On 2 May 1536, Henry VIII's second wife, Queen Anne Boleyn, was imprisoned in the Tower of London on charges of treasonable adultery and conspiracy to murder the king. Four days later, on 6 May, she is said to have written her husband a letter. This letter, which is headed 'To the King from the Lady in the Tower', has proved controversial. Historians debate whether the letter was genuinely written by the Queen, or whether it is an Elizabethan forgery. Henry Ellis referred to the letter as 'one of the finest compositions in the English language'. The letter reads as follows:
Your Grace's displeasure and my imprisonment are things so strange to me, that what to write, or what to excuse, I am altogether ignorant. Whereas you send to me (willing me to confess a truth and so obtain your favour), by such a one, whom you know to be mine ancient professed enemy; I no sooner received this message by him, than I rightly conceived your meaning; and if as you say, confessing a truth may procure my safety, I shall, with willingness and duty, perform your command.
But let not your grace ever imagine your poor wife will ever be brought to acknowledge a fault, where not so much as a thought ever proceeded. And to speak a truth, never a prince had a wife more loyal in all duty, and in all true affection, than you have ever found in Anne Bulen - with which name and place I could willingly have contented myself if God and your grace's pleasure had so been pleased. Neither did I at any time so far forget myself in my exaltation, or received queenship, but I always looked for such alteration as I now find; for the ground of my preferment being on no surer foundation than your grace's fancy, the least alteration was fit and sufficient (I knew) to draw that fancy to some other subject.
You have chosen me from a low estate to be your queen and companion, far beyond my just desert or desire; if then you found me worthy of such honour, good your grace, let not any light fancy or bad counsel of my enemies withdraw your princely favour from me, neither let that stain - that unworthy stain - of a disloyal heart toward your good grace ever cast so foul a blot on me and on the infant princess, your daughter.
Try me, good king, but let me have a lawful trial, and let not my sworn enemies sit as my accusers and as my judges; yea, let me receive an open trial, for my truth shall fear no open shames; then shall you see either mine innocency cleared, your suspicions and conscience satisfied, the ignominy and slander of the world stopped, or my guilt openly declared. So that wherever God and you may determine of, your grace may be at liberty, both before God and man, not only to execute worthy punishment on me, as an unfaithful wife, but to follow your affection already settled on that party, for whose sake I am now as I am; whose name I could some good while since, have pointed unto: Your Grace being not ignorant of my suspicions therein.
But if you have already determined of me, and that not only my death, but an infamous slander, must bring you to the enjoying of your desired happiness, then I desire of God that He will pardon your great sin herein, and likewise, my enemies, the instruments thereof, and that he will not call you to a strait account for your unprincely and cruel usage of me at his general judgement-seat, where both you and myself must shortly appear; and in whose just judgement, I doubt not (whatsoever the world think of me) mine innocency shall be openly known and sufficiently cleared.
My last and only request shall be, that myself may only bear the burden of your grace's displeasure, and that it may not touch the innocent souls of those poor gentlemen, whom, as I understand, are likewise in strait imprisonment for my sake.
If ever I have found favour in your sight - if ever the name of Anne Bulen have been pleasing in your ears - then let me obtain this request; and so I will leave to trouble your grace no further: with mine earnest prayers to the Trinity to have your grace in his good keeping, and to direct you in all your actions.
From my doleful prison in the Tower, the 6th of May.
Ann Bulen
The letter is haunting, emotional and powerful: it bristles with indignation and is dominated by the writer's pleas of innocence. Most striking of all is the writer's dignified tone. Yet was the letter actually written by Queen Anne while imprisoned in the Tower? The majority of modern historians are convinced that it is a forgery. Eric Ives, Retha Warnicke and G.W. Bernard, the three most respected biographers of Anne, all dismiss the letter. Ives notes: 'its elegance has always inspired suspicion'. Professor David Starkey, Antonia Fraser and David Loades failed to even discuss the letter in their histories of Anne, almost certainly because they too subscribed to the view that it is a forgery, and was not genuinely written by the Queen.
The letter was first published in Lord Herbert's The Life and Raigne of King Henry the Eighth (1649), and then by Bishop Burnet thirty years later. In his The History of the Reformation of the Church of England (1679), Burnet noted that the imprisoned Queen made 'deep protestations of her innocence, and begged to see the King, but that was not to be expected'. Burnet found the letter with Sir William Kingston's letters among the papers of Cromwell. Other early modern historians included references to the letter in their works, including John Strype, Bishop White Kennett, and Sir Henry Ellis. As Sandra Vasoli notes, several versions of the letter survive. Yet none of them are written in Anne's handwriting as recognised from her extant letters.
This is, in fact, the main argument in favour of the letter being a forgery. Against that it can be noted that one's handwriting changes over the course of one's lifetime; the letters we have written by Anne were written in her youth. Secondly, the letter may have been dictated by the Queen to a servant or maid. James Gairdner, however, believed that the letter was written in an Elizabethan hand. Alternatively, Jasper Ridley dismissed this argument by noting that the letter 'bears all the marks of Anne's character, of her spirit, her impudence and her recklessness'.
Alison Weir, concluding that the letter is most likely a forgery, referred to other anomalies which call into question the view that the letter was genuinely penned by Anne: the writer signs herself as 'Ann Bulen' rather than 'Anne the Queen' or 'Anne Boleyn'; Cromwell kept the letter, rather than destroying it; the heading at the top is unusual ('To the King from the Lady in the Tower' - why not refer to Anne as 'the Queen' or 'Anne'?); and, perhaps most importantly, the reproving tone and bold attitude towards the king, in which the writer admonishes him for instigating a plot in order to be free of her to wed Jane Seymour.
Other writers have doubted the genuineness of the letter. Gareth Russell noted the 'psychological inconsistencies' in the letter, in which the writer refers to herself as being chosen from 'a low estate to be your queen': yet Anne was hardly from 'a low estate', she was well-connected. While it is a myth that she was the most noble of Henry VIII's English-born wives, she was related to the Howard dukes of Norfolk (her mother was a Howard), her father was heir presumptive to the earldom of Ormond at the time of her birth, and she could trace her descent from King Edward III.
Another difficulty is the writer's claim that Anne's rise to queenship had 'no surer foundation than your grace's fancy', which is problematic when other evidence is considered. As Warnicke notes, the Queen genuinely believed that God had selected her to become Henry's wife, and she was fond of informing visitors at court of this. Alternatively, as Marie Louise Bruce stated in her biography of Anne, she had a tendency to express herself in hyperbole and it is therefore possible that she was resorting to the use of hyperbole or, alternatively, was flattering her husband's ego at a time of danger. Interestingly, there is but one reference to Anne's daughter Elizabeth: however, this is consistent with Anne's silence about her daughter while imprisoned in the Tower, perhaps because she was hoping not to worsen the consequences of her fall for Elizabeth that were, already, looking bleak.
One way or another, it will never be known with certainty whether the letter from 'The Lady in the Tower' was genuinely written by Anne Boleyn or not. I personally believe that she may have written it. Although it is strange that Anne refers to herself as 'Ann Bulen' and there are problematic assertions in relation to her relationship with the king and her rise to queenship, I believe the emotional tone of the letter, which wavers between desperation, dignity, resolution and indignation, is consistent with what we know of the Queen's behaviour in the Tower. Her moods oscillated between despair and joy, sorrow and hysteria, panic and calmness, resignation and hope. It is entirely possible that the Queen either wrote - or dictated to someone serving her - this passionate, dignified letter.
As Vasoli notes, however, the letter never reached Henry VIII. He was not to be swayed in his decision to be rid of Anne. Nine days after the letter was supposedly written, the Queen was found guilty of the crimes with which she was charged, and four days later she went to the scaffold. Anne refused to admit her guilt on the scaffold. She admitted that she had been condemned by the law, but she did not admit to betraying the king. During her trial she pleaded her innocence and sought mercy. Her pleas of innocence are consistent with those that recur in the letter of May 6.
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In recent years, there has been an explosion of interest in the lives of England's medieval and early modern queens. Popular historians in particular have become fascinated by the extraordinary lives of these women. The majority of attention has focused on the late Middle Ages and the Tudor era. Countless books are published every year detailing the lives of these magnetic, captivating women.
What is to account for these trends? What makes one woman particularly fascinating to biographers, at any point in time? Where does the desire to recover her history - 'herstory', as it has been termed - come from? Why are we so fascinated by these women, and why are readers lapping up biographies of medieval queens like there's no tomorrow?
The simple answer is because their lives are interesting in and of themselves. The more complex answer is because their lives were forgotten for centuries, swept away as if they had never existed. These women, even queens, were confined to the footnotes of history, dismissed in a sentence and remembered only if they contributed to their husband's achievements. If they were not forgotten, they were misrepresented. They were slandered, their names dragged through the mud. Consider the infamous tale of Eleanor of Aquitaine, in a fit of jealous rage, murdering her beautiful rival Rosamund Clifford by poison. Or the story of Elizabeth Wydeville and her mother greedily extorting their rights to queen's gold. Or the legend of Isabella of Angouleme living in open adultery with her lovers, causing her vicious husband King John to brutally murder them in revolting fashion.
If these women were not condemned, they were sanctified in hagiographical works. They were celebrated as passive beings who caused no trouble, satisfying the whims of their husbands and living quietly and gently. Jane Seymour was idealised as a pious, motherly wife who provided Henry VIII with his heart's desire. Anne of Bohemia is remembered only for her gracious acts of intercession. For centuries, Katherine of Aragon was viewed as nothing short of a saint, the very embodiment of virtuous womanhood.
In more recent times, we as historians have become aware of how simplistic and misleading these characterisations are. We recognise that these women were complex beings; they were human. They were neither saints nor sinners, neither whores nor angels. We seek to uncover their stories respectfully, admiring their achievements, celebrating their lives and respecting their decisions. In short, historians are taking advantage of developments in the study of history to present these women more truthfully than ever before.
As a biographer of Katherine Howard, with a keen interest in the lives of medieval and early modern women, I eagerly await new studies. Having spent a number of years researching Katherine (and I continue to hope to devote more time to her life), I anticipate with pleasure upcoming biographies of her by Gareth Russell and Josephine Wilkinson. Katherine was, for centuries, the most neglected of Henry VIII's queens. Historians were not particularly interested in her. Lacey Baldwin Smith's biography of Katherine, published in 1961, remained the standard work for decades. There have since been only three published biographies of Katherine: Joanna Denny's of 2005; David Loades' of 2012; and my own.
I am not sure why historians are suddenly interested in Katherine. Perhaps they are more aware than ever of how inadequate most of the studies about her have been. Perhaps, in the light of the rehabilitation of Anne Boleyn's reputation, and the publication of impressive studies detailing the considerable achievements of Katherine of Aragon and Katherine Parr, it has been acknowledged that Katherine Howard deserves to be better known and celebrated for her own achievements. New found interest in her is surely to be welcomed.
Yet other women deserve the attention of historians, for they remain forgotten. If they are remembered, it is mostly negatively. Isabella of Angouleme, Isabella of France, and Margaret of Anjou are three powerful, well known women who continue to be misrepresented and slandered, their lives distorted. Jacquetta of Luxembourg, mother of Queen Elizabeth Wydeville, was an acknowledged woman in her own lifetime, and yet there has been no biography of her. Philippa of Hainault, Joan of Navarre and Catherine de Valois are queens of England that have still not acquired biographies in their own right. There has been exceptionally little attention given to Isabel Neville, elder sister of Queen Anne. Nor has there been for other highborn women in England who were not queens of England, but were nonetheless important. Alice Perrers, Katherine Swynford and Elizabeth Shore are women who deserve to be re-examined.
The expansion of 'herstories' is an immensely positive achievement. Let us hope the field continues to expand and develop. We need to learn more about these incredible women. We should endeavour to reinterpret their lives and re-examine the myths about them. Celebrating their achievements and respecting their experiences is essential to uncovering the full story of English history.
The relationship between King Edward II and his wife Isabella of France is almost always depicted in negative terms. In Derek Jarman's film Edward II (1991), Tilda Swinton offers a sexually frustrated, ambitious Isabella who turns against her ineffectual husband and usurps his throne. In Mel Gibson's Braveheart (1995), Isabella enjoys a romantic affair with the Scottish landowner and hero William Wallace, perhaps because she experiences frustration and dismay with her husband Edward. The film even suggests that Wallace is the father of her son Prince Edward, despite the fact that Wallace died in 1305, three years before Isabella arrived in England and seven years before the birth of the prince. Biographers of Isabella have tended to characterise the queen as a passive victim of her cruel and merciless husband. She apparently was humiliated, hurt and shamed by his homosexual relationships. She was neglected at court and was mistreated by her husband's courtiers. Finally, her husband seized her children from her and took hold of all of her estates, lands and possessions. He probably allowed his lover Hugh Despenser to violate her. The long-suffering Isabella, who by now had had enough, departed for France alongside her lover Roger Mortimer and arrived back in England with foreign aid. The citizens of England, who loathed their king as much as she did, willingly rallied to her side, and together they marched through the country. Edward was removed from the throne and the popular Isabella achieved a resounding victory. Her son Edward was crowned Edward III and Isabella was celebrated forever after as a liberator.
However, the real story is not as simple as this version would like to make out. This version reduces Edward and Isabella to simplistic and unconvincing cardboard caricatures: Edward as a sexually depraved bully and Isabella as a passive, humiliated victim. This does no justice to the real people. King Edward and his queen actually enjoyed a close, supportive relationship for most of their lives together. They had four children with one another, and frequently departed for France on peace missions, where contemporaries, including Geoffrey of Paris in 1313, noted their love and respect for one another. Isabella sought her husband's support and assistance in her household governance, which he readily gave. Edward was so impressed with his young wife's success in the sphere of her household that he awarded her with possession of the great seal on two occasions, in 1319 and 1321, which greatly honoured the queen and confirmed his trust in her abilities.
Isabella was happy enough to approach Edward when she sought to intercede on behalf of individuals. The administrative documents at the National Archives are full of references to her seeking pardons from the king for those whom she felt to be oppressed and in need of assistance. Edward made sure his wife enjoyed a splendid household and she was afforded every dignity as queen. It is actually uncertain, contrary to popular belief, how she felt about Piers Gaveston, her husband's favourite and, possibly, lover, but it does not seem her relations with Gaveston were as hostile as is often believed. She assisted him financially in 1311 before his exile from England, and she sheltered some of his supporters in her household. There is no evidence of how Isabella personally felt about him.
The relationship between the royal couple did become more strained in the mid-1320s, probably because of Hugh Despenser's malign influence. He seems to have begun a concerted campaign of poisoning the king's mind against his wife, perhaps because he was attempting to replace her in Edward's counsels. In September 1324, the king seized all of Isabella's estates and lands. Yet this does not mean that Isabella gradually came to hate and despise her husband. On the contrary, when she was abroad a year or so later, she continually reiterated her desire to return to Edward, because she loved him and wished to obey his wishes. However, she felt that she could not do so on account of the enmity of Despenser and his father. She believed that her very life would be endangered if she returned to the country. Isabella also sought to protect her son Prince Edward's inheritance, who was with her in France: rumours were circulating at this point that he would be disinherited and not allowed to succeed to the throne on account of his refusal to return to England.
The evidence credibly suggests that Isabella loved her husband and longed to return to him, but could not do so on account of the malicious Despensers, who enjoyed the king's influence and protection. Edward came to view his wife as disobedient and treacherous, for he was unable to appreciate the danger she faced. Their marriage fell into ruin and they were never able to experience the happiness which they had enjoyed in each other's company for such a long period. Whether Edward was murdered in the autumn of 1327, or whether he died at a later date as an obscure pilgrim in Europe, Isabella certainly continued to honour his memory and, when she died in 1358, she chose to be buried with his heart. The relationship between Edward and Isabella was not one of abuse, hatred and murder. It was, for fifteen years, a loving, stable and supportive union. The royal couple were frequently in one another's company and were parents to four children. Contemporaries commented on their love for one another. Yet the malign influence of the Despensers and Edward's growing tyranny destroyed their once happy marriage.
Above: Arthur Tudor, Prince of Wales.
Arthur Tudor, born in 1486, had been groomed from birth for a glorious future as king of England. Arthur would have known that, when his illustrious father Henry VII died, he would succeed to the throne as King Arthur I. He had been named after the heroic king of legend, 'in honour of the British race', while confirming the Tudors' mythical descent from King Arthur. However, England was not to experience a king named Arthur I. On 2 April 1502, aged only fifteen, Arthur Prince of Wales died at Ludlow Castle,
Arthur's death left his young wife, Katherine of Aragon, a widow aged only sixteen. The marriage of the Prince of Wales had been discussed as early as 1488, and on 27 March 1489 the Treaty of Medina del Campo was signed, in which the marriage of Arthur and Katherine was provided for when they came of age. At Woodstock in 1497, a proxy betrothal took place, and two proxy marriages followed in 1499 and 1500. Finally, in late 1501, Katherine arrived in England and was married to Arthur on 14 November at St. Paul's Cathedral in a lavish ceremony. Celebrations went on for days as the capital rejoiced at the marriage of its future rulers. Soon afterwards, the Prince and Princess of Wales departed for the marches of Wales. They resided at Ludlow Castle. There had been some uncertainty as to whether the royal couple should immediately live together. Henry VII believed that his son was not old or mature enough to fulfil 'the duties of a husband', and he wrote to the Spanish monarchs explaining that his son's 'tender age' prevented cohabitation with Katherine. King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella agreed that the couple should not live together for some time, although Henry VII eventually decided that Katherine should accompany her husband to Wales.
Above: Ludlow Castle.
In the spring of 1502, however, according to the King's Printer Richard Grafton, 'there suddenly came a lamentable loss and mischance to the king, the queen and all the people'. The Receyt of the Lady Kateryne recorded that, 'from the Feast of the Nativity of Christ unto the solemn feast of the Resurrection, at the which season grew and increased upon his body, whether it was by surfeit or cause natural, a lamentable and most pitiful disease and sickness'. It is uncertain what it was that struck Arthur. Writers have suggested plague, tuberculosis, the sweating sickness, influenza, or testicular cancer. In her recent biography of Elizabeth of York, Alison Weir concludes that it was probably tuberculosis which killed Arthur. Whatever it was, on the morning of 2 April, the prince died, commending 'with most fervent devotion his spirit and soul to the pleasure and hands of Almighty God'.
Arthur's death was met with shock, dismay and grief at court. Henry VII, devastated, sent for his wife in his hour of need: 'When the King understood these sorrowful, heavy tidings, he sent for the Queen, saying that he and his wife would take their powerful sorrow'. Indeed, the occasion of their son's death brought the royal couple together and provides evidence of their close, loving relationship. Queen Elizabeth comforted her husband: 'After she was come and saw the King her lord in that natural and painful sorrow, she, with full great and constant and comfortable words, besought his Grace that he would first, after God, consider the weal of his own noble person, of the comfort of his realm, and of her'. She reminded him that they were both young and could have more children. They still had a healthy son, Henry, then aged ten, who was now heir to the throne. The king, cheered by her words, thanked her for 'her good comfort'. However, when the queen departed to her own rooms, she collapsed with grief and sorrow. The king was sent for, it now being his turn to comfort and console his devastated wife.
Above: Katherine of Aragon, Princess of Wales and, later, Queen of England.
We can only wonder how different the history of England might have been had Arthur survived and succeeded to the throne following his father's death. Given that Henry VII was to die in 1509, Arthur would have been twenty-two years of age when he became king of England. Would he and Katherine have had several children by then? Would the English succession have already been assured well before Arthur became king? What would have happened to his brother, Henry? We can but speculate. Yet, as Rosemary Horrox notes: 'With the benefit of hindsight the most important consequence of Arthur's early death was the remarriage of his widow to the prince's younger brother, the future Henry VIII, and the controversy to which that later gave rise concerning the consummation or otherwise of Katherine's first marriage'.
Above: Queen Margaret of Anjou.
On this day in history, 23 March 1430, Margaret of Anjou was born at Pont-a-Mousson in Lorraine to Rene of Anjou and his wife Isabella, duchess of Lorraine. Rene was titular king of Naples, Jerusalem, and Aragon, and duke of Anjou, Bar, Lorraine, count of Provence and count of Piedmont. Despite his claims to many kingdoms, Rene was unfavourably known as 'a man of many crowns but no kingdoms'. Margaret was the couple's fourth child and second daughter, and spent her childhood at the beautiful castle of Tarascon in southern France and in the old royal palace at Capua, near Naples. Contemporary observers described her in her youth as beautiful, dignified and graceful.
In April 1445, at the age of fifteen, Margaret married Henry VI of England and became England's queen. The marriage sought to achieve peace between the warring kingdoms of England and France, with the hope being to bring to a conclusion the brutal conflict known as the Hundred Years War. Although Margaret symbolised hopes of peace and prosperity, the marriage was not popular in England, for the bride brought no dowry, while the cessation of Anjou and Maine to Margaret's father and the king of France caused outrage and dismay. Margaret has traditionally been interpreted by historians as a cunning and avaricious meddler in politics, responsible for urging her husband to cede the kingdoms to the French, but Helen Maurer's careful research has called into question this view. Given that Margaret was only in her teenage years, in a strange land, when Anjou and Maine were ceded, it does seem unlikely that she was responsible for what took place.
Margaret's position would have been secured early on had she given birth to a son with which to secure the succession, but this was only accomplished eight years after her marriage, when her son Edward was born in October 1453. His birth could not have occurred at a worse time: several months earlier, Henry VI suffered a complete breakdown and was thought to have gone insane. He may have been suffering from a form of schizophrenia. Margaret's position became uncertain as the government fell into crisis. She did not become regent and, contrary to popular belief, did not espouse an aggressive stance towards the duke of York, who became Protector at this time. Indeed, she appears to have been content to cooperate with him and was on good terms with his wife, Cecily Neville.
Above: Henry VI.
Margaret has tended to be characterised negatively as a vengeful, aggressive, merciless and cruel woman who was responsible for the outbreak of the Wars of the Roses by virtue of her partisan favour of the earl of Suffolk and the Duke of Somerset. She is often interpreted as the leader of a court party that was corrupt, decadent and wasteful, causing damage to the kingdom and tensions in society at large. This unfair portrayal of the queen has been encouraged by Shakespeare's portrayal of her as a she-wolf. The real Margaret of Anjou was almost certainly not the evil villain of legend. She was a pragmatic, intelligent and courageous woman who fought ardently to protect her son's inheritance and to safeguard her husband's position as king. It was hardly her fault that she was married to a weak and inept king unable to control factional discontent or rule with a steady hand. Margaret's attempt to provide strong governance caused anger and dismay, given that her role in English politics threatened to unsettle the established gender order. However, with the benefit of hindsight, we can appreciate the impossible situation Margaret found herself in, and admire her brave attempts to restore her deposed husband to the throne. She was not a she-wolf, but neither was she a saint. Rather, she is someone to be admired, respected and appreciated for her courage, pragmatism and devotion to her husband and son.
Above: Humphrey, duke of Gloucester (left).
Humphrey and Eleanor (right).
Eleanor Cobham, duchess of Gloucester, is well-known today as a convicted sorceress. The second wife of Humphrey, duke of Gloucester, who was uncle to Henry VI, the duchess has usually been perceived as a proud and ambitious parvenu who resorted to witchcraft in a calculated attempt to ensure her husband's succession to the throne. At a time of dynastic uncertainty and political turmoil, the fear and dismay of her contemporaries is understandable. Believing that women resorted to the black arts as a mechanism for wielding power, they readily believed the charges against Eleanor. Their belief fitted in with the conventional understanding that women were naturally manipulative, power-hungry and secretive.
Born around 1400, Eleanor was the fourth child of Sir Reginald Cobham and his wife Eleanor. Following her mother's death in 1422, she departed to serve in the household of Jacqueline, countess of Hainault. The countess was an immensely influential lady who was also duchess of Bavaria-Straubing, countess of Holland and Zealand, and had been Dauphine of France between 1415 and 1417 as the wife of the dauphin John. Eleanor's appointment to her household was therefore an excellent opportunity for her. She was not content merely to serve the duchess, however. In the spring of 1425 she became Humphrey's mistress. Three years later, Humphrey's marriage to Jacqueline was declared invalid, and shortly thereafter he married Eleanor Cobham.
Above: Jacqueline of Hainault.
It is possible that Eleanor was an ambitious and calculating woman, but it is equally valid that she was in love with Humphrey and believed that she had a right to become his wife if he had, in fact, never lawfully been married to Jacqueline. Although the marriage may have attracted hostility, the couple appear to have been exceptionally happy with one another. They established a pleasure garden, La Plesaunce, at Greenwich and invited musicians, poets, scholars, physicians and their friends to form a miniature court there.
In 1435-6, Humphrey became heir apparent following the death of his elder brother, the duke of Bedford. This represented a turning point in Eleanor's career, for it enhanced her prominence greatly. If Henry VI, her nephew, died, she would become queen of England. Eleanor was accorded full recognition of her status: in November 1435 the duke created a jointure for her in his whole estate, and in spring of the following year she acquired the robes of a duchess for the Garter ceremony. She appears to have been close to her young nephew, the king. By 1440 she was consulting astrologers to cast Henry's horoscope and to predict her own fortunes. Given that the teenaged king had not yet married or produced an heir, Eleanor's actions may represent less a determined attempt to wrest the crown from him through witchcraft than an earnest effort to establish a sense of security regarding the succession. Her actions may be considered understandable in a context of dynastic uncertainty and international conflict, at a time of decline in England's fortunes in the Hundred Years War with France.
Eleanor's actions were not necessarily suspicious in and of themselves; as Harriss notes, 'mathematical astrology had become socially and academically respectable and other great noblemen had astrologers in their employ'. Surely if the king harboured suspicions of his aunt's behaviour he would have acted sooner against her than he in fact did. The prediction of Eleanor's physician Thomas Southwell and principal of St Andrew's Hall, Oxford, Roger Bolingbroke, however, that Henry VI would be endangered by a serious illness in the summer of 1441, led to rumours surrounding the duchess's ambitions. Southwell, Bolingbroke and John Home, canon of Hereford, chaplain to the duchess, were all examined. They were arrested and charged with the practice of necromancy in July 1441 and, when Bolingbroke named Eleanor, she was examined for eighteen charges of treasonable necromancy, to which she admitted her guilt. She was incarcerated in Leeds Castle. Southwell died in the Tower, Bolingbroke was hanged, drawn and quartered and the 'Witch of Eye', Margery Jourdemayne, was burned, whom Eleanor had admitted to procuring potions from in order to conceive and bear Humphrey's child. The duchess herself was sentenced to walk barefoot to three London churches in penance on successive market days in November, bearing a taper. She was then imprisoned, firstly at Chester, then at Kenilworth, then on the Isle of Man, and finally at Beaumaris, where she died in 1452.
It is uncertain whether Eleanor Cobham was guilty of the charges levied against her. There is no evidence that she plotted the king's death, although she did admit to consulting his horoscope and to obtaining potions from a witch with which to fall pregnant by the duke. Undoubtedly the charges were politicised and sought to attack her husband. High status women were vulnerable to charges of witchcraft and treasonable activity as a way of casting suspicion on their husbands. Jacquetta, duchess of Bedford, was another victim of witchcraft accusations in the reign of Edward IV that were motivated by a desire to bring down the Wydevilles. Humphrey's political enemies used the charges as a way of estranging the duke from his nephew. Six years later, the duke himself was arrested and died in suspicious circumstances. Eleanor, duchess of Gloucester, may have been less a convicted sorceress than a victim of the dynastic turmoil, political conflict and gendered suspicions of the mid-fifteenth-century.
My final academic year at university has included a module on the history of the body in early modern England. The module was wide-ranging, examining a host of challenging and interesting themes that included death, fashion, pregnancy, anatomy, illness and sexual regulation. Only in the final week of the module did we consider what early modern Europeans termed 'unnatural' or 'foreign' bodies. Given that this was an age when great voyages of discovery were being made across the world, it is unsurprising that we looked at sources concerning the experiences of Europeans with 'natives' dwelling in Africa and Asia. In the seminar, twenty minutes was devoted to discussion of black people in early modern England, in a module lasting one academic year in duration.
This presents a troubling question: why does Tudor history continue to be whitewashed? (Forgive the pun). Black people clearly lived in England and were a vital cultural, social and economic presence. Only when their history is taken account of and included in both academic studies and in curriculums can the experiences of those living in the past fully be understood. Our understanding of Tudor history remains overwhelmingly confined to the experiences of those who were wealthy, privileged, and white.
If you are interested in reading more, I wrote an article for The Tudor Society about Africans in Tudor and Stuart England: https://www.tudorsociety.com/africans-in-tudor-and-stuart-england-by-conor-byrne/.
