die and married his third.  I personally believe that this year marked the end of the young, handsome, athletic king, and the start of the fat, cantankerous old shite-meister that everybody was so afraid of.


Henry VIII…pre 1536


One of the most significant events of 1536, and indeed Henry’s life, happened on 24th January when Henry was thrown from his horse in a jousting accident that would change his life. Henry’s first wife, Katherine of Aragon, had passed away a couple of weeks previously, and despite celebrating this event with his now pregnant wife Anne, their relationship was starting to crack.

The story goes like this: Henry, clad in magnificent amour, was jousting at a tournament at Greenwich palace when his opponent delivered such a fierce blow that Henry was flung from his horse and lay unconscious for two hours. Anne Boleyn looked on in horror as she was told to brace herself for the king’s death, an event that is said to cause her to miscarry her baby.


Henry VIII…post 1536


It’s not clear whether this was a true account of what happened, we only have 2 contemporary records that outline the events, and neither say who Henry’s opponent was. What is clear however, is that the accident fucked him up royally, (forgive the pun), and that Anne did indeed miscarry their son and heir.

The miscarriage itself makes an interesting story as it coincidentally happened on the day of Katherine of Aragon’s funeral…the people, and possibly Henry, must’ve seen it as a sign. Though I’m not sure that I believe that Anne being told the king might die was the trigger of the miscarriage; predicting the king’s death was considered treason, and if the king’s physiologist wouldn’t even do this as Henry drew his last breath was Anne really told to prepare herself for the news?! I think this part of the story was brought about by Anne’s supporters as reason for the miscarriage, because it was becoming increasingly obvious that Henry was getting pissed off with her, and they knew losing a baby without reason would be her undoing.


This is Henry’s joust in 1511, with Katherine of Aragon looking on.

Back to the Joust. Henry, being the self-obsessed turd factory that he was, was so eager to take part that nobody, not his wife or the council, could talk him down. He had jousted as a boy, when he was the ‘spare’ not the ‘heir’, and loved it. It’s also possibly because nobody would dare to win him so he always came out as the victor, thus, in his mind at least, reinforcing his image of him being a powerful king. This accident must have been horrifically embarrassing for him; not only had he been publicly battered but now he would never joust again. He was 44, and it was all downhill from there on in.


In May of the same year, Henry had Anne put to death and went on to marry his third wife Jane. Meanwhile his leg became more and more ulcerated, causing him pain and discomfort. As time went on and the leg festered, it became puss filled and needed constant draining. It would’ve stank like shit and disabled him greatly. This would’ve lead to Henry’s weight gain, irritability and deteriorating health, and when you throw in the mix Henry’s fucking terrible life choices and the prospect of possible brain damage caused by the accident, as some historians believe, there is little wonder why he was such a cunt in his later years.


29th October, 1618: Love, Pirates, Execution and an Embalmed Head.

Walter Raleigh; to my mind the best pirate in history. It seems there was never a dull moment in Walter’s life. He was introduced into Elizabeth I’s court as a young man, by Elizabeth’s governess, Kat Ashley, who was Walter’s Great Aunt. He had such an interesting life as a young man, dropping out of Uni, picking fights with Catholics and criticising the way that military operations were conducted in Ireland. It was the latter that got him noticed by the Queen – having a big mouth sometimes goes a long way – she fell for his charms, and knighted him in 1585.

Walter quickly became one of Elizabeth I’s absolute faves. She gave him lands and wealth, and he was a regular at court. Elizabeth had it bad for Walter, but Walter only had eyes for one; the Queens favourite lady in waiting, Elizabeth, (we will call her Bess), Frockmorton.

Bess and Walter were in love, and not love by Tudor standards which is forced and misogynistic at best, but proper love. They just couldn’t get enough of each other and it wasn’t long before Bess became pregnant. Let’s just keep in mind though that this was the Tudor era and any woman who conceived out of wedlock was considered a whore. Walter wanted to do the right thing and marry Bess, why wouldn’t he? She was smokin’ hot, having his child and he loved her immensely.

The problem was that anyone wishing to marry for love was pretty much deluded; All aristocracy and nobles were political pawns and needed the Queen’s permission to marry. There was no chance that Liz would let Raleigh marry her bestie, especially since he was HER favourite, (next to Robert Dudley, obvs). They had embarrassed her by cavorting about like a pair of teenagers behind her back, like some sort of bad Eastenders plot line, and If Liz couldn’t have Walter, then Bess certainly couldn’t.

It didn’t matter. Walter and Bess were so in love that they married in secret in 1591, regardless of the consequences that they clearly knew there would be. Their marriage became public knowledge when their baby was born in 1592, when the Queen heard the news she went fucking batshit mental, sending them both to the Tower for embarrassing her, abusing their status, and marrying without permission.

Walter, being the wheeler dealer that he was, was already minted at this point as he had set himself up as a trader, when I say ‘trader’, read ‘posh pirate’. It was because of this he was able to pay their fines and buy their way out of prison. He wasn’t invited back to Elizabeth’s court, which suited him as it allowed him to take the opportunity to get back to his adventures.

Off he trotted to the Americas where he ‘found’ Virginia, and named it after the Queen in an attempt to butter her up and win back a bit of favour, (I say ‘found’ – obviously there were already native Americans there…so not really, but he gets the credit nonetheless). When he returned from Virginia he brought back tobacco, which he introduced to the English nobles, and potatoes which he planted on his estate in Ireland.

Upon Elizabeth’s death, Raleigh served under James I, who didn’t fall for Raleighs charms. In 1603 Raleigh was accused of being involved in a plot to assassinate James I and sent to the tower for a second time, this time with a death sentence hanging over his head. However, James I wasn’t stupid, and kept Raleigh in the tower knowing that Raleighs experience in pioneering and privateering may eventually serve a purpose to the realm.

That purpose came about in 1616, when King James sent Raleigh to bring home some gold from El Dorado. The trip went tits up and Raleigh found himself in a tad of bother with the Spanish; exactly what James had told him to avoid. Furthermore, James had already sent Raleigh to bring home riches from El Dorado previously, with his pal and councillor, Cecil, fronting the bill. Raleigh had returned with sweet frig all, leading King James and Cecil to assume he had hid the riches for himself. After this they were out for blood, so when the second trip failed King James enforced the death sentence that he had initially served to Raleigh in 1603.

Raleighs execution was carried out on 29th, October 1618 when he was beheaded at Westminster Palace. On the scaffold he called out James I for making such a bullshit decision, highlighting all of his charges and debunking them all. On the run up to his execution Raleigh feigned illness and madness, and even plotted his escape, but eventually came to terms with his fate and went to his death ready and willing.

Raleigh took a tobacco pouch to the scaffold with him. On it was inscribed ‘He was my companion during that very unhappy time’. A sentiment echoed by my mother-in-law.

Upon his execution, Bess had his head embalmed and is said to have kept it in a velvet bag about her person at all times, (I seriously hope my husband never expects this of me upon his death, because he will be very disappointed). Bess allegedly carried her husbands head until her death in 1647, when it was passed down to their son, Carew, (like a grim, fucked up family heir loom), who was buried with it in Walters grave.

Bess campaigned to restore Raleigh’s reputation after his execution; being sentenced to death as a traitor meant that his sons could not inherit his lands, (which I imagine were full of potatoes by this time), and In 1628 a Bill of Restitution was passed allowing Raleigh’s assets to finally pass to their son.

I love Walter Raleigh. Not only did he have wit, charm and charisma, but he was a badass, a pioneer and a straight up, fucking Tudor pirate.

8th August, 1503: The Rose and the Thistle

On 8th August, 1503, Henry VII’s eldest child, Margaret Tudor, married James IV of Scotland – uniting the quarrelling nations of England and Scotland for all of about five minutes, (I say ‘five minutes’, I actually mean ‘ten years’, but still…)


The decision that the thirty year old Scottish King would marry the fourteen year old Tudor princess came about in 1495, after a bit of a shit storm, and a genius tactical play by the Scottish King.

In 1495 Henry VII had been ruling for a few years; however there were still people who thought his claim to the throne was dubious to say the least, and wanted him gone. This led to a couple of people pretending to be Richard Plantagenet, the Duke of York, one of the ‘Princes in the Tower’. If it was found that the Princes were still alive, Henry’s claim to the throne wouldn’t be worth shit, and all that he had fought for would be thrown into question, and the country plunged back into civil war. Queue Perkin Warbeck.

Perkin was a pretender to the throne of England, claiming he was Richard, Duke of York. His claim was supported by Henry’s enemies, especially those in France, Ireland and Scotland, where Henry was hated the most, so when Perkin arrived in Scotland seeking help, King James was only too happy to oblige. James saw it as an opportunity to dangle a threat of uncertainty over the English, so kept Perkin close, gave him a salary of £1200 per annum and married him to Catherine Gordon, the daughter of a noble courtier. James was nobody’s fool, he was one of the brightest Kings in history; I don’t really believe that James thought that Perkin was who he claimed to be, but he was a handy man to have around.

Now that James had a trump card in his pocket, Henry shit himself and decided it might be a good idea to form an alliance with Scotland, by betrothing his then six year old daughter to the Scottish King, and approached the King with the suggestion.  Eventually Perkin used his income to invade England… but fucked it up, like a massive tit, and was finally captured by Henry VII – but the betrothal continued none-the-less. What harm could it do to keep your enemies close? Both kings saw the potential of the marriage, and both had their eyes on the greater prize of picking up another country through any heirs produced.


Perkin Warbeck: Gobshite

On 24th January, 1502, both James and Henry agreed to sign a contract to confirm that they wouldn’t try and dick each other over anymore, and so the catchily-titled ‘Treaty of Perpetual Peace’ was created… ‘perpetual’ meaning ‘until you piss me off’ in this case. On the same day, after waiting ages for the Pope to decide if the couple were indeed not so incestuously-related that they would produce gompy, inbred heirs, (James and Margaret were distant cousins), the two kings also confirmed that James would marry Margaret in order to cement the friendship, (I use the term ‘friendship’ loosely here), so the plans for a wedding were drawn up.

On 25th January, 1503 Margaret was married by proxy to James IV at Richmond palace. Proxy weddings weren’t unusual at this time, but I don’t believe for one minute that people didn’t find them hysterical and ridiculous even then. Margaret’s proxy marriage basically meant that she had the usual customary wedding ceremony, but with one of James’ pal’s, a bloke called  Patrick Earl of Bothwell, standing in as the groom because James couldn’t make it, while everyone else stands like gormless idiots, pretends this is a normal thing to do, and definitely not fucked up in the slightest. In fact, proxy marriages were so stupid that when Mary Tudor, Henry VII’s other daughter, married the King of France by proxy years later, she had to ‘consummate’ her marriage by touching naked ankles with the pseudo-groom, though Margaret was spared this fucking ridiculous spectacle.

The proxy marriage was treated as a real marriage, and Margaret was known as Queen of Scotland from that day one, a fact that pissed off Margaret’s younger brother, The Prince Henry (later to be Henry VIII), as it now meant that she had greater titles and wealth than him and consequently received greater privileges at court, like being announced first at dinner, and sitting in a higher position to him. The fat little shit hated not being centre of attention, and outshined by his sister, and had to be warned to rein it in by his parents.

NPG D23868; Prince Henry aftwerwards King Henry VIII published by William Richardson

Prince Henry as a pube haired, spoiled brat of a child, with cold, dead eyes; ruining his sisters weird, groomless wedding with his sour fucking temper, like a little moonfaced shithouse.

The ceremony itself was followed by an enormous banquet and several days of celebrations, including jousting, dancing and pageantry. Margaret, although only fourteen, was the life and soul of the court. She rocked being a princess, she loved to dance and play music, and was fucking obsessed with fine clothes. Both Margaret and the Earl wore cloth of gold to the ceremony, and she was given a new wardrobe to match her new status.

Due to her young age, Margaret wasn’t allowed to travel to Scotland to meet James for the best part of a year. Her Grandmother, Margaret Beaufort, had been forced to marry a man when she was twelve, and was so completely and utterly fucked up by her own experienced of marriage and child birth at such a young age, that she advised against a proper shagging consummation until Margaret was a little older.

Margaret set off for Scotland in June 1503, with a 30000 gold noble dowry; chaperoned by the Earl of Surrey and his wife, and a procession of well-dressed courtiers. Her carriage was kitted out in blue velvet and cloth of gold, and draped in bear skin. Margaret eventually arrived in Scotland on 1st August after three weeks of travelling, and was greeted by the Scottish Lords and the Archbishops of Glasgow, before being escorted to Dalkeith Castle, where she met James IV for the first time, (there had been a stable fire which had killed some of Margaret’s horses, so James had come to console his new wife like a proper sweetheart).

On 7th August, James and Margaret rode into Edinburgh, and Margaret was introduced to the people as their new Queen. Despite hating the English, the people of Scotland were made up to meet their new Queen. James was now thirty and despite being a complete womaniser, had never shown any signs of wanting to marry, which caused uncertainty as to who would inherit the throne upon his death. Now that worry was over, though this may also have something to do with the shit-tonne of wine that James supplied to the city in honour of his wife’s arrival.

James IV & Margaret Tudor-marriage procession

Margaret and James’ wedding procession through the streets of Edinburgh.

Both James and Margaret upped their spouse game by wearing matching outfits of cloth of gold trimmed with black fur, and trotting into the city ahead of a train of horsemen, trumpeters, minstrels and dancers. James kept his arm around his young bride’s waist for most of the day and Edinburgh was in its element. The next day the pair had a proper ceremony at Holyrood Castle to officiate their marriage. Once again, they wore matching ‘his and hers’ outfits, both made from white damask with crimson trimmings, and James, who was known for having the best beard in the kingdom, shaved it off for the event, as Margaret wasn’t a fan and he wanted to win her over big time.

The celebrations went on and on. James had spent a quarter of his annual living allowance on wine for the wedding and was desperate to show the visiting English nobles how rich the Scottish were. The English tried to pass it off as if it was nothing, but were obviously secretly impressed. James’ court was the place to be, and James was one fucking amazing King.

James IV became King after his father was murdered by a man pretending to be a priest as he fled from battle. James was then brought up by and groomed to be King by the very men who had defeated his father. He lived with this guilt all his life, and wore an iron chain around his waist at lent as penance for his dad’s death.

James was incredibly intellectual, and very generous. He spoke fluently in seven languages, including Celtic and had travelled far and wide. He met regularly with his people (including the Celts), and was a much loved King. In those times it was almost expected that kings would have mistresses, and James was no exception, only James seemed to treat his mistresses better than most monarchs, and seemingly never did the dirty on them. He was a womaniser, there is no doubt, but the women who were taken as mistresses by him were treated as queens, and of the several bastard children he had by these women, all were acknowledged and raised as princes and princesses, accessing the best education money could buy.

Shortly after arriving in Scotland, James took Margaret on a tour of his country, there she met all of his children who were being raised and taught together as a family and children of the king. Margaret wrote to her father to tell him about her time with James and commended him being such a fucking good Dad to his illegitimate kids, and whilst initially Margaret told her family that she was homesick, over time the couple came to love each other greatly.

However, Margaret Tudor was not the great love of James’ life. Prior to marrying her, James took a mistress, also called Margaret just to cause confusion, and apparently married her in secret. The problem was, or so the theories go, that James wouldn’t agree to his marriage with Margaret Tudor because of his love for Margaret Drummond, his favourite mistress. The Pro-English noblemen of the Scottish court apparently were having none of this shit, after all a king should marry a princess and stop pretending a mistress in anything more than a bit of fanny, and so decided to bump off Margaret Drummond in order to clear the way for James to marry the Tudor princess.

Margaret Drummond was poisoned at breakfast, along with her two sisters, in 1501 and died. She was given a tomb bestowing a queen and James mourned her death greatly. A few years later, Margaret Tudor wrote of the incident in letters to her family, condemning the Scottish nobles for their actions. Although Margaret eventually came to enjoy the Scottish court she could never really get her head around the women being so outspoken and liberal, but in spite of this her love for the Scottish people grew all the same.

Since James was the biggest Romeo around, he was well practiced in keeping women happy, and knew exactly what to do to make sure he won Margaret’s heart. He was known country wide for his warmth and generosity, he kept taxes low, spent cash when it needed to be spent and bought shit-hot gifts when they needed to be bought. For Margaret this must have been a bit of a change, as her Dad was a known tight arse and didn’t part with a penny unnecessarily. James lavished Margaret with the finest gifts*, and she was every bit the Scottish Queen he had made her. The pair had six children, though sadly only one that lived through infancy, a boy they called James after his father. Aside from the loss of their children the couple were very affectionate and loving and had ten years of happy marriage.


NPG D23905; King James IV of Scotland probably by Isaac Taylor

James Iv: Pulling out all the smooth moves on Madge.

In 1509, Margaret’s father, Henry VII, died and her brother Henry VIII came to power. In true Henry VIII style, he went into his reign like a bull in a china shop and decided that in 1513 he would go and cause some shit in France, after all it had been quiet for a while and the French were only a stone’s throw away over the Chanel. This proved to be a problem for James IV, he had a sworn allegiance with France and now his cock-end brother-in-law had decided to go lay waste to them. James decided that there was only one course of action to take: to break the treaty of Perpetual Peace and invade England whilst Henry was away.

There was one thing that James hadn’t banked on though, and that was the fact that Henry had left his wife, the total BAMF and uber heroine, Queen Katherine of Aragon, in charge. Katherine wasn’t having her sister-in-laws hubby invade on her watch and sent her army to lay waste to James, and that’s exactly what they did.


Katherine of Aragon looking like butter wouldn’t melt. Well let me tell you, butter very much does melt…

James was killed at Flodden by the troops of the Earl of Surrey, the very man who had brought his Wife to him ten years earlier. His body was sent to Katherine of Aragon as proof of his death, who, like a total bad-ass then decided to send his blood stained clothes to Henry in France to use as a war banner, and not so subtle message, to the French.

Sword and Dagger of James IV, and Two Knights' Banners, used at the Battle of Flodden Field

Margaret was gutted at James’ death, and understandably fucked off with her brother, but then all is fair in love and war, and Margaret had to dust herself off and act as regent to their seventeen month old son, the new King of Scotland, James V. Margaret wasn’t even allowed to bury her husband, as her sister-in-law had his body. Ordinarily he would have been buried in a royal grave, but James had been excommunicated the day he decided to break the Treaty of Perpetual Peace, so to bury him in consecrated ground would be like jizzing in the eye of God. So, instead he was shoved in the woodshed at Sheen Abbey and left to rot.

There has been much speculation over James IV’s body. It is believed that it became detached from his head as it lay rotting in the Abbey until it eventually ended up getting dumped in a charnel pit in London. The exact site of the pit has now gone and a pub sits in its place, it is believed that James’ head is still underneath.

‘And what of Margaret?’ I hear you cry. Well she went on to lead a life of up’s and downs, marrying twice more, holding a coup, being a general mother bear and becoming Great Grandma to the one King that eventually did manage to untie the two countries, James VI.


James IV and his beautiful wife, Queen Margaret, (though I say beautiful, she looks like a 1980’s headmistress in this painting, which is pretty shit considering she is meant to be fourteen).


*Some of the gifts can still be seen. For instance, a kick-ass illustrated bible called ‘The Hours of James IV’, (I say ‘kick-ass’ but if my husband gave me a bible nowadays there would be words, like actual harsh murder words), which can be seen in a museum in Vienna, and also a recently found, monogrammed wedding chest is on public display in Scotland. The monograms on the chest are identical to the ones that James commissioned to be put on the tiled floor at Linlithgow castle.


28th July,1540: Henry Takes a Child Bride


The very beautiful Katherine Howard.

On 28th July, 1540, Henry VIII married his fifth wife, the child bride Katherine Howard, (OK, OK, she wasn’t *technically* a child bride, but he was nearly 50 and she was around 17 years old, so its pretty fucking grim, even by Tudor standards).

Katherine’s life is a sad tale; riddled with abandonment, a lack of affection and constant occurrences of sexual abuse. It’s fucking heartbreaking reading it as a woman in the 21st Century. It really all started when her Mum, Jocasta Culpepper, died in 1531. Jocasta, or Joyce as she was known (because lets face it, Jocasta is a fucking stupid name*), had around fifteen children: ten from her marriage with Edmund Howard, Katherine’s Dad, and five from a previous marriage. Joyce was a strong and empowered woman; however Katherine’s Dad was the opposite in every way.

Edmund Howard was brother to Thomas Howard, the third Duke of Norfolk, who was powerful and prominent politician at court. Edmund forever lived in his brothers shadow, failing to gain any importance (and fucking it up when he did), and racking up a shit load of debt, so when Joyce died and he was left with fifteen kids, he shit himself.  To get himself out of the financial turd he was in, he decided the only course of action was to ditch some of the kids onto rich relatives, and being a Howard, there was no short supply of those. So that was it, off Katherine went to live with her step-Grandmother, the Dowager Duchess of Norfolk.

Now don’t get it twisted – this wasn’t like going to stay with your Nan and having cake every day. This woman already had several girls in her care, and her guardianship was lax to say the least. Actually, scrap that, her guardianship was some pure, stone cold bullshit, because whilst Katherine was there she was pursued by her music teacher, Henry Manox, which incidentally was only discouraged due to him being a lower rank than Katherine, and then preyed upon and sexually exploited by the Dutchess’s man servant, Francis Dereham. These events would eventually come back to haunt Katherine and lead to her death a few years later.

In 1539, Katherine was sent to court to become a lady-in-waiting to the new queen, Anne of Cleeves. Now it will hardly be a spoiler when I tell you that Henry VIII didn’t really like his forth wife, Anne, and neither will it come as a shock when I say that he wanted to get his kicks elsewhere. Henry couldn’t get ‘aroused’ by his new queen, (which apparently had everything to do with her being supposedly smelly and ugly, and nothing to do with him being a vile old cunt who was rife with Syphilis, and dented pride), so when Katherine was brought to court, and waved in front of the King’s nose by her pimp-like Uncle, the Duke of Norfolk, it was no surprise that Henry had to have her.

Poor Katherine, she must have thought all her birthdays had come at once, the King and her Uncle offering her centre-stage at court, and allowing her to believe it was because she was special and neither had anything to gain. Conversely, poor Anne; newly arrived in a foreign country, called names by a fat pig of a King, and then to be embarrassed at court as he paraded his young mistress around like King of the peados.


Henry VIII giving Rolf Harris a run for his money.

A few months after Henry’s annulment to Anne, he decided to wed his young bride, Katherine. Little is known about the actual ceremony, Henry had been so eager to impress everyone and pull out all the stops for his marriage to Anne, that he had managed to break the treasury and so decided to have a ‘low key’ affair with Katherine. The service was held at the chapel in Oatlands Palace, which he had built to rival Hampton Court as a gift for Anne of Cleeves… and then married her lady-in-waiting in it.

The pair were married by Bishop Bonner, but it is unknown who else was in attendance. After the ceremony, the wedding appears to have been kept quiet for a short while as Katherine was not announced as Queen until 8th August, when prayers were said for her at Hampton court – not that they did her much fucking good, prayers couldn’t save you from Henry. There is no record of plans for her coronation immediately after the wedding, which is unusual, but nobody could deny that Henry wasn’t smitten with his new bride, groping and grabbing at her constantly, and bragging about their bedroom exploits to his band of twats. The ceremony itself took place as Henry was having Tomas Cromwell executed for Treason for crimes only known to Henry, and after the pair went on a hunting holiday honeymoon around Surrey and Berkshire… how romantic.


Oatlands Palace

You probably already know how the story ends: Katherine began an affair with a member of Henry’s council, Thomas Culpepper, then Francis Dereham rocks up demanding a place by her side, so she gives it to him possibly out of fear, and then everyone finds out everything and all involved lose their lives, including Katherine and Henry Manox, the music teacher. You can read more about their deaths by following the link at the bottom of this page, (I hated writing about it, as it’s depressing as fuck and makes me want to set fire to things).

As with everything ever EVER, I have opinions about the whole Katherine and Henry thing, (aside from him being a cretinous, lecherous jizz-sack of a man). I often find myself questioning whether Henry Manox actually deserved to die. Apparently he was totally in love with Katherine, but was banned from seeing her, and when he got wind of the slime bag Dereham sneaking into her dorms at night, he alerted the Dowager Duchess, who did fuck all about it. As for Dereham and Culpepper?… fuck them. They were equally as much the sneaky little shit holes as Henry was a dirty old mongrel of a man. Having said that,  some historians believe that Katherine and Tom Culpepper were in a relationship before Katherine became involved with Henry, but it never really went anywhere, because they argued like a couple in IKEA on a bank holiday Monday, but either way he was accused of raping a woman and continued to pursue Katherine after she was married, so he can go fuck a knife.

Now lets think about Henry…This old prick had his BFF executed on the day that he married his new bride. Thomas Cromwell was once the Kings closest and most trusted adviser, yet like the cruel bastard he was, Henry sent him to death and still managed to make it a day of celebrations. This wasn’t the first time Henry pulled shit like this. He married Jane Seymour the day after Anne Boleyn’s execution, and made a point of wearing yellow on the day of Katherine of Aragon’s death. I don’t know why Henry did this; possibly to illustrate his power, possibly to hide the feeling of guilt, though doubtful.

And so that brings us to Katherine, a child abandoned by her family and left with a woman who can only be likened to Miss Hannigan, the evil woman from Annie, only to crave affection and find it in the arms of those who would take advantage of a young girl. If it was modern day, she would be protected by social services and a Child Sexual Exploitation case would be opened. However, it wasn’t modern day, it was Tudor time, so instead she was branded a whore, and put to death. Tudor men were fucking cunts at times.

katherine howard

Katherine Howard, looking smug because all said and done, death was preferable to  shagging Henry.



If you want to know more about Katherine’s downfall you can read about it here

Also, you can read about Anne of Cleeves’ betrothal to Henry here and about how she ultimately won the long game here.

If you want to know more about Thomas Cromwell and the events that led to his demise, you can find out here.




*Apologies to any readers who may be called Jocasta. I was showing off and it wasn’t big or clever. Jocasta is a great name and I’m sure you don’t ever get questioned about it.