HistoryExtrahttps://www.historyextra.comHome of Britain’s bestselling history magazine and award-winning podcast2026-09-29T13:56:40.000Zhourly12000-01-01T12:00+00:00How Henry VII seized – and kept – the crownhttps://www.historyextra.com/membership/how-henry-vii-seized-and-kept-the-crown/2026-09-28T16:06:07.000ZHenry VII is often remembered as a cold, calculating and penny-pinching monarch whose relentless pursuit of an ever-tightening grip on the throne overshadowed his achievements. But how fair is that reputation? And what can the real history behind this popular perception tell us about the challenges, anxieties and realities of Henry's kingship?
Speaking to Emily Briffett, Sean Cunningham reassesses the first Tudor king's critical reputation, exploring the delicate balancing act that defined his reign as he sought to reward loyalty, root out treason and secure a fragile new dynasty.
]]>The 'Nine Days Queen' is one of England's most controversial monarchs - here's whyhttps://www.historyextra.com/period/tudor/nine-days-queen-england-controversial-monarch/2026-04-30T14:40:39.000ZIn April 2026, Bradgate House – the childhood home of Lady Jane Grey – was reopened to the public after extensive conservation work, bringing with it a new wave of interest in the so-called ‘Nine Days Queen’.
But what do we actually know about this enigmatic Tudor noble, who is often cast as a tragic victim?
Who was Lady Jane Grey?
In 1537, Jane was born into the noble Grey family. Her parents were the Duke of Suffolk, Henry Grey, and Lady Frances Brandon.
As the great-granddaughter of Henry VII and great-niece of Henry VIII, Jane was orbiting the English throne from birth. However, as historian Nicola Tallis explains on an upcoming episode of the HistoryExtra podcast, “she wasn’t ever raised as an heir to the throne. She was just this great-niece of Henry VIII who had been living in the countryside."
In 1553, that all changed.
King Edward VI was in increasingly ill-health but, being the first English monarch raised as a Protestant, he was desperate for his Protestant legacy to live on. So, he issued his Devise for the Succession. This legislation barred both of Edward’s half-sisters, Mary and Elizabeth, from succeeding to the throne.
“[Edward] didn’t want his Catholic half-sister [Mary] to be given the opportunity to reverse all of his good work in the cause of religion”, explains Nicola. “However, Edward realised that he couldn’t exclude one half-sister without also excluding the other. And so, he bars both Mary and his younger half-sister Elizabeth from the succession by reason of their illegitimacy."
This catapulted Jane to first in line for the throne – a place she didn’t want to be.
A reluctant queen
On 6 July 1553, just a few weeks after the Devise for the Succession, Edward VI died at age 15. This officially made Lady Jane Grey the Queen of England.
“She had no wish or desire to be queen whatsoever, but this was an impossible situation for Jane because she was pressured into accepting the throne," says Nicola.
So, Jane reluctantly took to the throne and was publicly proclaimed Queen on 10 July 1553.
Though, it would not last long; Jane would hold the title for a mere nine days. She was soon toppled by Mary I.
Was she really queen?
There has been some debate about whether Lady Jane Grey should be considered one of Britain’s monarchs, given the fact that the Devise for the Succession was never passed through parliament.
But as Diarmaid MacCulloch, speaking to HistoryExtra, points out, “the monarchy has never descended by strict primogeniture, and Queen Jane had a perfectly good claim to the throne: the sort of claim that brought James VI of Scotland to be James I of England in 1603."
Tudor historian Tracy Borman agrees.
“Edward’s Devise for the Succession was legally binding, so Jane’s claim was entirely valid – and arguably more so than other monarchs who claimed the throne without being legally named."
So, why is Jane often left off the list of British monarchs?
“Mary I [Edward VI’s half-sister who took the throne from Lady Jane Grey] had to ensure that her subjects saw her – not the woman she had supplanted – as the only true queen," explains Tracy. The dismissal of Lady Jane Grey was, therefore, a form of propaganda.
- Read more | Mary I: your guide to the life and rule of Henry VIII's daughter – plus a timeline and 7 little-known facts
In the battle over religious belief, Catholic Mary I had many supporters following the intense Protestantism of Edward VI’s reign, and that meant Lady Jane Grey – as a devout Protestant herself – made many enemies. As soon as Mary came to the throne on 19 July 1553, Jane was imprisoned in the Tower of London.
Why was Bradgate House so important?
Within the tumultuous story of Lady Jane Grey’s life, Bradgate House was the place that defined her childhood and provided the environment that shaped her.
“Jane would have grown up in an elite Protestant setting at Bradgate and, during the reign of Edward, some star Protestant preachers such as Bishop Hugh Latimer were welcome guests there," says Diarmaid. This moulded Jane’s Protestant beliefs, which made her such a good candidate to follow in Edward’s footsteps.
Living at Bradgate also gave Jane the opportunity to be educated, in a world where women were still often limited in this regard. Speaking to HistoryExtra, biographer James D Taylor explains that Jane’s scholarly abilities and intellect were nurtured in an environment where education was encouraged: “at a time when schools that we know of now did not exist, [growing up at Bradgate] allowed Jane to read and study with the guidance of tutors."
What can we learn from the story of Lady Jane Grey?
Whether or not Jane is considered a true queen, she was a certainly a definitive figure of the Tudor period, and representative of the era’s religious tensions.
“She’s a great symbol of historical might-have-beens,” says MacCulloch.
Of her short reign, Taylor adds, “though ill-prepared to rule, she did the best she could in the short amount of time she sat on the throne."
Jane refused to have her husband, Lord Guildford, proclaimed king without an Act of Parliament and, as Tallis explains, “the odds did seem to be very much stacked in Jane's favour to begin with. Even Mary's supporters were urging her to flee abroad for her safety because they were convinced that Jane's reign was going to be secure.”
- Read more | The curse of the nine-day queen
But despite her best efforts, Jane couldn’t compete with a vengeful Mary I, who, after being denied her birth right once before, was not willing to let it happen again. When Jane’s father was revealed as a key conspirator in Wyatt's rebellion – a 1554 uprising that aimed to prevent Mary I’s marriage to Philip II of Spain – Jane’s fate was sealed.
On 12 February 1554, Jane was executed at the Tower of London.
But perhaps she shouldn’t be remembered solely as a victim.
“Jane's story vividly illustrates how powerless women could be in the face of ambitious male relatives," says Borman. “Yet it also provides an inspiring example of a young woman with unshakeable religious convictions and principles – one who might, if history had turned out differently, have proved an excellent queen.”
Nicola Tallis was speaking to Isabel King on an upcoming episode of the HistoryExtra podcast, available soon.
]]>Think you know everything about the Tudors? Here are 15 facts that will prove you wronghttps://www.historyextra.com/membership/think-you-know-everything-about-the-tudors-here-are-15-facts-that-will-prove-you-wrong/2026-04-12T15:00:00.000Z1. The Tudors weren’t known as the Tudors
Although we use ‘Tudor’ as a nifty shorthand for both the era and the dynasty, it wasn’t used at the time either by the monarchs or their people. Neither did they see it as a distinct period: in fact, Henry VII went to great lengths to emphasise the continuity with his royal predecessors, even down to using the same tailor whom Edward IV had employed.
He also emphasised his Lancastrian roots and tried to downplay his Welsh origins, aware that his grandfather Owen Tudor had married well above him when he bagged Henry V’s widow Catherine of Valois as a bride. Throughout the period 1485–1603, the people identified as subjects of each successive king or queen, as well as taking pride in their local affiliations, rather than seeing themselves as ‘Tudor people’.
2. They had a pretty dodgy claim to the throne
When Henry Tudor won the crown from Richard III at the battle of Bosworth in 1485, he was quick to stress his legitimacy. But there was more than a hint of protesting too much. In fact, the Tudors were descended from Edward III’s fourth son, John of Gaunt, and his long-standing mistress, Katherine Swynford.
Moreover, Henry VII’s father Edmund was the child of Henry V’s widow, Catherine of Valois, by her Welsh attendant. With such a dubious bloodline, it’s little wonder that England’s first Tudor king wasted no time in marrying Elizabeth of York, the eldest child of Edward IV. Their marriage united the warring houses of York and Lancaster and, crucially, gave the Tudors some much-needed legitimacy.
3. Henry VII was no miser
The first Tudor king has a reputation for penny-pinching. But while he kept a close eye on his expenditure, he knew how to splash the cash when it was to his advantage.
In the early years of his reign, when he was under constant threat from rivals and pretenders and many of his subjects questioned his right to be king, he spent lavish sums on dressing the part. Just over a week after defeating Richard III at Bosworth, he ordered a set of new gowns fashioned from cloth of gold, satin and royal purple velvet at a cost of £336, which roughly equates to £225,000 in today’s money.
During the two years that followed, he spent an eye-watering £5,386 (£3.6 million) on his wardrobe. But his generosity had its limits. His wife, Elizabeth of York, struggled to make ends meet throughout their marriage.
4. You would smell Henry VIII before you saw him
For the last 20 years of his life, Henry was tormented by pain from a chronic leg ulcer, which was aggravated by a serious fall from his horse while jousting in 1536. The ulcer often became inflamed and – unsurprisingly – Henry was a difficult patient, refusing to rest for long enough for it to heal. At its worst, the suppurating wound could be smelt from three rooms away.
- Read more | Was this the moment Henry VIII became a tyrant?
5. Henry VIII’s love of hawking was almost the death of him
Henry’s love of sport was well known throughout the court. As a young king, he would spend hours hunting, jousting, shooting arrows and playing tennis. Hawking was another of his favourite sports and his private apartments contained an impressive array of falconry equipment.
But in 1525, Henry was almost killed while pursuing his hawk. Attempting to pole vault over a ditch, instead he fell headfirst into it and almost drowned. Thankfully, his quick-thinking footman, Edmund Moody, managed to pull him out in the nick of time.
6. Henry VIII was a bit of a prude
Contrary to popular belief, Tudor England’s most-married monarch wasn’t much of a lothario. In fact, he had twice as many wives as mistresses. There is only evidence of three extramarital affairs.
The women involved were Bessie Blount (the mother of Henry’s not-so-subtly-named illegitimate son, Henry Fitzroy), Mary Boleyn (sister of his second wife Anne) and ‘Mistress Shelton’, who was either Margaret or Mary Shelton, both cousins of Anne Boleyn.
Although there was a rumour that he once had an affair with Anne’s mother Elizabeth, he stoutly denied it: “Never with the mother!”
7. Anne Boleyn did not have a sixth finger on one hand
This oft-repeated tale is based on scurrilous gossip written almost 50 years after Anne’s death. A host of hostile Catholic tracts about Anne appeared in the 1580s as part of a smear campaign against her ‘heretic’ daughter, Elizabeth I.
Nicholas Sander was one of the most influential and claimed that Anne had been Henry VIII’s daughter as well as his wife, the result of his clandestine affair with her mother. Feeding on the rumours of witchcraft that had circulated at the time of Anne’s demise, he asserted that she had a sixth finger on her right hand and a large ‘wen’ (a boil or mole) under her chin.
Such blemishes were commonly thought to be the ‘Devil’s Mark’ – a symbol of having made a pact with Satan. In fact, Anne was proud of her long, slender fingers and always took care to show them off to best effect… all 10 of them.
8. Anne of Cleves was not ugly
You may have heard the story: Henry VIII fell in love with Anne of Cleves’ portrait and immediately signed on the dotted line of the marriage contract. But when he met his bride in person, he was appalled that she was nothing like her profile picture. So, he had the marriage annulled before you could say ‘off with her head’.
In fact, Holbein’s portrait was faithful to Anne, and many contemporary accounts praise her beauty. If anyone had cause for complaint about their betrothed’s physical assets, it was Anne. Henry was no oil painting by the time she married him in January 1540. Pushing 50, he was bloated, ulcer-ridden and almost certainly impotent. It was with understandable haste that Anne agreed to an annulment just six months later.
9. Edward VI kept a diary
The boy king was the only Tudor monarch to leave behind a private journal. But if you’re expecting a tell-all exposé full of secretly expressed desires, grudges and hopes, you might be disappointed. In fact, it’s a rather dry summary of the events of his reign.
Even the execution of his once-cherished uncle is afforded only the following curt line: “The Duke of Somerset had his head cut off today.” Overall, the diary reveals a boy who was precociously intelligent, as might be expected for Henry VIII’s “precious jewel”, who had the best of everything growing up.
But he also appears cold, unfeeling and uncompromising – a dangerous blend of traits that might have made him an even greater tyrant than his father if he lived to maturity.
10. Lady Jane Grey was queen for 14 days, not nine
Jane has gone down in history as the ‘Nine Days’ Queen’. But while it’s true that she was proclaimed queen on 10 July 1553 and deposed by Mary Tudor on 19 July, her reign technically began as soon as Edward VI had breathed his last on 6 July.
On his deathbed, Edward changed the succession in favour of his Protestant cousin Jane to prevent his Catholic half-sister Mary claiming her right. He was heavily influenced by John Dudley, Duke of Northumberland, who had married his son Guildford to Jane.
Even so, Edward’s ‘Device’ for the succession was legally-binding, so Jane was the rightful queen as soon as the young king died. Yet she is always referred to as ‘Lady’ rather than ‘Queen’ and is often omitted from the roll call of English monarchs altogether. That owes much to Mary Tudor’s propaganda: to seize the throne, she had to present Jane as a usurper.
11. ‘Bloody Mary’ wasn’t all that bloody
Mary I’s obsession with returning England to the Roman Catholic faith spurred her to have around 300 Protestant heretics burned at the stake. But while there is no doubting the horrific nature of their deaths, Mary acted out of conscience rather than brutality.
Blinded by her own faith, she genuinely believed that she was saving her subjects from eternal damnation by bringing them into the Roman Catholic fold. Furthermore, the number of people who died on Mary’s orders was just a fraction of those who suffered at the hands of her far bloodier father, Henry VIII.
He sent more men and women to their deaths than any other Tudor monarch. Anyone who refused to fall in with his will was sent to the block – commoners, statesmen and wives alike. It even became a crime to think differently from the king. Contemporary records are patchy and inconsistent, so it’s impossible to quantify exactly how many deaths Henry was responsible for. Estimates vary from a few thousand to as many as 72,000.
12. Mary Tudor was a bit of a party girl
Despite her reputation for sober-mindedness and piety, Mary loved to have fun. One of her favourite companions was Jane Fool, a female jester. The queen was also an avid gambler and loved to play cards and board games. She also entertained lavishly and spent huge sums on feasting and drinking.
A scandalised Spanish ambassador reported: “There is plenty of beer here, and they drink more than would fill the Valladolid river [known as the Pisuerga river today]… The ladies and gentlemen put sugar in their wine, with the result that there are great goings on in the palace.”
13. Elizabeth I employed the original James Bond
The queen’s personal astrologer Dr John Dee was one of her closest advisers. She would regularly consult him about the most apposite moment to undertake key events, such as her coronation.
An astrologer, astronomer, mathematician and philosopher, Dee was one of the most learned men of the age. But he also carried out more covert assignments for his royal mistress. She employed Dee as a spy, and he would report on intrigues abroad using complex codes. He signed his letters with the numerals ‘007’.
14. Elizabeth I was (apparently) a man
The ‘Bisley Boy’ legend states that in 1542, the future Elizabeth I (then aged around nine) was sent to Overcourt House in the Cotswold village of Bisley to escape the plague in London. Whilst there, she sickened with a fever and died. Knowing that Henry VIII was on his way to visit his daughter, her panic-stricken governess searched the village in vain for a girl who resembled Elizabeth closely enough to fool the king.
The only child of the right age and colouring was a boy, so in desperation she dressed him in the princess’s clothes and the deception was complete. This unlikely tale dates from the 1800s and was made popular by Dracula author Bram Stoker in his book Famous Impostors.
There is no contemporary evidence to support it and more than a whiff of misogyny about the whole thing. How else could Elizabeth have ruled so successfully for so many years? She must have been a man.
15. Elizabeth I didn’t leave her throne to James VI
But as she lay dying at Richmond Palace in March 1603, she finally settled the matter, gasping that she would have none but “my nearest kinsman the King of Scots”.
This deathbed scene was recorded by the contemporary historian William Camden, who had been commissioned to write a biography of the celebrated queen during her lifetime. But dramatic new research by the British Library has proved that Camden was forced to rewrite it on the orders of the new king to make his accession look more predetermined than it had been.
Using transmitted light, the researchers found that in his original manuscript, written at the time of Elizabeth’s death, Camden had recorded that she died without naming a successor. But a few years later, his words were covered over with the lie that ushered the Stuarts to the Tudor throne.
]]>Married three times by the age of 15: Margaret Beaufort, the woman who birthed the Tudor Dynastyhttps://www.historyextra.com/membership/married-three-times-by-the-age-of-15-margaret-beaufort-the-woman-who-birthed-the-tudor-dynasty/2025-12-01T09:00:03.000ZIn March 1457, a short, slight widow left Pembroke Castle to embark on a 100-mile journey across territories stalked by civil war and pestilence. Her husband had died only four months earlier, carried off by plague contracted during imprisonment at another Welsh castle during the spurts of Yorkist resistance that marked the early Wars of the Roses. It was just weeks since she had given birth – a traumatic labour, endured without her family or support network. But she set out now to Newport with a firm sense of purpose. She would protect herself in one of the only ways a woman could at that time: by finding another husband.
This widow and mother was Margaret Beaufort. She was 13 years old.
The newborn she left at Pembroke would, in 1485, become King Henry VII, the first Tudor monarch. Reading history backwards, it has become fashionable to portray Margaret as an obsessive, Machiavellian mother so consumed by the idea of her son’s divine right to the throne that she would commit child murder to bring it about. She, it is insinuated, was the true assassin of the princes in the Tower who threatened the claim of her “good and gracious prince, king and only beloved son”. But this interpretation is entirely fictional, and mired in misogynist oversimplification. Margaret did not aspire to a crown, either for her son or herself, until the unprecedented events of the Wars of the Roses made it essential for their survival.
Child bride
The notion that Margaret’s child might inherit the throne would have been laughable in 1457. The king then was Henry VI (a Lancastrian), who had a healthy son and myriad cousins sharing his royal blood. In contrast, the Beauforts were products of an illicit liaison generations back between a Lancastrian prince and his children’s governess. And, though in later life Margaret and her son were close both personally and politically, for much of Henry’s youth her maternal style can best be described as ‘hands off’ – arguably, emotionally neglectful. Little wonder, given the circumstances of Henry’s birth.
Today we would consider Margaret a victim of child abuse. Her marriage to Henry’s father, Edmund Tudor, Earl of Richmond, took place when she was about 12 – the age of consent for medieval girls (for boys it was 14). This was her second marriage, her first having been dissolved in 1453, during a period of political turmoil.
Even in the 15th century, when marriages were arranged for cradle-bound babies, it was highly unusual for unions to be consummated before a bride was 16, and 20 was the average age of first pregnancy for most noblewomen. For good reason: medieval women’s bodies were still developing until then, and early childbirth was far likelier to end in stillbirth, maternal death or physically damaging complications. In later life, Margaret’s confessor, John Fisher, alluded to how underdeveloped Margaret had been when she gave birth, writing: “She is… a woman not of a great stature, but at that time it is said she was much smaller still, to such a degree that it almost seemed a miracle at her age that so little a body could bring forth a child at all.”
Margaret was forced into motherhood so that her husband could claim her considerable inheritance. Her father had died before her first birthday, leaving her an heiress worth, in modern terms, hundreds of thousands of pounds a year – and with a distant royal claim that had seen her welcomed to court as the king’s “right well-beloved cousin”. Ironically, Edmund Tudor died before his child was born, leaving Margaret to face childbirth alone, half a kingdom away from her family, whose main seat was in Lincolnshire.
- Read more | The rise of Henry VII: how a life of cheating death prepared him for the throne as the first Tudor king
Given the trauma of this experience, it is understandable that Margaret left her baby as soon as was physically possible and set out to regain control of her life. Barely three months after leaving Pembroke Castle, she was betrothed again; before her son’s first birthday, Margaret remarried and moved back to Lincolnshire. Henry’s wardship was granted to his uncle, Jasper Tudor, and later to the Yorkist William Herbert. Henry would remain in the care of these Welsh lords, 300 miles from his mother, until he was 14.
Meanwhile, Margaret – still not yet 15 – was on her third marriage. She had reasserted the security torn from her by the marriage to Edmund Tudor. Her new husband, Sir Harry Stafford, was at least a decade older than her, but respectful and affectionate. Their household accounts show the couple working and travelling together, with thoughtful exchanges of anniversary and New Year gifts. In his will, Harry called Margaret his “best beloved wife”.
Margaret was welcomed with open arms by the Stafford clan, especially Harry’s politically astute mother, Anne, Duchess of Buckingham, who took “my daughter Richmond” under her wing and protected her interests at court. Most happily of all for Margaret, the Stafford marriage brought her back to her own adored mother and half-siblings, close to the estates where she had grown up. It must almost have felt to Margaret as if the last few terrible years – encompassing marriage, widowhood and childbirth – had never happened.
Distant mother
It was not unusual for medieval children to grow up apart from their parents, but it is noteworthy – given that both Margaret and Henry grew up without fathers – that, whereas she lived with her mother until adolescence, she left her son shortly after birth. And though there is little surviving evidence for the first decade of Henry’s life, it is unclear if mother and son were in contact. Margaret did not return to Wales for almost a decade. Perhaps she rationalised that she was acting in her son’s interests; he was a boy, in need of male role models. Given the violent turbulence of this period, though, it is significant that Margaret kept her distance.
She had chosen her alliance with the Staffords because, with civil war looming, they represented a dominant, stabilising force. But even they could not keep the incompetent Henry VI on his throne. In March 1461, he was deposed in favour of his charismatic young kinsman, Edward of York.
Margaret and her relatives quickly came to terms with the new king, Edward IV, but her brother-in-law, Jasper Tudor, was a diehard Lancastrian whose rebellions incited Yorkist reprisals. Pembroke Castle was besieged, with Margaret’s son, Henry, inside. Fortunately, as titular Earl of Richmond, Henry was a valuable commodity. His life was spared and his wardship granted to a leading Welsh Yorkist, William Herbert. There is no sign that Margaret protested; perhaps she could not cope emotionally with the responsibility of mothering a child after enduring so much at such a young age.
Mother and son would not meet again until Henry was 10. The causes of their parting and ultimate reunion probably stemmed from the same root: Margaret hoped that she and Harry Stafford would have children of their own. But Henry’s birth had scarred her physically and psychologically, and as years passed it became clear that he would be her only child. Only when confronted with this realisation did Margaret belatedly seek to re-establish a relationship with her son. In September 1467, she returned to Wales for the first time since her remarriage, spending a week with Henry at Raglan Castle. He had grown tall and serious, with her capacity for quick learning. Perhaps she saw in his appearance and character glimpses of herself or her half-siblings – and perhaps, less comfortably, of Edmund Tudor.
The visit to Raglan marked the beginning of Margaret’s self-identity as Henry’s mother, but she was no closer to taking physical possession of her child. Two years later, after another outbreak of civil war, she attempted to regain legal control of her son. When William Herbert was executed after the battle of Edgecote in 1469, Margaret struggled to assemble lost legal documents; to reassert her guardianship of Henry, she convened assignations in the manor houses of aristocrats, and with lawyers in alehouses. Mother and son were reunited briefly in 1470, touring London and Surrey together, indulging their shared love of hunting. Presumably they discussed Margaret’s hope of regaining Henry’s birthright, which had been stripped from him and parcelled out to leading Yorkists – not the crown, which was still entirely outside her aspirations, but the earldom of Richmond.
Dangerous blood
The same forces that reunited Margaret and Henry also drove them apart. The internecine chaos unleashed on England in 1469 was finally resolved in 1471, when Edward IV conclusively vanquished his rivals in battle. Henry VI and his teenage son were killed. So, too, were several of Margaret’s Beaufort cousins and, within a few years, even Edward’s Lancastrian former brother-in-law, the Duke of Exeter. Suddenly, the possession of Lancastrian blood, no matter how thin, was dangerous. According to the Tudor poet Bernard André, Margaret advised Henry to flee into exile with his uncle Jasper: “Unless my imagination or maternal instinct deceives me… [Henry’s] life will be safer on the ocean’s waves than in this tempest on land.”
In September 1471, Henry and Jasper sought asylum in Brittany, where they remained until 1483. Meanwhile, Margaret was left in limbo. Alive to the dangers inherent in Henry’s distant royal claim and traditional family loyalties, she warned him not to return to England until she had assurances for his safety. Mother and son could communicate only through intermediaries, trusted servants who braved the Channel crossing.
Margaret demonstrated a profound sense of responsibility to Henry. The rightful Earl of Richmond was heir to a proud inheritance and, as any medieval aristocrat would, she fervently believed that her son should claim it.
But it wasn’t until 1482, when Henry was 25, that making such a claim seemed possible. The death of her mother, and the ensuing business of settling her estate, enabled Margaret to cut a deal with Edward IV to bring Henry home safely. On 3 June 1482, Edward and Margaret publicly agreed that, if Henry returned “in the grace and favour of the king’s highness”, he could claim his grandmother’s substantial West Country estates. An undated pardon now in the archives of Westminster Abbey suggests that this may have been a precursor to the restoration of Henry’s earldom.
More privately – though loud enough that several leading courtiers later reported it – Margaret and Edward discussed how they were “related in the fourth… degrees of kindred”. This was almost certainly the first step in arranging a marriage between Henry and one of Edward’s daughters which, because of their relation, would demand a papal dispensation. Margaret, always less risk-averse than the men in her life, was willing to gamble her son’s life for this bright future. Unfortunately, 11 years of political exile had left Henry paranoid, and even these substantial guarantees did not convince him that he would be safe. He refused to return.
Then political upheaval simultaneously dashed Margaret’s careful plans and enabled her to contemplate a future for her son that would have previously been inconceivable.
Maternal kingmaker
Margaret’s hopes of regaining Henry’s Richmond inheritance were thwarted when, in April 1483, Edward IV died unexpectedly. With two adolescent sons, Edward’s dynasty should have been assured. Instead, his brother Richard detained those young princes and claimed the throne himself. A contemporary eyewitness reported that the princes “were withdrawn into the inner apartments of the Tower proper, and day by day began to be seen more rarely behind the bars and windows, until at length they ceased to appear altogether”. It was rumoured that Richard had murdered them.
For Margaret, like much of the English nobility, Richard’s accession was an unanticipated complication. Her hoped-for marriage between Henry and a Yorkist princess was dead in the water, and the princesses had fled into sanctuary. Moreover, after Harry Stafford’s death in 1471, Margaret had remarried the northern lord Thomas Stanley, whose family were stalwarts of the regimes of Edward IV and his son. Over the years, the Stanleys had had several ugly confrontations with Richard. Indeed, Stanley was briefly arrested during Richard’s coup.
A pragmatist above all else, Stanley soon came to terms with Richard and so, apparently, did Margaret. But the circumstances of Richard’s accession had entirely changed the political landscape. Disaffected opponents plotted rebellion, and Margaret – whose territories stretched from Flintshire to Lincolnshire, Surrey to Devon – had myriad connections through whom she gained intelligence about these nascent conspiracies.
The anti-Ricardians were a disparate band. There were servants of Edward IV who hated his queen’s Woodville relatives; the Woodvilles themselves, fearing reprisals; attendants of the lost princes, jealous of missed opportunities or genuinely concerned for their charges; even Lancastrian stalwarts who wanted rid of the Yorkists altogether.
Their very heterogeneity was a boon to Margaret. If the princes were dead – and by August it seemed they must be – then the rebellion needed a new figurehead. It needed to be an adult with royal blood and no loyalty to Richard – and, because they would have to fight for the crown, a male. Most of all, it needed to be someone impartial enough to unify these factions. In short: Henry Tudor. The exceptional circumstances of summer 1483 made it possible for the first time for Margaret to hope not merely for her son’s return but for his accession as king.
A lifetime of political and economic activity had readied her for this moment. Even the collapse of their first rebellion in autumn 1483, which left Margaret under house arrest and deprived of her fortune, could not cow her. She was linked by blood, marriage and loyalty not only to most of the nobility of the realm but also to the working men and women who served them. Her vast network of connections can be read in her memberships of religious guilds, gifts and letters exchanged with neighbours, favours recorded in her household accounts, payments to merchants and craftsmen who provided for her husbands and family, and in many more ways – scarcely tangible then and almost entirely lost now.
The loyalty of these associates to Margaret was longer-standing, and more immediately beneficial, than their allegiance to Richard III. When Margaret mobilised her network, she was able to gather considerable sums of money – and money meant weapons and manpower for Henry, which he used to invade and then defeat Richard in battle at Bosworth.
Thus the mother who had been absent from her son’s life for so long was essential to the success of the campaign that won him the throne. Margaret enabled Henry to be crowned Henry VII in 1485 – and so to re-enter her life and build a close, lasting relationship. In an undated letter as king, son told mother: “I am as much bound [to you] as any creature living, for the great and singular motherly love and affection that it hath pleased you at all times to bear towards me.”
Perhaps Margaret had not shown that affection “at all times” – mother and son both had a habit of rewriting their pasts to better suit their present circumstances. But, after a long, difficult journey, they ultimately built a relationship that proved unbreakable.
Lauren Johnson is a historian specialising in the 15th and early 16th centuries. Her new book is Margaret Beaufort: Survivor, Rebel, Kingmaker (Apollo, 2025)
This article was first published in the December 2025 issue of BBC History Magazine
]]>5 things you (probably) didn't know about the Tudorshttps://www.historyextra.com/membership/5-things-you-probably-didnt-know-about-the-tudors/2025-10-20T08:00:29.000Z1. The Tudors brought peace and prosperity to England
Bringing peace was probably the most important thing the Tudors did for us. The British countryside is littered with the sites of medieval battles – places where opposing forces stomped over crops, burned barns and rounded up people’s sons. For centuries, rival aristocrats made and broke alliances, and killed those who got in their way. Henry Tudor took the throne in exactly this way at Bosworth in 1485, when he persuaded a number of warlords to desert their king, Richard III. But there it stopped. Intrigue and power politics were thenceforth undertaken by more covert means. Everyone became a bit safer, the day-to-day became a bit more predictable, and lots of people got a little bit richer. Less war meant that more crops made it to market, more young men were available for work, and there was less damage done to buildings, less thievery with menaces and safer travel. In turn, this meant more trade and a greater willingness to invest. The peace the Tudors brought to their lands benefited all – rich and poor alike.
2. Henry VIII was a reluctant reformer
When the Tudors came to power, the Catholic church was already struggling to maintain its grip upon the minds and souls of Europe. New ideas about the nature of God and the state of Christianity were circulating. So when Henry VIII lost patience with the pope, there were plenty of people delighted by the opportunity to rethink England’s official religious position.
Henry himself seems to have been happy to leave the religion as was. He just wanted the power and money the pope had been leveraging from his kingdom. He was quickly convinced, though, that he should also have the money and assets of the monasteries. A significant number of influential and vocal people wanted much more, however, pushing for a ‘purer’ form of Christianity that did away with priests entirely and abandoned the rituals and traditions of Catholicism. Others, of course, wholeheartedly defended the time-honoured form of faith.
The result was a fracturing of society. Hundreds, both Protestant and Catholic, were executed for refusing to change their form of faith and follow the state-sponsored format – one that changed radically several times. But for all the death and fear, the upset and soul-searching, a new freedom of thought also emerged.
3. The Tudor era brought a rise in literacy
A few years before Henry Tudor took the throne, in 1476, William Caxton printed his first book on English soil. As printing presses became established and the price of books plummeted, reading became affordable to many more people. There was also more choice. Alongside religious texts, books of popular stories, advice manuals, joke books, medical texts and scandal sheets were published. At the same time, there was a new religious pressure for Britons to learn to read. The Protestant faith required its adherents to stop relying on priests and to read the Bible for themselves. This applied to everyone: shepherds and ploughmen as well as nobles and merchants – even women. Teaching people to read became a new religious duty and literacy rates started to climb.
4. They drove the expansion of industry
The Tudor monarchs – Elizabeth, in particular – were very keen to kickstart new industries and update old ones. In order to do this, specialist workers from Europe were encouraged to resettle on these shores. Some came as refugees fleeing religious persecution in France and the Low Countries, bringing new textile-making skills. Others were purely economic migrants with mining expertise or knowledge of new glassblowing and brass-founding techniques. The strategy worked – and these new arrivals provided the core of know-how and experience around which English industry could grow.
5. The health of the nation improved
Rates of fatal illness fell during the Tudor period – though this was the result of sheer luck, as certain major diseases mutated into less virulent forms. When a new, often lethal form of the plague arrived in England in 1348 – the Black Death – it killed around a third of the population, suddenly and catastrophically. Plague returned to Britain many times over the centuries that followed but, by the start of the Tudor era, the outbreaks were becoming smaller and more people were surviving. Meanwhile, another major killer known as the sweating sickness – a mysterious disease causing rapidly developing symptoms including shivers, headaches, dizziness, pains and, soon afterwards, sweating and commonly death – came and went. The first epidemic broke out in 1485, just as the Tudor era was beginning, and the last came in 1551, after which it apparently vanished completely. With both of these big killers in retreat, the population began to grow.
Ruth Goodman is a social and domestic historian and broadcaster. Her books include How to Be a Tudor (Viking, 2015)
This article was first published in the December 2025 issue of BBC History Magazine
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]]>Tudors in turmoil: deciphering Hans Holbein’s masterwork The Ambassadorshttps://www.historyextra.com/membership/tudors-in-turmoil-deciphering-the-ambassadors/2025-06-17T08:00:52.000ZEurope was teetering on the brink of a major rift. Relations between England and continental powers, always fragile, were at risk of fracturing fatally. Often violent confrontations between the Catholic Church and burgeoning Protestant adherents were spreading like wildfire, and the English king seemed determined to add fuel to those flames. Tensions could scarcely be higher.
It was at that moment, in 1533, that Hans Holbein the Younger – the most celebrated court painter of the Tudor age – accepted a commission from a recently arrived visitor to the English court. A portrait would be produced, celebrating the wealth of those depicted. But in its extraordinary details, some more obscure and cryptic than others, the picture also reveals important aspects of the sitters and the tempestuous era in which it was painted. As London’s National Gallery celebrates the reopening of its Sainsbury Wing and a major redisplay of its collection, it seems like an apposite moment to take a fresh look at this masterful painting and the turbulent year that spawned it.
In the eye of the storm
Henry VIII, king since 1509, had recently defied the pope by setting aside his first wife, Catherine of Aragon, to marry Anne Boleyn, the woman who had captivated him for the previous seven years. This sparked a seismic shift in England’s religious, political and social life that would reverberate down the centuries.
Jean de Dinteville, ambassador of Henry VIII’s great rival, Francis I of France, instructed Holbein to capture this extraordinary moment with a portrait of himself and his fellow diplomat Georges de Selve, both of whom were caught in the eye of the gathering storm. The result would become one of the artist’s most celebrated works.
Dinteville, then aged 28, was a member of one of the most influential families in France. His first embassy to England had been in 1531, the year when Henry was granted the title of supreme head of the English church. With the king of England now on the verge of severing all ties with Rome for good, the stakes were even higher on Dinteville’s second visit in 1533. It was vital for his royal master to receive accurate information about events in England as they unfolded.
It was not a task that he accepted with any relish. He would have preferred to stay at home in his château of Polisy in the picturesque region of Champagne, close to the city of Troyes, south-east of Paris.
Upon arriving in London, Dinteville was lodged in Bridewell Palace on the banks of the Fleet river, the usual residence for French ambassadors. The splendour of his surroundings provided cold comfort. His correspondence is full of complaints about the English weather, and he was ill for most of his stay with an affliction similar to malaria. In a letter, he assured his brother that his illness was not serious, but wryly remarked: “You know how I love this country. I truly believe that as long as I am here, I shall never be entirely healthy.”
The misery of Dinteville’s stay was alleviated in April 1533 by the arrival of Georges de Selve. As well as being bishop of Lavaur, de Selve served as ambassador to Emperor Charles V, the Venetian Republic and the Holy See. Being a cleric, de Selve was deeply affected by the religious divisions in Europe, and had witnessed the repression of Lutheranism (which became known as Protestantism) in German districts in recent years. It is not known how the two ambassadors – who were of similar ages – knew each other, but the affection with which Dinteville wrote of de Selve, and the fact that he commissioned a portrait of them together, suggests friendship, even intimacy.
By the time of de Selve’s arrival in England, religious tensions had worsened and the political situation was on a knife edge. In May 1533, Henry VIII’s marriage to Catherine of Aragon was finally annulled and Anne Boleyn was confirmed as his legitimate queen by Thomas Cranmer, archbishop of Canterbury. For all the elaborate cordiality between the kings of England and France, their alliance was now under threat – which destabilised the entire power balance in Europe.
It is not clear exactly when Dinteville commissioned Holbein to paint the double portrait, but de Selve had left England by early June so it must have been before then.
Swirling upheaval
Holbein came from a family of artists in Augsburg, southern Germany. He had first visited England in 1526 under the patronage of Thomas More, one of the most influential members of Henry VIII’s court. As well as undertaking portraits of More and his family, Holbein worked as a decorative painter at the royal court. His fame spread and, by the time he returned to England in 1532 (or possibly 1531), he was inundated with commissions. These included designs for table fountains and fireplaces, goldsmith’s work and other embellishments for the king’s palaces, as well as the portraits and miniatures of prominent courtiers for which he is best known today.
Dinteville’s commission, though, would be unlike any that Holbein had undertaken in England before then. The ambassador clearly intended the painting to be very different from the conventional portraits of prominent figures that had become the artist’s stock-in-trade at the Tudor court. Laden with clues, iconography and messages, it reflects a very particular and pivotal moment in time. England and Europe stood on the edge of a precipice, with religious turmoil, political and social upheaval swirling below. Dinteville knew that events were rapidly spiralling out of control; here, suspended in the painting, they would be captured for posterity in symbols, their complexities hidden in plain sight for future generations to discover.
It is highly unlikely that Dinteville and de Selve ever posed for the portrait in the sumptuous and complex interior featured in the finished composition. Already accustomed to working with busy courtiers who had little time to sit, Holbein preferred to construct his paintings piecemeal, making numerous preparatory drawings and sketching the sitters from life so that their presence was not required during the longer process of painting.
We don’t know how long it took Holbein to paint The Ambassadors, but he was in great demand as an artist and completed a number of other works in 1533, so it’s likely that he worked quickly. He took various shortcuts, such as the inclusion of a green curtain as a backdrop – a device that he had used in his paintings since the 1520s. The tiled floor that appears in the foreground was painted quite simply, and the tufts of the oriental carpet were created with a thick brush, possibly for speed as well as for effect.
The finished portrait, though, was breathtaking. Measuring just over 2 metres square, it is one of the largest paintings Holbein ever produced – and one of the most unusual and intriguing. The two ambassadors dominate the composition. In contrast with the head-and-shoulders portraits popular with Henry’s courtiers, the men are shown full-length, standing on either side of a piece of furniture with two shelves. Their stances, each with an arm resting on the carpet that covers the shelves, seems to invite the viewer to study the objects displayed. These include scientific, astronomical and musical instruments: items on the upper shelf relate to the heavens, those on the lower to the Earth.
In creating the double portrait, Holbein showcased an array of painting techniques that he had refined during his career to date. The sumptuousness of Dinteville’s clothes, with the sheen of his pink satin doublet and the play of light on the folds of the material, appears exquisitely lifelike. In contrast, de Selve is dressed in sombre colours, which was typical of many of Holbein’s sitters in the 1530s – notably Henry VIII’s chief minister, Thomas Cromwell, who had sat for the artist within the past year. However, the result is just as rich in depth and texture. Holbein also showed off his technique for decorative gilding to dazzling effect, picking out details such as Dinteville’s chain, hat badge and dagger sheath.
There is no record of Dinteville’s reaction to the finished painting, nor of who else might have seen it. Dinteville attended Anne Boleyn’s coronation on 1 June, and was instructed by Francis I to remain in England until the birth of her child, to whom his master had agreed to be godfather. On 7 September 1533, though, the new queen gave birth not to the hoped-for boy but to a girl – the future Elizabeth I.
“The King’s mistress was delivered of a daughter, to the great regret both of him and the lady,” reported the gleeful imperial ambassador, Eustace Chapuys. The celebratory jousts and fireworks were quietly cancelled, and the French king was no longer expected to stand as godfather to a mere princess.
Dinteville left England two months later, returning to his home at Polisy. Though he almost certainly took The Ambassadors with him, the first recorded reference to it at the château is dated more than 50 years later – by which time Dinteville was long dead. The painting was later taken to England during the tumult of the French Revolution. It was acquired by the 2nd Earl of Radnor for the gallery of his Wiltshire home, Longford Castle, and then sold by the 5th Earl to London’s National Gallery in 1890.
- Read more | The swordplay’s the thing: Henry VIII's Masters of Defence and the thrilling world of 16th-century fencing
Mystery men
After some restoration work, The Ambassadors went on public display. The intense interest in the painting sparked debate about the identity of the sitters, which was not known at the time. It was widely assumed that they were English, given that Holbein produced numerous portraits of Henry VIII and his courtiers. Various names were put forward, including Anne Boleyn’s former companion and admirer, the poet Thomas Wyatt. It was thanks to detective work by the historian Mary Hervey, whose account of the painting was published in 1900, that both men were correctly identified. After sifting through numerous documents in French archives, she found a fragment of a 1653 inventory that correctly named the sitters.
The Ambassadors is now one of the most famous paintings in the National Gallery, and millions of visitors admire it each year. Although it’s not known who among Holbein’s contemporaries saw the finished work, it is tempting to speculate that it inspired Henry VIII to commission one of the most famous paintings of the Tudor era.
In 1536–37, Holbein painted a huge mural for the palace of Whitehall. It featured the king with his parents, Henry VII and Elizabeth of York, and his third wife, Jane Seymour, to whom he was betrothed a day after the execution of Anne Boleyn for adultery and treason in May 1536.
The original was lost in the fire that destroyed Whitehall in 1698, but Holbein’s sketch for it still survives in the National Portrait Gallery. Just like the sitters in The Ambassadors, Henry was painted full-length, and his broad frame and strident pose are reminiscent of Jean de Dinteville’s. This portrait became the most famous depiction of the Tudor king – and an enduring image of royal power.
The Ambassadors deciphered
The shepherd's sundial
The shepherd’s dial, a type of cylindrical sundial, appears to indicate a date of either 11 April or 15 August. On the former day in 1533, the court was told that Anne Boleyn would be accorded royal honours. However, the readings shown on this and other instruments in the painting can’t be relied upon, being dependent on sunlight but painted indoors. It’s possible Holbein intended the divergent times and dates to convey the message that Europe was out of joint – a world in transition.
The terrestrial globe
The terrestrial globe focuses on France – with Dinteville’s château, Polisy (spelt Policy, perhaps a pun on his diplomatic mission), in prime position. Centuries later, this would provide one of the most important clues to the identity of the sitter. Paris is shown as well (spelt with a ‘B’, which might be how Holbein pronounced it), along with Lyon, where the French court was also based. Europe is shown upside down – a reference, perhaps, to the religious turmoil sparked by the Reformation.
The broken lute
Another clue that this is no ordinary composition, the broken lute (on the table, centre-right) string symbolises discord. One flute is missing from the nearby case, inferring a lack of harmony; the music of flutes was also commonly associated with war. Left of the lute sits a German arithmetic book, propped open with a set square at a page about division – it begins with the word Dividirt (‘let division be made’).
The Lutheran hymnbook
It was dangerous to possess a Lutheran hymnbook like this (pictured open, on the right-hand side of the centre table) in England or France at the time, so it was probably there to convey a message about religious division. The hymns shown are not in the right place according to the original book on which this is based, suggesting disorder. Both were traditional Catholic anthems, but were published in German at the Lutheran town of Wittenberg in 1524. This may indicate Georges de Selve’s desire to bring together the warring sides of the church.
The skull
Viewed from below and left, this large anamorphic element snaps into view as a human skull. Dinteville’s personal motto was: ‘Remember thou shalt die.’ (His hat badge also features a skull.) Peeking out from the top left-hand corner of the painting, partially concealed by the green curtain, is a silver crucifix. This symbol of salvation and eternal life offered hope to Christians everywhere, Catholics and Protestants alike.
The exquisite pavement
The two ambassadors stand on an exquisite pavement inlaid with coloured stones set in an elaborate geometric design. It’s reminiscent of the Cosmati Pavement before the high altar in Westminster Abbey, named after the 13th-century Italian family of marble workers who completed it for Henry III in 1268. Dinteville would certainly have seen this pavement – because it was in that precise location that Anne Boleyn was crowned on 1 June 1533.
This article was first published in the June 2025 issue of BBC History Magazine
]]>Historical anniversaries | Junehttps://www.historyextra.com/on-this-day/this-month-in-history-historical-anniversaries-june/2025-06-01T05:00:00.000Z1 June
1670: Henrietta, Duchess of Orleans, brokers the Secret Treaty of Dover
Under the terms of the deal that Henrietta arranged at Dover, her rich brother-in-law, Louis XIV, would pay Charles II, her brother, £230,000 a year, while Charles would send 60 ships and 4,000 infantry to help the French in their war against the Dutch.
Then came an even more shocking detail. Charles, who had long been a Catholic sympathiser but had kept it secret so as not to alienate his Protestant subjects, promised to come out as a Catholic convert. In return, France would pay him an extra £160,000 and intervene if his people rebelled against him.
2 June
1962: The ‘battle of Santiago’
Chile beat Italy 2–0 in an ill-tempered World Cup group match, which saw numerous fights, police intervention and two Italian players sent off. The British referee, Ken Aston, is said to have later observed: “I wasn’t reffing a football match. I was acting as an umpire in military manoeuvres.”
- On the podcast | World Cup history: everything you wanted to know
3 June
1937: Edward VIII and Wallis Simpson marry
Six months after Edward VIII had abdicated the British throne in order to marry the woman he loved, he was united, once and for all, with Wallis Simpson. The venue was the Chateau de Candé, near Tours, which was owned by the half-American millionaire Charles Bedaux.
4 June
1989: Hundreds die in Tiananmen Square
In the early hours of 4 June, the army cleared the square by force. Government officials initially claimed the action resulted in no deaths – later revised to about 200; other estimates suggest that as many as 1,000 people lost their lives. Either way, the result was the same: the protesters had been defeated.
5 June
1832: Angry Parisians man the barricades in a two-day uprising against the Orleanist king Louis-Philippe
The June Rebellion was triggered by the food shortages of the late 1820s, a devastating cholera epidemic and the death of the popular general Jean Lamarque, who had become a hero to the working classes of Paris. At his funeral on 5 June, republican demonstrators rallied the crowds, waving red flags and calling for “liberty or death”. The mood turned ugly, and by the evening rioters had taken control of much of central and eastern Paris, throwing up barricades.
6 June
1513: The Swiss defeats the French at the battle of Novara in Northern Italy
This forced Louis XII of France to abandon his attempt to control Milan.
Famous births in June
7 June 1811
James Young Simpson, Scottish doctor who discovered the anaesthetic qualities of chloroform
8 June 1810
Robert Schumann, German Romantic compose
9 June 1812
Johann Gottfried Galle, German astronomer
10 June 1913
Edward Penley Abraham, English biochemist
11 June 1832
Lucy Holcombe Pickens, socialite and archetypal ‘Southern Belle’
13 June 1831
James Clerk Maxwell, physicist and mathematician
13 June 1910
Mary Whitehouse, campaigner against what she saw as declining moral standards on TV and radio and founder of the National Viewers and Listeners Association
14 June 1811
Harriet Beecher Stowe, abolitionist and writer
15 June 1330
Edward the Black Prince, the eldest son of King Edward III and Philippa of Hainault
15 June 1843
Edvard Hagerup Grieg, composer and pianist
18 June 1511
Bartolomeo Ammannati, architect and sculptor
19 June 1623
Blaise Pascal, scientist, mathematician and philosopher
20 June 1763
Theobald Wolfe Tone, Irish nationalist and political writer
20 June 1912
Anthony Malcolm Buckeridge, children’s author
23 June 1763
Marie Josèphe Rose Tascher de La Pagerie, wife of Napoleon Bonaparte
23 June 1910
Jean Anouilh, French dramatist
24 June 1850
Herbert Kitchener, British soldier
25 June 1799
David Douglas, Scottish traveller and botanist
27 June 1462
Future Louis XII of France
27 June 1880
Helen Keller, author, political activist, lecturer, and the first deaf-blind person to be awarded a bachelor of arts degree
28 June 1712
Jean-Jacques Rousseau, philosopher and composer
29 June 1911
Bernard Herrmann, composer and frequent collaborator with film director Alfred Hitchcock
7 June
1512: The Marquess of Dorset lands in Spain with 10,000 men to join Ferdinand of Aragon in an attack on France
In fact, Ferdinand was more interested in securing Navarre, and the expedition achieved nothing.
8 June
1929: Margaret Bondfield becomes Britain’s first female cabinet minister
Former shop worker Margaret Bondfield is appointed minister of labour in Ramsay MacDonald’s new government.
9 June
1865: Charles Dickens survives a deadly train crash
At 3.13pm, as Dickens’ train sped across a viaduct at Staplehurst, it hit a missing section of the track, which had been removed by workmen. The train was thrown into the air, plunging seven carriages into the quagmire below. Dickens’s carriage was dragged partially off the bridge.
- Read more | The history of railways in Britain
Luckily, the author was able to clamber free. He then rushed to the carcass of the crushed train to offer his help. He must have been greeted by a shocking scene: 10 passengers had died in the crash and 40 more were injured.
10 June
1190: One of medieval Europe’s most powerful crusaders, Barbarossa, drowns, leaving his army in disarray
On 10 June, Frederick Barbarossa’s army was just outside Silifke, in southern Turkey, and attempting to cross the river Saleph, when something went terribly wrong. Medieval chroniclers told different stories: some said the emperor had decided to go for a dip to cool off on a sweltering day, but others said that he had been leading his troops across the ford when his horse slipped and threw him into the cold water. Some claimed that Barbarossa drowned, others that he died from a heart attack brought on by the shock.
11 June
323 BC: Alexander the Great dies
Accounts of Alexander’s death differ widely. The most popular, told by the historian Plutarch, holds that he was taken ill after a drinking session with his friend Medius of Larissa. In the next few days, Alexander developed a fever. Although he managed to put in an appearance before his worried troops, his condition worsened until he could no longer speak. At last, some time in the night between 10 and 11 June, he died.
- Read more about the death of Alexander the Great
12 June
1942: Anne Frank is given a diary by her parents
Anne had seen the red-and-white autograph book in a shop a few days earlier and had pointed it out to her father. Like so many teenagers, she loved the thought of having a diary. “I hope I will be able to confide everything to you, as I have never been able to confide in anyone,” she wrote in her very first entry, “and I hope you will be a great source of comfort and support.”
So it proved. A month later, Anne’s family, who were Jewish, went into hiding. She kept up her diary until August 1944, when the family were arrested by the Nazis and sent to the camps. The following spring, she died of typhus in Bergen-Belsen.
13 June
1917: German bombs smash into a Poplar school
When the German bomber appeared overhead, there was no time to react. The bomb punched through the roof, killing a 13-year-old girl. It ploughed through the floor to the next level, mortally wounding a 12-year-old boy. Finally, it crashed into the infants’ classroom, where it exploded.
Sixteen infants were killed and several dozen injured. The survivors huddled sobbing in the playground, while the teachers went to search the building. It was a horrific scene, breaking the hearts of all who saw it.
14 June
1381: The archbishop of Canterbury loses his head
Rebels discovered Simon Sudbury, Archbishop of Canterbury (whom they regarded as one of their chief oppressors), cowering in the chapel of the White Tower.
Unfortunately for Sudbury, his captors weren’t in a merciful mood, and he was soon dragged away to Tower Hill to meet his maker. It allegedly took eight clumsy blows to remove his head, which was then paraded through the streets before being impaled on London Bridge.
15 June
1648: Margaret Jones is executed in Massachusetts for witchcraft
“At this court,” begins the 15 June 1648 entry in the journal of John Winthrop, governor of Massachusetts, “one Margaret Jones, of Charlestown, was indicted and found guilty of witchcraft, and hanged for it.”
Jones’s death marked the beginning of a witch-hunt craze that would claim the lives of around 80 New England colonists over the next century.
- Quiz | Would you have been accused of witchcraft?
16 June
1487: Henry VII decisively wins the last clash in the Wars of the Roses at the battle of Stokes Field
Although Lincoln’s mercenaries carried the latest continental firearms, the king’s archers proved decisive, their arrows raining mercilessly down onto the Yorkist ranks, with one chronicler likening the stricken men to hedgehogs. By the end of the battle, the Yorkists had turned and fled, many of them butchered in a gully known afterwards as the Bloody Gutter. The death toll may have been higher than 4,000. Now the civil wars really were over.
17 June
1462: Vlad the Impaler massacres 15,000
In the early hours of 17 June, Vlad attacked, accompanied by several thousand of his best men. As one Wallachian veteran later recalled: “During the entire night he sped like lightning in every direction and caused great slaughter.” The fighting went on until four in the morning, leaving the Ottoman army in utter consternation. And then, according to the Wallachian veteran, Vlad “returned to the same mountain from which he had come. No one dared pursue him, since he had caused such terror and turmoil”.
In Romania, the Night Attack of Târgoviste is remembered as a national triumph. But it also cemented Vlad’s reputation as one of the most fearsome warriors of the age.
18 June
1178: Monks witness an extraordinary lunar event
Some time after sunset, the monks had noticed something extraordinary in the sky. “Now,” Gervase of Canterbury wrote, “there was a bright new moon... its horns were tilted toward the east; and suddenly the upper horn split in two. From the midpoint of the division a flaming torch sprang up, spewing out, over a considerable distance, fire, hot coals, and sparks. Meanwhile the body of the moon which was below writhed, as it were, in anxiety, and to put it in the words of those who reported it to me and saw it with their own eyes, the moon throbbed like a wounded snake.”
Today, many lunar experts believe the monks had been watching the formation of the moon’s enormous Giordano Bruno crater, named after an Italian philosopher. It was probably created by the impact of an asteroid or comet, which would explain the burst of molten matter seen by the monks – though they, of course, had no way of understanding what it was they had witnessed.
19 June
1829: Establishment of the Metropolitan Police
Parliament passes Home Secretary Robert Peel’s ‘Act for improving the Police in and near the Metropolis’.
Famous deaths in June
4 June 1941
Wilhelm II, former German kaiser
9 June 1870
Charles Dickens, writer
11 June 1183
Henry ‘the Young King’, son and heir of King Henry II
11 June 1970
Alexander Kerensky, leader of the Russian provisional government in 1917
14 June 1883
Edward FitzGerald, poet, student of the battle of Naseby and translator
16 June 1929
Bramwell Booth, eldest son of William Booth, the founder of the Salvation Army
17 June 1862
Charles, 1st Earl Canning, governor-general of India during the mutiny of the Bengal army in 1857
23 June 1839
Lady Hester Stanhope, society hostess and niece of Pitt the Younger
25 June 1533
Mary Tudor, widow of Louis XII of France and wife of Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk
25 June 1912
Sir Lawrence Alma-Tadema, Dutch-born classical painter
27 June 1831
Sophie Germain, French mathematician
29 June 1509
Lady Margaret Beaufort, widow of Edmund Tudor and mother of Henry VII
30 June 1660
William Oughtred, English mathematician
20 June
1837: Victoria becomes queen
Victoria recorded in her diary: “The archbishop of Canterbury and Lord Conyngham were here and wished to see me. I got out of bed and went into my sitting-room (only in my dressing gown) and alone, and saw them. Lord Conyngham then acquainted me that my poor uncle, the king, was no more, and had expired at 12 minutes past two this morning, and consequently that I am queen.”
21 June
1529: Catherine of Aragon causes a courtroom sensation
“Sir,” she implored, “I beseech you for all the loves there hath been between us, and for the love of God, let me have justice. Take of me some pity and compassion.” The spectators sat in silence, listening to the queen pleading on her knees in her deep Spanish accent. “I take God and all the world,” she said, “to witness that I have been to you a true, humble and obedient wife, ever comfortable to your will and pleasure.”
22 June
1948: The Windrush arrives at Tilbury
On a grey, misty day in June 1948, a former German passenger liner arrived at Tilbury docks on the Thames Estuary – to a storm of media attention.
23 June
1940: Hitler tours Paris
To Speer, the Nazis’ chief architect, Hitler waxed lyrical about the beauties of the French capital. But he was determined that Germany could do better. “Berlin,” he said later, “must be more beautiful. When we are finished in Berlin, Paris will be only a shadow.”
24 June
1981: The Humber Bridge opens for traffic
Linking Yorkshire and Lincolnshire it was, at the time of its opening, the world’s longest single span suspension bridge.
25 June
1876: General Custer meets his match at Little Bighorn
What exactly happened at Little Bighorn will never be known. Confident that he had found Sitting Bull’s camp, General Custer divided his troops into three, hoping to cut his opponents off. But the initial assault went wrong and after less than an hour, Custer found himself trapped on the hill above the river, at the mercy of a vast force of war-whooping Sioux fighters.
Because there were few survivors, we do not even know exactly how he died. Some say he was cut down by an enemy bullet; others that he was wounded and then shot by his brother to spare him from agonising torture. Either way, the battle brought the end of Custer’s life – and the beginning of his legend.
26 June
AD 363: A Persian spear fells Roman Emperor Julian
On 26 June, Julian had thrown himself into a fray after marching on the Persian capital of Ctesiphon, wrote Ammianus Marcellinus, a historian on the emperor’s military staff, “when suddenly a cavalry spear, grazing the skin of his arm, pierced his side and fixed itself in the bottom of his liver”.
27 June
1954: Brazil and Hungary’s World Cup quarter-final descends into an all-out brawl
“Never in my life have I seen such cruel tackling, the cutting down of opponents as if with a scythe, followed by threatening attitudes and sly jabs when officialdom was engaged elsewhere,” reported The Times correspondent.
At the final whistle, the Brazilians once again invaded the pitch, and the fighting in the dressing room was so intense that Hungary’s manager needed four stitches in his face. For the referee, Arthur Ellis from Halifax, the events that day were a terrible disappointment: “I thought it was going to be the greatest game I’d ever see. I was on top of the world,” he said later. “Whether politics and religion had something to do with it I don’t know, but they behaved like animals.”
28 June
1846: The saxophone is invented
Having devised instruments such as the saxhorn and the saxotromba, Belgian inventor Adolphe Sax hits the jackpot with his patent for a single-reed instrument made of brass. Once again he names it after himself – the saxophone.
29 June
1613: The Globe theatre burns to the ground
The production company clearly wanted the play All Is True – which centres on Henry’s marriage to Catherine of Aragon – to go off with a bang. And so, at a climactic moment in the performance, a cannon was fired towards the theatre’s famous open roof.
The explosion certainly made an impact, but for all the wrong reasons. Sparks set the thick thatched roof smouldering and, before long, smoke was creeping through the rafters. At first, nobody in the crowd seemed to notice – according to one onlooker, “their eyes [were] more attentive to the show” – but soon the fire had become impossible to ignore.
Remarkably, nobody was hurt in the blaze, though one man’s breeches caught alight (his skin was literally saved when someone soaked him in beer).
The Globe itself wasn’t so lucky and the inferno quickly swept through the building. The theatre that had been built by Shakespeare’s playing company in 1599, and had puton some of his most famous plays, was burned to cinders.
30 June
1934: Hitler tightens his grip on power through a spate of ruthless killings
In a brutal purge known as the Night of the Long Knives, dozens, possibly hundreds of people were killed. The victims included not just the SA leadership, but old Nazi comrades who had fallen out with Hitler, senior figures in the Catholic Centre Party and, most famously, Hitler’s predecessor as Germany’s chancellor, General Kurt von Schleicher. Röhm himself was shot after refusing to commit suicide. Now Hitler’s power was unchecked. For as he boasted to the Reichstag, the Night of the Long Knives had confirmed his status as “the supreme judge of the German people”.
Find out about anniversaries in previous months...
]]>Edward of Warwick: the other prince in the towerhttps://www.historyextra.com/membership/edward-of-warwick-long-reads-podcast-sarah-norton/2024-12-09T07:30:35.000ZThe 1499 execution of Edward of Warwick snuffed out the final embers of the Wars of the Roses. In this Long Read written by Sarah Norton, we introduce the last male heir to the House of York – and explain why he “had to perish” to secure the crown for Henry VII.
HistoryExtra Long Reads brings you the best articles from BBC History Magazine, direct to your ears. Today’s feature originally appeared in the November 2024 issue, and has been voiced in partnership with the RNIB.
]]>The other prince in the Tower: the tragedy of Edward of Warwickhttps://www.historyextra.com/membership/edward-of-warwick-other-prince-in-the-tower-wars-of-the-roses-henry-vii-execution-why/2024-11-21T15:01:48.000ZOn 28 November 1499, Edward of Warwick – the 24-year-old heir to the House of York – finally left the Tower of London. It was only the third time in 14 years that he’d been outside the infamous Norman fortress – but he wasn’t able to appreciate the moment.
He was not striding out towards freedom but instead, flanked by two men, being marched the short distance to Tower Hill, where an executioner waited on a temporary wooden scaffold. Between two and three o’clock in the afternoon, Warwick was beheaded for treason.
His execution marked the culmination of years of political instability. For much of the 15th century, England had been embroiled in civil war as the houses of York and Lancaster vied for the throne. After Henry Tudor took the crown from Richard III in 1485, Warwick was taken to the Tower, aged just 10.
He was not the first Yorkist prince to meet this fate, of course. His cousins, the better-known princes in the Tower, had been similarly imprisoned here in 1483 – and their subsequent disappearance remains the most infamous cold case in medieval and early modern English history.
- Listen | All eight episodes of our podcast series, The Princes in the Tower: a Medieval Murder Mystery
In comparison, the story of Edward of Warwick has been largely overlooked – perhaps because of the absence of mystery and conspiracy in his tale, which is no less tragic. The “unhappy boy”, as he was called by contemporary Italian scholar and diplomat Polydore Vergil, was one of the longest-standing residents in the Tower’s near-thousand-year history.
So how did this third prince come to be in the Tower? To understand, we must go back to the beginning of his tale – because his execution brought to an end a lifetime of tumult. His story reflects the turbulent times through which he lived, when brother fought brother and cousin met cousin in battle.
Edward of Warwick: early life in the Wars of the Roses
On his birth in February 1475, Warwick was fourth in line to the throne. He was orphaned just days before his third birthday, when his father, George, Duke of Clarence, was executed for treason. Relations between George and his brother, Edward IV, had long been fraught. George had rebelled against the king once already, in 1470; though forgiven, he was never again fully trusted by that monarch.
Following his wife’s death in December 1476, several weeks after giving birth, George became convinced that she had been murdered by one of her ladies-in-waiting, Ankarette Twynho. Next April he had Ankarette abducted, tried and unlawfully executed – thereby infringing upon the rights of the king in exacting justice.
- Read more | The Wars of the Roses: the 15th-century clash of kings that heralded the dawn of the Tudor dynasty
George’s error was compounded weeks later when one of his retainers, Thomas Burdett, was arrested for necromancy and, despite his denials, was executed. The following day, George burst into the king’s council chamber to protest – which was the last straw in the brothers’ relationship.
Edward was in no mood to forgive George another transgression and, in a grim precursor to his son’s fate, George was arrested and kept in the Tower awaiting trial, at which he was found guilty of high treason. He was executed on 18 February 1478.
An act of attainder against Clarence stripped Warwick of his inheritance, and he was tainted by his father’s crime for the rest of his days, “barred from all right and claim to the crown”.
In 1480, care of the boy was given over to the king’s stepson, Thomas Grey, Marquess of Dorset, who paid £2,000 for Warwick’s wardship. Edward may have lived at the Tower during this time – Dorset was constable there for a period – but, if he did, it was certainly not as a prisoner.
He seems to have been cared for reasonably well despite his father’s treason: Edward IV’s wardrobe accounts show that the boy was given costly gifts. In summer 1481, he received “for his wear and use” nine pairs of shoes – four of the expensive, higher-quality double-soled kind – and a pair of “tawny Spanish leather” boots.
Was Edward of Warwick a threat to Richard III?
However, 15th-century English politics were nothing if not unpredictable. In April 1483, Edward IV died suddenly. His heir was Warwick’s cousin, the 12-year-old prince set to become King Edward V – but the boys’ uncle Richard moved to seize power.
In June, Edward IV’s children were declared illegitimate and, with Warwick also ineligible, Richard was next in line. Edward V, who was at the Tower while ostensibly preparing for his coronation, was joined there by his brother, Richard of York. They were never again seen beyond its walls.
- Read more | Philippa Langley on the Princes in the Tower: “It was clear we had to consider the possibility that they survived”
Though legally invalid, Warwick’s claim to the throne was stronger than his uncle’s, and an act of parliament could easily have reversed George’s attainder. But, rather than joining his cousins in the Tower, Warwick was moved to the royal household. He even attended Richard’s coronation on 6 July 1483.
The new king did not seem to view Warwick as a threat; indeed, Richard even seems to have begun planning for his future. Knighted in York that September, the boy was then moved to Sheriff Hutton in north Yorkshire. This was not a quiet, remote estate where he and other royal children lived in obscurity. On the contrary: in 1484, it was one of two administrative centres for Richard’s Council of the North, a body established to give subjects in that region access to the king’s justice, and one on which Warwick was even given a position.
The castle was essential for the running of the council and, though Warwick’s role was minimal – he was only nine years old – it was no doubt expected that it would increase as he grew older. Richard was clearly setting up his nephew for a position of importance in the north, and for a while Warwick’s future seemed bright.
What happened to Warwick under the Tudors?
That all changed when, in August 1485, Henry Tudor landed at Milford Haven on the Pembrokeshire coast. With an army of mercenaries and Lancastrians at his back, Henry made his way into England, meeting the king in battle at Bosworth Field.
Richard III was killed and, as the sun set on 22 August, the crown that – according to legend – had been found by the victor in a hawthorn bush now belonged to Henry VII.
Though still only 10 years old, Warwick represented one of the most significant threats to the new king. Despite the attainder, with the princes in the Tower missing, presumed dead, Warwick was next in line. He was taken into custody almost immediately and, as London prepared for another coronation, he was incarcerated in the Tower – for no crime save his royal blood.
Little is known about where Warwick was kept in the Tower, but chronicler Edward Hall wrote that he was kept “out of all company of men and sight of beasts”. Whereas the other princes in the Tower had been seen roaming the grounds and “taking the air” during the early stages of their stay in 1483, Warwick was not granted this liberty. Indeed, he would never taste true freedom again.
What did Warwick have to do with Lambert Simnel?
It is testament to the security under which he was kept that the first pretender to Henry VII’s throne initially claimed to be Warwick, escaped from captivity. That boy, later identified as Lambert Simnel, was also about 10 years old, and was guided by Richard Simons, an Oxford priest. Simons took the boy to Ireland, where Yorkist support could still be found and where, in May 1487, Simnel was crowned king at Christchurch Cathedral, Dublin.
Clearly, the real Warwick was so well sequestered that Simnel’s supporters had no trouble believing – or claiming to believe – that he was not imprisoned at all. But the episode also demonstrated that significant support could still be amassed for a Yorkist heir – even one whose claim was void. This was exactly why Warwick was being held in the Tower: even as a child with no legal right to the crown, his very existence threatened Henry VII.
To put to bed the “foolish notion that the boy was in Ireland”, Henry had the real Warwick paraded through London to St Paul’s Cathedral along a route lined with citizens. After hearing a sermon and – on Henry’s instruction – speaking to several men, Warwick then returned to the Tower.
This demonstration of his real location did not stop Simnel, though, who invaded England, reinforced by prominent Yorkists such as Warwick’s cousin John de la Pole, Earl of Lincoln. The matter came to a head in June 1487 at the battle of Stoke Field, where it is thought that as many as 7,000 died, Lincoln among them.
Simnel was captured and, having received a pardon in recognition of his young age, was sent to work in the royal kitchens. Warwick, however, remained in the Tower despite his innocence.
Perkin Warbeck, another princely pretender
In 1490, another pretender to Henry’s throne burst onto the political scene overseas. This was Perkin Warbeck, born in Tournai (today in Belgium), who claimed to be Richard of York, the younger of the princes in the Tower. He was endorsed by Charles VIII of France, James IV of Scotland, and Warwick’s aunt, Margaret of Burgundy.
Like Simnel before him, Warbeck tried to take the crown, invading England several times after 1491 – always unsuccessfully. In 1497, he landed in Cornwall and, though he was declared King Richard IV at Bodmin Moor, he was soon captured by the king’s forces and taken to the Tower.
After confessing that he was not really the son of Edward IV, Warbeck was – like Simnel – treated remarkably fairly by Henry VII. Not only was he moved to the royal household, he was even allowed to attend banquets. It was captivity of a different kind, yet one much more lenient than Warwick’s.
The contrast is stark: the latter had been imprisoned for over a decade, whereas those who had actively attempted to usurp the crown lived far more comfortably. Their lack of royal blood meant that, though Simnel and Warbeck had raised armies and invaded, Warwick remained the biggest threat to Henry’s security.
It was only when Warbeck tried to escape in 1498 that he was taken back to the Tower. Here his story intersects with Warwick’s, putting them both on a path to destruction.
In a rare glimpse of the latter’s character, he reportedly spoke to Warbeck through a hole in the ceiling, urging him to “be of good cheer and comfort”. In the event, he would have neither; within months, a plot was uncovered to break out both men, involving stealing from the treasury and blowing up the Tower’s gunpowder store.
On trial, Warwick reportedly confessed that he “consented to break prison and depart out of the realm with Perkin” – though, Hall noted, “because of his innocence... many men” doubted Warwick had agreed to the plot “of his own free will”.
Indeed, a life in seclusion may have led to naivety on Warwick’s part, and he may not have understood the full extent of what he was agreeing to when he was “made privy [to] the enterprise”.
Why was Edward of Warwick sentenced to death?
Both men were tried for treason, and Warwick was found guilty on 12 November 1499. The trial records state that he was to be “drawn and hanged” – the most brutal method of execution, reserved for traitors. Warbeck had been similarly sentenced. This did not come as a surprise. Some believed that the scheme had been “the king’s device” – that “Perkin was but his bait to entrap the Earl of Warwick”.
Though there is no evidence that the plot was fabricated, it is not outside the realms of possibility. At the time, Henry was negotiating the marriage of his eldest son, Arthur, to the Spanish princess Catherine of Aragon, whose parents were hesitant.
Francis Bacon later claimed that her father, Ferdinand II of Aragon, “had written to the king in plain terms, that he saw no assurance of [Arthur’s] succession as long as the Earl of Warwick lived; and that he was loth to send his daughter to troubles and dangers”. Hall, too, noted that Ferdinand “imagined that as long as any Earl of Warwick lived, England should never be cleansed or purged of civil war”.
To secure the alliance with Spain, Warwick had to die.
Why isn’t Warwick as well remembered as the Princes in the Tower?
On 23 November, Warbeck suffered a traitor’s death at Tyburn, and his head was set on a spike on London Bridge; Warwick’s nobility spared him this grisliest of punishments. Instead, his sentence was commuted to beheading on Tower Hill. Afterwards his body, “with the head laid into a coffin”, was taken for burial at Bisham Priory, the resting place of his Neville ancestors.
“The entire population mourned the death of the handsome youth,” Vergil wrote later, “who was committed to prison not for any fault of his own but because of his family’s offences.”
Despite reported public grief, there were no reprisals for Henry VII. Richard III had been maligned for the alleged murder of the other young royals, but there was no great uproar at the death of this third prince. It is impossible to say why, but perhaps it was because of his age. At 24, his death was tragic – but much less shocking than those of the princes in the Tower who, if they did indeed die in 1483, had been just 12 and 9 years old.
Perhaps, too, it was also because there were few left who could take up the Yorkist mantle. Though John de la Pole’s brothers Edmund (nicknamed the ‘White Rose’) and Richard (the ‘Last White Rose’) both tried, neither succeeded in raising the same kind of Yorkist spirit that tormented Henry VII in the latter years of the 15th century.
And though the Tudor quest for security would spill more Yorkist blood in the years to come, the direct male line of the House of York died with Warwick. In Vergil’s words, “Edward had to perish in this fashion in order that there should be no surviving male heir to his family”.
- Read more | The Tudors: 51 moments that shaped the royal dynasty
A life without freedom
Henry VII had paid for the Spanish alliance with Warwick’s blood – and it proved to be a poor investment. Arthur died in 1502, and in 1509 Catherine of Aragon married Henry VIII. But when Henry’s plan to divorce her was revealed, Catherine “used some words that she had not offended, but it was a judgment of God, for her former marriage was made in blood; meaning that of the Earl of Warwick”.
Though she argued that her marriage remained valid, Warwick’s death clearly lay heavy on her mind. Henry VII had justified the young man’s execution with the accusation of treason, but there remained some – like Catherine – who saw the tragedy in it.
For the sole reason that he was Clarence’s son, Warwick was forced to live a life without freedom – and, just like the thousands who died during the Wars of the Roses, ultimately lost it.
Sarah Norton is a historian specialising in kingship in the late Middle Ages and Tudor period
This article was first published in the November 2024 issue of BBC History Magazine
]]>Henry VII: the king they couldn't killhttps://www.historyextra.com/membership/henry-vii-podcast-long-reads-nathen-amin/2024-10-07T06:30:42.000ZWhy is Henry VII remembered as an intensely suspicious king, wracked by paranoia? According to Nathen Amin, the answer lies in his death-defying rise to power. In this Long Read, written by Nathen, we delve into the turbulent youth of the first Tudor monarch.
HistoryExtra Long Reads brings you the best articles from BBC History Magazine, direct to your ears. Today’s feature originally appeared in the September 2024 issue, and has been voiced in partnership with the RNIB.
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