Was it a tragic accident? A desperate suicide? Or something far more sinister?

In this special episode of the Tudor True Crime mini-series on History Hit’s podcast, Not Just the Tudors, Professor Suzannah Lipscomb steps into the shadows to investigate one of the most enduring mysteries of the Elizabethan age. She is joined by historian Dr Joanne Paul to sift through the evidence and the gossip, exploring why Amy’s death was a scandal that could have brought down a queen.

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A marriage under scrutiny

Amy Dudley (née Robsart) had the unfortunate distinction of being the main obstacle to the most scandalous potential romance in Tudor England. Married to Robert Dudley since they were teenagers, the couple’s relationship had been a complex one. While some sources suggest it was a genuine love match, the marriage came with significant political and economic advantages.

However, as Joanne explains, with the arrival of Elizabeth I on the throne in 1558, everything changed. Robert Dudley became Elizabeth’s Master of the Horse, a position of unparalleled closeness, and the two were inseparable. Rumours began to fly across Europe that the queen was courting him, and that he might even become her king. But there was one problem: his wife.

Amy and Robert had spent a significant amount of time apart since the beginning of Elizabeth’s reign. After more than a decade of marriage, they also remained childless, a significant pressure in an era where producing a family heir was paramount. There was also one fragment of a rumour that she may have had breast cancer. Amy had even been seen by her servants as deeply unhappy, praying nightly to be “delivered from her troubles.” This adds a haunting layer of tragedy to the events that would follow.

The day of her death

The circumstances of Amy’s death are as strange as they are suspicious. On that fateful day, Amy rose early and insisted that all of her servants leave the house to attend a nearby fair. Despite their protests, she became angry and demanded that they all go, leaving her completely alone. When the servants returned, they found her dead.

A coroner’s inquest was immediately called, and while it concluded her death was an accident, the details of the report raise more questions than they answer. Joanne reveals how the report, only rediscovered in 2008, notes not just the broken neck, but also two head wounds, one of which was an astonishing two inches deep.

Why were these head injuries downplayed by the coroner, John Pudsey, as the potential cause of death? Could these injuries have been sustained from a fall? Or did something else happen before she went down the stairs? 

Adding to the mystery is the account of Robert Dudley’s servant, Thomas Blunt, who was sent to investigate the death. His letters to Dudley reveal a town alive with gossip, and a nervous maid, Mrs Picto, who, in a slip of the tongue, denied the possibility of murder or suicide, then immediately tried to take back her words, saying “If you so should gather I’m sorry I said so much”.

The Death of Amy Robsart, as imagined by Victorian artist William Frederick Yeames, 1877

Tragic accident, suicide or murder?

The podcast delves into the possibilities of a tragic accident, suicide or murder, and the powerful motives behind a potential cover-up.

Suicide in the 16th century was considered a mortal sin, a betrayal of God’s gift of life that would lead to the posthumous conviction and excommunication of the deceased. It was a shame so profound that it would disgrace an entire family. This gives a great incentive for the coroner’s jury to rule Amy’s death an accident, even if they suspected otherwise.

But what about murder? Joanne explains that while Amy’s death didn’t immediately lead to a marriage with the Queen, it did end up benefiting one of the most powerful men in England: William Cecil. Before news of Amy’s death had even reached London, Cecil was already spreading rumours that she would be killed. The Spanish ambassador himself seemed convinced of a conspiracy.

Cecil, a man with a political, calculating mind, feared the prospect of Elizabeth marrying Dudley – a man whose family had been executed for treason. Cecil stood to gain a great deal from Dudley’s downfall, and he famously swooped in after Amy’s death to “comfort” him, a move that would lead to a much closer relationship between the two.

As Joanne explains to Suzannah, when studying the Tudors, it helps to “follow the power”, later pointing out how “it all seems to work out for Cecil in a way that if he didn’t plan it, it looks like he did”.

Left: Robert Dudley, c. 1560; Right: Portrait of William Cecil, c. after 1570

Image Credit: Left: Attributed to Steven van der Meulen; Right: National Trust / Croft Castle. Both: Wikimedia Commons / Public Domain

So was it a strategic move by Cecil to disgrace Robert, preventing a potential marriage to the Queen, or something more? The evidence seems to point to a murder conspiracy, a possibility that was widely discussed in the courts of Europe at the time.

But how far can we go with the evidence towards a conclusion – and extrapolating from that evidence, where does Joanne herself, as a historian, end up if she had to make a judgement?

The death of Amy Dudley cuts to the very heart of power in the Tudor court. It reflects on Elizabeth’s choices, her relationship with those closest to her, and the dangers of a world where one person’s life could stand in the way of a powerful monarch’s desires. The mystery of what happened that day at Cumnor Place has never been solved, but the clues, the rumours, and the political machinations all paint a compelling and haunting picture.

Join Professor Suzannah Lipscomb and Dr Joanne Paul as they unravel one of the Tudor period’s greatest mysteries in Not Just the Tudors’ Tudor True Crime: Murder of Amy Dudley.

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This is the official account, based on a coroner’s inquest and passed down for centuries – but what if it’s not the whole story? What if the “tavern brawl” was no accident but a planned assassination? Who truly stabbed the titan of the Elizabethan stage, and who, in the dark, conspiratorial world of Tudor England, might have carefully orchestrated his death?

In History Hit’s podcast, Not Just the Tudors, Professor Suzannah Lipscomb steps out of the sunlight and into the shadows to investigate the most notorious true crimes of the period in a Tudor True Crime mini-series. In this episode, she is joined by literary historian and author, Charles Nicholl, whose groundbreaking book, The Reckoning: The Murder of Christopher Marlowe, challenged the long-held assumptions about that fatal day. Together, they re-examine the original coroner’s inquest, a document that, for centuries, kept the true nature of Marlowe’s death a secret, and dig deeper into a mystery that, more than 400 years later, remains a subject of intense speculation and historical detective work.

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Christopher Marlowe, a writer whose genius rivalled that of Shakespeare, was just 29 years old when his life was cut short. His death, often dismissed as the tragic consequence of a drunken squabble, has long been a source of fascination. It was a scandal whispered about in the streets and immortalised in the work of his contemporary, Shakespeare, who six years later would write in As You Like It of a “great reckoning in a little room.” This phrase, an unmistakable nod to Marlowe’s demise, highlights the widespread suspicion that the official story was a cover-up for something more sinister.

The coroner’s inquest

To uncover the truth, Suzannah and Charles revisit the crucial document that provided the official narrative: the coroner’s inquest. From this account, we learn that four men met at a house belonging to a woman named Eleanor Bull on Deptford Strand. The men were Marlowe and three of his associates: Ingram Frizer, Nicholas Skeres, and Robert Poley. They spent a long day together, talking, eating, and walking in the garden before returning to the private room.

According to the inquest, a dispute over the “reckoning” – the bill for food and drink – escalated violently. Marlowe, lying on a bed while the other three sat with their backs to him, allegedly snatched Frizer’s dagger and struck him twice on the head with the hilt. In the struggle that followed, Frizer supposedly twisted the weapon back and delivered the fatal thrust.

But as Charles Nicholl points out to Suzannah, a closer look at this account immediately raises red flags. “We can dispense straight away from the inquest…that it wasn’t really a tavern brawl,” he explains. The location wasn’t a public house, but a private residence. And with only four men in the room, it’s hardly what one would call a brawl. More damning still, the inquest’s narrative is based on the testimony of the three men who walked out alive.

Christopher Marlowe’s memorial in the Churchyard at St Nicholas, Deptford. The epithaph is from the epilogue to Marlowe’s play ‘Doctor Faustus’.

Image Credit: Flickr: Maggie Jones / Public Domain

The suspects

So, who were these three men? As Charles bluntly puts it, they were “a trio of absolute scoundrels.” And their connections to one another and to Marlowe reveal a web of intrigue far more complex than a simple dispute over a bill.

First, there was Ingram Frizer, the man who struck the fatal blow. He was a crooked businessman, but more importantly, he was a servant of Thomas Walsingham, one of Marlowe’s powerful patrons. Marlowe had been staying at Walsingham’s house just 10 days before his death.

Then there was Nicholas Skeres, a low-level operator involved in the world of intelligence and “dirty tricks.” He was also connected to the powerful Earl of Essex, a favourite of Queen Elizabeth I.

Finally, there was Robert Poley, a spy of significant stature. By 1593, Poley was a senior agent working for Sir Robert Cecil, the son of the spymaster Lord Burghley. A man of “dangerous charm,” Poley was a central figure in the Elizabethan espionage machine.

These were not random drinking companions. They were a carefully chosen group of men with deep ties to the very heart of the Tudor secret service, assembled to meet with a man who, for all his literary brilliance, was also a low-level government spy.

Sir Robert Cecil, 1st Earl of Salisbury, the son of the spymaster Lord Burghley. Robert Poley was working for Sir Cecil at the time of Marlowe’s death.

Image Credit: National Portrait Gallery / Public Domain

Political links and espionage

For centuries, the coroner’s inquest remained the sole surviving official document, its details a closely guarded secret. It wasn’t until 1925 that archivist Leslie Hotson discovered uncatalogued legal proceedings connecting Marlowe’s murder to the shadowy world of politics and espionage. Before this revelation, the truth was shrouded in rumour and misinterpretation, with historical mix-ups even leading to the wrong killer’s name being recorded in church registers for decades.

The real questions, as Suzannah and Charles explore, lie in the motive. Why would three men of such influence, who had spent a full day in Marlowe’s company, suddenly fall into a violent argument?

Charles Nicholl argues that the entire meeting was a ruse – a long, eight-hour “reckoning” that had nothing to do with a bill. The men were there to talk to Marlowe about his “blasphemies” and political leanings. Marlowe was a man of contradictions: a religious subversive, a brilliant dramatist, and a spy for the Crown. Charles suggests that the authorities were worried.

Marlowe’s radical views, often reflected in his plays, were a liability, and his intelligence work gave him dangerous knowledge. The long day in Deptford was likely an attempt to get Marlowe to turn on one of his patrons, Sir Walter Raleigh, in exchange for his own freedom.

Settling scores

Ultimately, the fatal “dispute” was not a spontaneous outburst but a culmination of a life lived on the dangerous borders of acceptable behaviour. Marlowe, the creator of fictions on the stage, was also a creator of fictions in his espionage operations. This double life, as Charles explains, made him both a valuable asset and a ticking time bomb. The “reckoning” in that little room in Deptford was less about a bill for food and drink and more about settling a score for good.

The question of who murdered Christopher Marlowe and why remains, but by re-examining the evidence, uncovering the identities of the men in that room, and peeling back the layers of Tudor espionage, Professor Suzannah Lipscomb and Charles Nicholl offer a compelling and suspenseful account that will challenge everything you thought you knew about one of England’s greatest writers.

Join them as they pull back the curtain on this extraordinary true crime.

Listen to the latest episode of Not Just the Tudors and discover the truth behind the murder of Christopher Marlowe.

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In the latest podcast episode of Betwixt The Sheets’ Royal Sex mini-series, Dr Kate Lister is joined by Professor Anna Whitelock, a renowned historian of monarchy, to delve into the fascinating complexities of Elizabeth’s reign, exploring how her personal choices became defining political statements. The series explores queens often remembered for their sex lives, making it essential to turn our attention to the woman so frequently defined by her lack of one. Renowned as the ‘Virgin Queen’, the enduring question remains: was Elizabeth I truly a virgin?

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Sex, succession, and celebrity

Our enduring fascination with the Tudors, as Professor Whitelock and Kate discuss, partly stems from the wealth of historical sources that reveal them not just as political figures, but as relatable individuals, whose personal lives – especially their sex lives – were inextricably linked to their political power and burgeoning celebrity. From Henry VIII’s prominent codpiece in his Holbein portrait, to Elizabeth’s strategically placed bow in the Armada portrait (a deliberate statement about her virginity as a source of political strength), the personal and the political converged as never before. 

At its core, monarchy is about succession, and succession, ultimately, is about sex. In the Tudor period, this became the very “stuff of politics”: the dynasty’s survival literally hinged on the monarch’s ability to produce offspring, as vividly demonstrated by Henry VIII’s desperate quest for a male heir, Edward VI’s brief reign, and Mary I’s phantom pregnancies.

Portrait of Elizabeth I of England, the Armada Portrait

Image Credit: Formerly attributed to George Gower (1540–1596) / Public Domain

Elizabeth’s early struggles and rise to power

Some of Elizabeth’s early experiences may potentially have played a role in her later choice to remain single. Her mother, Anne Boleyn, had been executed on charges of adultery, and whilst she still revered her father, Henry VIII, they had a complex relationship. 

Professor Whitelock also discusses The Seymour Scandal, a formative event in teenage Elizabeth I’s life. Thomas Seymour, her stepmother Catherine Parr’s husband, engaged in inappropriate early-morning visits to Elizabeth’s bedroom. After Catherine’s death, Seymour plotted to marry Elizabeth for political gain, but his arrest led to Elizabeth’s interrogation regarding their relationship. Though exonerated, this perilous experience taught her the dangers of flirtation and the paramount importance of an untarnished public image, potentially shaping her future relationships with men.

Elizabeth’s perilous path to the throne was also marked by periods of immense stress and even imprisonment in the Tower of London under the tumultuous reign of her half-sister Mary I. Navigating a dangerous political landscape where she became a figurehead for opposition, Elizabeth emerged onto the throne in 1558 as a truly formidable woman: attractive, accomplished, and exceptionally intelligent.

Professor Whitelock highlights the unique scrutiny faced by a female monarch. Unlike kings, her own body was directly implicated in producing an heir, subjecting Elizabeth’s health and fertility to intense political observation.

The ‘Virgin Queen’: a political masterstroke?

Ascending the throne in 1558, Elizabeth I, the first unmarried queen, faced immense pressure to wed and secure the succession. Her marital prospects immediately became the subject of intense international scrutiny. Diplomats across Europe eagerly sought information about her menstrual cycle, as her fertility was paramount to her value as a potential spouse. 

Furthermore, her enemies, particularly Catholics, relentlessly attacked her sexual reputation, spreading rumours of promiscuity, especially with her alleged favourite, Robert Dudley.

Professor Whitelock reveals that for years, Europe debated whether Elizabeth was a virgin. This question became critical as Elizabeth aged and approached menopause, diminishing her value as a marriage prospect. It was at this crucial juncture that the iconic ‘Virgin Queen’ image was meticulously crafted – a brilliant political manoeuvre that transformed her inability to produce an heir into a powerful virtue. 

The podcast delves into whether Elizabeth truly intended to marry, exploring the lingering shadow of Mary I’s unpopular marriage to Philip of Spain, and her own apparent affection for Robert Dudley. The enduring mystery of her relationship with Dudley, and its non-consummation, fuelled both slander and strategically explained her prolonged celibacy. This ‘Virgin Queen’ persona ultimately converted profound vulnerability into unparalleled political strength and mystique.

Pair of miniatures of Elizabeth I and Robert Dudley, c. 1575, by Nicholas Hilliard.

Image Credit: Nicholas Hilliard / Public Domain

Robert Dudley: the controversial favourite

Elizabeth I’s bond with Robert Dudley, her Master of the Horse, sparked intense speculation. Their flirtatious relationship became deeply complicated by the suspicious death of Dudley’s wife, Amy Robsart, just two years into Elizabeth’s reign, fuelling rumours of foul play and making marriage between them nearly impossible. The podcast delves into this intricate web of court intrigue, foreign alliances, and personal affections. 

Professor Whitelock also sheds light on the intriguing role of the Queen’s trusted female ‘bedfellows’. Could these close companions have facilitated secret dalliances? Kate and Anna explore this fascinating role of female intimacy as political intimacy in Elizabeth’s court, where loyal women could have provided critical access and protection for the Queen’s private life. 

A queue of suitors

Despite her enduring bond with Robert Dudley, Elizabeth I faced a constant stream of marriage proposals from European suitors, including Philip II of Spain and François, Duke of Anjou. Elizabeth masterfully ‘dallied’ with these contenders, strategically prolonging negotiations to keep her council and Parliament at bay. This skilled procrastination ultimately led to the powerful creation of her ‘Virgin Queen’ image as she passed her childbearing years. The podcast reveals how this iconic persona, famously depicted in the Armada Portrait, transformed her dynastic weakness into a symbol of ultimate strength and unity with her ‘impenetrable’ realm.

The legacy of the unmarried queen

Elizabeth I’s decision to remain unmarried allowed her to wield unprecedented personal power, yet also left a dynastic void. The podcast explores how her successor, James I, even tried to reshape her legacy after her death. 

A persistent question remains: was Elizabeth truly a virgin when she died? Professor Whitelock discusses the historical speculation, including theories of hidden physical impediments or concealed non-virginity. While ultimately unknowable, the stakes for her reputation and England’s succession were incredibly high.

Listen to Royal Sex: Elizabeth I to uncover the complex interplay of power, politics, and personal choices that defined England’s most celebrated monarch.

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The feminine beauty ideal was in essence to personify the English rose, and nobody embodied this more than Queen Elizabeth I herself. To this end various make-up techniques were devised and circulated in recipes, a phenomenon spurred on by the spread of the printing press.

Some of these methods were harmful, including arsenic skin masks, mercury lipstick, and lead skin whitener. Others were innocuous but to our eyes still quite strange. How about varnishing your face with egg whites?

Perhaps you would be even less keen on puppy juice, an Early Modern concoction as horrifying as it sounds.

“Unfortunately it’s exactly what you think it is,” explains Sally Pointer, educator and author of The Artifice of Beauty: A History and Practical Guide to Perfume and Cosmetics, who joins Professor Suzannah Lipscomb in an episode of Not Just the Tudors.

The prevailing Tudor enthusiasm for alchemy suggested that it was possible to extract the qualities of something through distillation. One of these distillations, which indicates a ruthless zeal in harvesting seemingly wholesome ingredients, was puppy dog water.

“You take a beautiful, young, soft, perfect puppy,” says Pointer. It is then (for lack of a better word) chopped up. It is then boiled. “Sadly it doesn’t survive the experience.”

Portrait of Clarissa Strozzi by Titian, 1542, where she holds her Phalène dog.

Image Credit: Public Domain

The alembic it is distilled in contained other liquids, probably wine or water. “You distil it and the water is supposed to contain all the virtues of all the things that made the puppy young and beautiful and adorable.”

The resulting water would then be used as a cosmetic toner with moisturising properties.

“This wasn’t a one-off,” says Pointer. “We have lots of references to this.”

A recipe recorded in Nicholas Culpeper’s 17th century Pharmacopoeia Londinensis instructs:

“Takes Sallet Oil four pound, two Puppy-dogs newly whelped, Earthworms washed in white Wine one pound; boil the Whelps til they fall in pieces then put in the worms a while after strain it, then with three ounces of Cypress Turpentine, and one ounce of Spirits of Wine, perfect the Oil according to Art.”

Reassuringly, not everybody was keen on the idea. The famous diarist Samuel Pepys, whose private accounts make up one of the most important historical sources for the period, records that he became upset with his wife because she tried this puppy concoction.

Listen to the episode now or sign up to History Hit for advert-free listening to 8 podcast series, with early access and bonus episodes for subscribers.

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Here we explore more about how merchants ensured quality control following The Great Debasement to prove that their coins, and the coins they were trading with, were accurate – and the importance of this in England’s credibility in global trade.

The Great Debasement

During the reign of King Henry VIII, England faced significant economic changes, notably marked by the Great Debasement. The Great Debasement refers to a deliberate policy undertaken by Henry VIII to devalue the currency as a means to bolster the royal treasury and address financial woes.

In order to increase revenue for the Crown, from 1544, Henry VIII began reducing the amount of precious metal in gold coins. This act aimed to create more coins from the same quantity of silver, effectively increasing the money supply. However, the consequence was a decline in the value of currency, leading to inflation and economic instability.

The process of debasement continued with subsequent reductions in the silver content of coins. In some cases, the precious metal content was replaced almost entirely with cheaper base metals such as copper. This policy had a profound impact on the economy, resulting in rising prices, economic uncertainty, disruption of trade, and a loss of public trust in the currency.

While the Great Debasement temporarily aided the Crown’s financial situation, it ultimately contributed to economic turmoil and long-term consequences for England’s monetary system, requiring subsequent monarchs to address and stabilise the currency.

Impact on trade

The accuracy of a coin’s value was not just important internally, but also of upmost importance for merchants trading oversees – both for their personal credibility and indeed the credibility of the nation.

The devalued currency caused by the Great Debasement led to a decline in the purchasing power of English coins abroad. This made English goods more expensive for foreign buyers, diminishing the competitiveness of English exports in international markets. As a result, England faced challenges in maintaining its previous levels of trade and struggled to sustain favourable trade balances with other countries.

Furthermore, the fluctuating value of the currency caused uncertainty for foreign merchants and traders engaging in commerce with England. The diminished value of English coins made transactions and negotiations complicated, affecting trust and confidence in trade dealings.

Merchants’ Scales and Weights, probably made in the mid-17th century in Cologne

Image Credit: Brandeis University / Robert D. Farber University Archives and Special Collections

Recovery

The recovery of English trade after the Great Debasement was gradual and spanned several decades. Subsequently, to cover their backs, 17th century merchants carried their own scales and weights to do quality control checks themselves, proving and verifying that their coins, and the coins they were trading with, were accurate. They also used ‘merchant books’ which detailed all of the characteristics, dimensions and weights that coins should be, as well as featuring drawings of all their coins.

During the late 16th and early 17th centuries, under the reign of Elizabeth I, England began to witness a resurgence in trade. On ascending to power, Elizabeth I restored coins back to an accurate value, restoring faith in England’s coins. However, it’s hard to overstate just how much the Great Debasement had affected trade relations and the way in which foreign merchants, and foreign countries viewed England’s coinage.

Coins from the reign of Elizabeth I

Image Credit: The Royal Mint

However, eventually the Elizabethan Era saw significant advancements in trade and commerce. England’s maritime exploration, including voyages led by explorers like Sir Francis Drake and Walter Raleigh, opened up new trade routes and expanded commercial opportunities. Additionally, the establishment of trading companies, such as the East India Company in 1600, further bolstered England’s trade endeavours, leading to economic growth and prosperity. This would not have happened should the Great Debasement have still been in effect.

Here we take a look at The Royal Mint’s archive of Henry VIII’s ‘coppernose’ coins, and explore more about The Great Debasement and how its economic effects continued for many years.

The Great Debasement

The main aim of the policy was to increase revenue for the Crown at the cost of taxpayers through savings in currency production, with less bullion being required to mint new coins. This was achieved by reducing the amount of precious metal in gold and silver coins and, in some cases, replacing it almost entirely with cheaper base metals such as copper.

In May 1544, Henry VIII’s debased coins entered circulation and by July of the same year, foreign merchants had discovered the reduced value of the newly minted silver groats and begun offering a lower price for them. Non-debased coins with an accurate value were often hoarded which took them out of circulation and further exacerbated the problem of an inaccurate currency. This ruined the credibility of British merchants and of the crown itself.

‘Old Coppernose’

The thin layer of silver on Henry’s debased testoons had a tendency to wear off, particularly over the protruding nose of his portrait, revealing the copper colour underneath – earning Henry the nickname of ‘Old Coppernose’. 

Coins from the reign of Henry VIII

What happened after The Great Debasement?

As a result of The Great Debasement, when Elizabeth I came to power in 1558, the poor quality of England’s coinage had greatly affected both confidence in the monarchy as well as the country’s trading relations. The Queen believed that these problems could be solved by restoring England’s coinage to its previously high standards.

In 1560, debased coinage began to be withdrawn from circulation and the withdrawn coins melted down and replaced with newly minted coins with an accurate value. This process was aided in 1561 by trials into producing coinage using machinery as a method to replace the crude system of hammer struck coins, and The Crown even made an estimated profit of £50,000. The success of the initiative and the restoration of the integrity of England’s coinage led to economic recovery and an expansion in trade.

Long-term effects of The Great Debasement

Elizabeth restored the coins back to an accurate value which restored faith in England’s coins, but it’s hard to overstate just how much The Great Debasement had affected trade relations and the way in which foreign merchants, and foreign countries viewed England’s coinage. To cover their backs, merchants would carry their own scales and weights to prove that their coins, and the coins they were trading with, were accurate.

Henry VII’s reign, commencing in the tumultuous aftermath of the Wars of the Roses, was characterised by the urgent need for stability and legitimacy. Amidst the political turbulence, the gold sovereign emerged not merely as a means of trade but as a meticulously crafted tool of statecraft, bearing the weight of monarchic authority and projecting an image of prosperity and control.

Here we explore how and why Henry VII used English coinage to help convey his power across his kingdom.

Henry VII’s rise to power

After defeating his Yorkist adversary Richard III, last of the Plantagenets, at the Battle of Bosworth Field, Henry Tudor was officially crowned King Henry VII on 30 October 1485. His coronation heralded the end of the bloody Wars of the Roses and brought in a new line of monarchs, with Henry VII being the first of the Tudor dynasty.

Henry VII was the last king of England to win his throne on the battlefield, and his coronation brought much-needed peace to the country after three decades of conflict. With it came the end of the medieval period. Such a monumental achievement spelled an equally monumental shift in power and – much like the monarchs that came before him – Henry VII was keen to convey this power and establish his authority.

Currency and its conveyance of power

Henry did this in part through the currency of his kingdom. As well as reintroducing more realistic portraiture on English coinage, a practice that had not been seen consistently since the Romans, Henry VII also brought several new coins into the English currency, including the iconic gold Sovereign – the first £1 piece in English history. Introduced in 1489 when Henry VII demanded a ‘new money of gold’, whilst the gold Sovereign wasn’t the first gold coin to be struck, it was the largest and most valuable English coin ever issued at that point.

The original design featured an image depicting Henry VII sat on his throne – complete with a crown, orb and sceptre – whilst the reverse displayed the Royal Arms atop a backdrop dominated by the unmistakable Tudor rose. This new coin symbolised power, and reinforced Henry VII’s authority as a new monarch. 

This Sovereign features a huge Tudor rose that covers the whole of one side (tails) of it – a symbol of Henry VII, his house and his reign. Everything about this coin is hugely symbolic, and all trying to solidify Henry VII’s power. On the head’s side of the coin is Henry himself, sat on the throne wearing all the royal regalia – including the crown and holding an orb and sceptre. Everything about this coin is trying to cement Henry’s power as the new king, which was particularly important given the country had been in civil war for the past 30 years.

Henry VII gold Sovereign, front and back

Image Credit: The Royal Mint

Henry VII’s impact on the exchequer

Indeed Henry VII’s reign was characterised by his success at restoring the power and stability of the English monarchy after the civil war, as well as his talent for replenishing the fortunes of an effectively bankrupt exchequer.

When Henry VII ascended the throne in 1485, he faced the immediate challenge of securing his reign – and the Tudor Dynasty – against political and economic rebellions. Recognising the pivotal role of revenue in establishing stability, he sought to finance a robust royal army. 

Historically, the Crown had relied on the slow-moving Exchequer for its financial needs, and initially Henry reverted to using this. However, audits could take years to complete, meaning the Crown was always short of money. By 1487, Henry’s financial struggles prompted him to modernise royal income collection by appointing the King’s Chamber as the principal institution managing royal revenue. 

This relatively new institution had previously been utilised by the Yorkist family, when Edward IV used it to run his finances. Whilst the Chamber lacked fully-established operating procedures, its comparatively more informal processes actually gave it greater flexibility. The Chamber went on to take charge of nearly all aspects of royal income, and effectively oversaw the national treasury, while the Privy Chamber handled Henry’s personal expenditure.

Henry was one of the few monarchs to process his own accounts, keeping meticulous records, and even counting bags of coins himself to scrutinise finances and balance the books. Henry ensured he appointed expert advisors with financial acumen, with two men, Sir Thomas Lovell and Sir John Heron, holding the post of Treasurer of the Chamber. However Henry also worked alongside both men, checking the accounts they had already gone over, and personally signing-off each page. Rather than this being a miserly act, Henry’s scrutiny reflected his focus on wealth accumulation for control, influence and power.

Bronze medallion of Sir Thomas Lovell in Henry VII Chapel, Westminster Abbey, 1911 – by Arthur Irwin Dasent.

Image Credit: Wikimedia Commons / Arthur Irwin Dasent / Public Domain

Henry VII’s tenure marked a departure from medieval financial systems, and he is credited with shaping the modern English Exchequer. As well as maximising tax revenue, Henry also gained wealth from an illicit trade in the dye-fixed alum, and benefitted from the peace facilitated by the end of the Wars of the Roses.

His resulting substantial wealth accumulation and financial prudence meant Henry was able to leave a considerable inheritance to his son and successor, Henry VIII. However, Henry VIII would not turn out to be as prudent.

One of the most damaging repercussions of this was the often-brutal suppression of the monasteries. With 1-in-50 of England’s adult male population belonging to a religious order and monasteries owning around a quarter of all cultivated land in the country, the Dissolution of the Monasteries uprooted thousands of lives and changed the political and religious landscape of England forever.

So why did it happen?

Criticism of monastic houses had been growing

Long before Henry VIII‘s break with Rome the monastic houses of England had been under scrutiny, with stories of their lax religious conduct circulating the country’s elite spheres. Although there were vast monastic complexes in almost every town, most of them were only half-full, with those living there barely abiding by strict monastic rules.

The immense wealth of the monasteries also raised eyebrows in the secular world, who believed that their money may be better spent on England’s universities and parish churches, particularly as many spent exorbitantly inside the monasteries’ walls.

High up figures such as Cardinal Wolsey, Thomas Cromwell, and Henry VIII himself sought to limit the powers of the monastic church, and as early as 1519 Wolsey had been investigating corruption in a number of religious houses. In Peterborough Abbey for example, Wolsey found that its abbot had been keeping a mistress and selling goods for a profit and duly had it shut down, instead using the money to found a new college at Oxford.

This idea of corruption would become key in the dissolution when in 1535 Cromwell set about collecting ‘evidence’ of untoward activity within the monasteries. Though some believe these tales to be exaggerated, they included cases of prostitution, drunken monks, and runaway nuns – hardly the behaviour expected from those dedicated to celibacy and virtue.

Henry VIII broke with Rome and declared himself Supreme Head of the Church

The push towards more drastic reform was deeply personal however. In the Spring of 1526, having grown restless with waiting for a son and heir from Catherine of Aragon, Henry VIII set his sights on marrying the enamouring Anne Boleyn.

Boleyn had recently returned from the French royal court and was now a sparkling courtier, well-versed in the courtly game of love. As such, she refused to become the king’s mistress and would settle only for marriage, lest she be cast aside as her elder sister had been.

Driven by love and an intense anxiety to provide an heir, Henry set about petitioning the Pope to grant him an annulment from his marriage to Catherine in what became known as the ‘King’s Great Matter’.

A portrait of Henry VIII by Holbein thought to be from around 1536.

Image Credit: Public domain

Setting Cardinal Wolsey on the task, a number of challenging factors delayed the proceedings. In 1527, Pope Clement VII was virtually imprisoned by Holy Roman Emperor Charles V during the Sack of Rome, and following this was heavily under his influence. As Charles happened to be Catherine of Aragon’s nephew, he was unwilling to budge on the topic of divorce as not to bring shame and embarrassment to his family.

Eventually Henry realised he was fighting a losing battle and in February 1531, he declared himself Supreme Head of the Church of England, meaning he now had jurisdiction on what exactly happened to its religious houses. In 1553, he passed a law forbidding clerics to appeal to ‘foreign tribunals’ in Rome, severing their ties with the Catholic Church on the continent. The first step to the demise of the monasteries was set in motion.

He sought to destroy Papal influence in England

Now in charge of England’s religious landscape, Henry VIII set about ridding it of the Pope’s influence. In 1535, Thomas Cromwell was made Vicar General (Henry’s second in command) and sent letters to all the vicars in England, calling for their support of Henry as the Head of the Church.

Thomas Cromwell by Hans Holbein.

Image Credit: The Frick Collection / CC

Under intense threat, almost all of England’s religious houses agreed to this, with those who initially refused suffering heavy consequences. The friars from the Greenwich house were imprisoned where many died of maltreatment for example, while a number of the Carthusian monks were executed for high treason. Simple obedience was not enough for Henry VIII however, as the monasteries also had something he was desperately in need of – vast wealth.

He needed the immense wealth of the monasteries

After years of lavish spending and costly wars, Henry VIII had frittered away much of his inheritance – an inheritance painstakingly amassed by his frugal father Henry VII.

In 1534, a valuation of the Church was commissioned by Thomas Cromwell known as the Valor Ecclesiasticus, which demanded all religious establishments give authorities an accurate inventory of their lands and revenues. When this was completed, the Crown had for the first time a real image of the Church’s wealth, allowing Henry to set in motion a plan to repurpose their funds for his own use.

In 1536, all small religious houses with an annual income of less than £200 were ordered to be closed under the Act for the Dissolution of the Lesser Monasteries. Their gold, silver, and valuable materials were confiscated by the Crown and their lands sold off. This initial round of dissolutions made up around 30% of England’s monasteries, yet more were soon to follow.

Catholic revolt pushed further dissolutions

Opposition to Henry’s reforms were widespread in England, particularly in the north where many staunchly Catholic communities persevered. In October 1536, a large uprising known as the Pilgrimage of Grace took place in Yorkshire, in which thousands marched into the city of York to demand a return to the ‘true religion’.

This was soon crushed, and though the king promised clemency for those involved, over 200 were executed for their roles in the unrest. Afterwards, Henry came to view monasticism as synonymous with treachery, as many of the religious houses he had spared in the north had participated in the uprising.

The Pilgrimage of Grace, York.

Image Credit: Public domain

The following year, inducements to the larger abbeys began, with hundreds forfeiting their deeds to the king and signing a document of surrender. In 1539, the Act for the Dissolution of the Greater Monasteries was passed, forcing the remaining bodies to close – this was not without bloodshed however.

When the last abbot of Glastonbury, Richard Whiting, refused to relinquish his abbey, he was hung drawn and quartered and his head displayed over the gate of his now-deserted religious house.

In total around 800 religious institutions were closed in England, Wales, and Ireland, with many of their precious monastic libraries destroyed in the process. The final abbey, Waltham, closed its doors on 23 March 1540.

His allies were rewarded

With the monasteries suppressed, Henry now had vast amounts of wealth and masses of land. This he sold off to nobles and merchants loyal to his cause as a reward for their service, who in turn sold it off to others and became increasingly wealthy.

Not only did this strengthen their loyalties, but also built a wealthy circle of Protestant-leaning nobles around the Crown – something that would become vital in instilling England as a Protestant country. During the reigns of Henry VIII’s children and beyond however, these factions would grow into conflict as the successive monarch’s adapted their own faiths to that of their regime.

With the ruins of hundreds of abbeys still littering England’s landscape – Whitby, Rievaulx and Fountains to name a few – it is hard to escape the memory of the thriving communities that once occupied them. Now mostly atmospheric shells, they sit as a reminder of monastic Britain and the most blatant consequences of the Protestant Reformation.

Propelled into popular consciousness by Hilary Mantel’s novel Wolf Hall, interest in Cromwell has never been greater.

Here are 10 facts about the son of a blacksmith who went on to become one of the most powerful people in 16th-century England.

1. He was the son of a Putney blacksmith

Cromwell was born around 1485 (the precise date is uncertain), the son of a successful blacksmith and merchant, Walter Cromwell. Not much is known for certain about his education or early years, other than that he travelled in mainland Europe.

His own accounts of the period suggest that he may, briefly, have been a mercenary, but he certainly served in the household of the Florentine banker Francesco Frescobaldi, learnt several languages and developed an extensive network of influential European contacts.

2. He originally set himself up as a merchant

On his return to England, somewhere around 1512, Cromwell set himself up as a merchant in London. Years of building contacts and learning from merchants on the continent had given him a good head for business.

However, this didn’t satisfy him. He began to practice law and was elected a member of Gray’s Inn, one of London’s four Inns of Court, in 1524.

3. He rose to prominence under Cardinal Wolsey

First serving as an adviser to Thomas Grey, Marquess of Dorset, Cromwell’s brilliance was noted by Cardinal Wolsey, at that point Henry VIII’s Lord Chancellor and trusted adviser.

In 1524, Cromwell became a member of Wolsey’s household and after years of dedicated service, Cromwell was appointed as a member of Wolsey’s council in 1529, meaning he was one of the cardinal’s most trusted advisors: Cromwell had helped dissolve over 30 small monasteries to pay for some of Wolsey’s bigger building projects.

Cardinal Thomas Wolsey by an unknown artist, c. late 16th century.

Image Credit: Public Domain

4. His talent was noticed by the King

Wolsey fell from favour in 1529, when he was unable to obtain Henry a divorce from Catherine of Aragon. This failure meant Henry VIII began to reappraise Wolsey’s position, in turn noticing exactly how much wealth and power the cardinal had accumulated for himself during his service.

Cromwell successfully rose from the embers of Wolsey’s downfall. His eloquence, wit and loyalty impressed Henry, and as a lawyer, Cromwell and his talents were much in need in Henry’s divorce proceedings.

Cromwell began to direct his attention towards the ‘King’s Great Matter’, winning the admiration and support of both Henry and Anne Boleyn in the process.

5. His wife and daughters died of the sweating sickness

In 1515, Cromwell married a woman named Elizabeth Wyckes, and the pair had three children: Gregory, Anne and Grace.

Elizabeth, along with daughters Anne and Grace, all died during an outbreak of the sweating sickness in 1529. No one is quite sure what caused the sweating sickness, but it was highly contagious and often deadly. Symptoms, including shivering, sweating, dizziness and exhaustion, would come on rapidly and the illness normally lasted 24 hours, after which a victim would either recover or die.

Gregory, Cromwell’s son, went on to marry Elizabeth Seymour in 1537. At the time, Elizabeth’s sister Jane was Queen of England: Cromwell was ensuring his family was allied with the powerful and influential Seymours.

6. He was a champion of royal supremacy and the break with Rome

It quickly became apparent to Cromwell that the Pope was never going to permit Henry the annulment he desired. Instead of pursuing a dead-end, Cromwell began to advocate for the principles of royal supremacy over the church.

Encouraged by Cromwell and Anne Boleyn, Henry decided that he would break with Rome and establish his own Protestant church in England. In 1533, he secretly married Anne Boleyn and annulled his marriage to Catherine of Aragon.

7. He amassed a substantial fortune

Both Henry and Anne were extremely grateful to Cromwell: they rewarded him very generously for his services, granting him the offices of Master of the Jewels, Clerk of the Hanaper and Chancellor of the Exchequer, which meant he had positions in the 3 major institutions of government.

In 1534, Cromwell was confirmed as Henry’s principal secretary and chief minister – roles he had held in all but name for several years. This was arguably the zenith of Cromwell’s power. He continued to make money through various private ventures too, and by 1537 he had an annual income of around £12,000 – the equivalent to around £3.5 million today.

A miniature of Cromwell, painted after the Holbein portrait, c. 1537.

8. He orchestrated the Dissolution of the Monasteries

The Dissolution of the Monasteries began as a result of the 1534 Act of Supremacy. During this period, Cromwell spearheaded the efforts to dissolve and expropriate religious houses across England, enriching royal coffers in the process and further cementing his role as Henry’s invaluable right-hand man.

Cromwell’s personal religious beliefs are unclear, but his ongoing attacks on the ‘idolatry’ of the Catholic church and attempts to clarify and enforce new religious doctrine suggest he at least had Protestant sympathies.

9. He played a key role in Anne Boleyn’s downfall

Whilst Cromwell and Anne had originally been allies, their relationship was not to last. Following a dispute over where the proceeds of the dissolution of the lesser monasteries should go, Anne had her chaplains publicly denounce Cromwell and other privy councillors in their sermons.

Anne’s position at court was already precarious: her failure to deliver a male heir and fiery temper had frustrated Henry and he had his eyes on Jane Seymour as a prospective future bride. Anne was accused of adultery with various men from the royal household. She was later tried, found guilty and condemned to death.

Historians debate exactly how and why Anne fell so swiftly: some argue it was personal animosity which spurred Cromwell on in his investigations and evidence collection, whilst others think he was more likely to be acting on Henry’s orders. Either way, it was Cromwell’s forensic and single-minded investigations which proved fatal to Anne.

10. Henry VIII’s fourth marriage hastened Cromwell’s dramatic fall from grace

Cromwell maintained his position at court for several more years, and if anything, was stronger and more secure than ever following Anne’s demise. He orchestrated Henry’s fourth marriage to Anne of Cleves, arguing the match would provide a much-needed Protestant alliance.

However, Henry was less than pleased with the match, supposedly dubbing her the ‘Flanders Mare’. Exactly how much blame Henry laid at Cromwell’s feet is unclear given he made him Earl of Essex shortly afterwards.

Cromwell’s enemies, of which he had many by this point, took advantage of Cromwell’s momentary lack of favour. They convinced Henry to have Cromwell arrested in June 1540, saying they had heard rumours Cromwell was plotting Henry’s downfall in an act of treason.

By this point, the ageing and increasingly paranoid Henry required little persuading to have any hint of treason crushed. Cromwell was arrested and charged with a long list of crimes. He was condemned to death without trial, and beheaded less than 2 months later, on 28 July 1540.

Fighting from an early age

Born in Devon in 1554, (or possibly 1552) Raleigh’s adventuring began early when he volunteered to fight with the Protestant Huguenots in a religious civil war in France at the tender age of 15.

He returned a few years later, and after spurning an Oxford degree he went overseas once again, this time to Ireland. Here he fought once again, and started his long and bitter relationship with the Spanish when he was part of a group ordered to massacre a group of their soldiers who were assisting the Irish rebels at the siege of Smerwick.

After the fighting, this young soldier became a rich landowner in Munster, where he met the English poet Edmund Spenser. After Spenser composed the Faerie Queene in honour of Elizabeth I, the two men headed to her court in London, where it was performed. Here Raleigh met his future patron, the Virgin Queen, who found him rather enthralling.

An 18th century print of Sir Walter Raleigh.

From firm favourite to the tower: Raleigh’s complicated relationship with Elizabeth I

At Elizabeth’s court Raleigh must have made much of his abilities and ambitions as an explorer, for he was given the royal mandate to explore the ‘New World’ in 1584, as well as permission to take some of the profits from his ventures for himself. He had previously sailed to America in 1578 with his half-brother Humphrey Gilbert, a famous explorer of the time, and developed an interest in this exciting new continent.

Raleigh is perhaps best remembered for bringing tobacco and the potato back to England, and did much to make smoking fashionable at court after this trip. Under his supervision, the two attempts to plant the first English colonies in America, at Roanoke, were carried out. The settlers, however, would ultimately disappear without a trace after a promising start.

Despite this disaster Raleigh remained a firm favourite of the Queen until 1592, when she found out that he’d been having an illicit affair with one of her maids of honour, Elizabeth Throckmorton, who he had then married in secret.

Thrown into a jealous rage, the famously capricious Elizabeth threw Raleigh and his new wife into the Tower of London. Her old favourite managed to get himself released by promising to lead an piratical expedition to the Spanish coast, and he returned with an incredibly rich prize of a Spanish trade ship returned from South America before being unceremoniously dumped back in the Tower.

There is a popular story that when Raleigh’s servant first saw him smoking he doused him with water, believing that his master was on fire.

Image Credit: Frederick William Fairholt / Public Domain

After a while, Elizabeth relented, and despite still being out of favour Raleigh was released from the Tower and later elected a Member of Parliament. Emboldened by this rise in his fortunes he decided to act upon a captured Spanish manuscript describing a legendary city of gold in the New World; El Dorado.

His expedition to South America in 1594 – predictably enough – failed to find any gold, but when he returned Raleigh published a book of his experiences called The Discovery of Guiana, which did much to enhance his growing celebrity.

Over the next few years Raleigh’s adventures continued as he was wounded capturing the Spanish city of Cadiz, lead an expedition to the Azores and helped defeat the lesser-known third Spanish Armada in 1597. A national hero and restored to Elizabeth’s favour, everything was falling into his lap until 1603, when the queen whose rule had come to define an age, suddenly died.

Raleigh returns to the tower

Her successor, James I, was less inclined to reward handsome explorers and he and Raleigh certainly got it off on the wrong foot. The hero of Cadiz was implicated in a plot that year to overthrow James and replace him with his cousin and imprisoned in the Tower of London for 13 years. There Raleigh mused on past glories and took to writing, composing a well-regarded history of ancient Greece and Rome during his long stay.

Suddenly and unexpectedly in 1617 he was pardoned by the King, and given permission to lead a second expedition to find El Dorado. During this expedition, just as fruitless as the first, a detachment of Raleigh’s men attacked a Spanish outpost without having been given orders to do so, and in the confused fighting Raleigh’s son Walter was killed. And worse was to come.

England was now at peace with Spain, and when James was informed of this incident by the Spanish ambassador he held he now aged explorer responsible. With his friends in high places now long-gone Raleigh was lead to the block on 29 October 1618. A still-popular and beloved son of England, one of the judges at his less than fair trial later said:

“The justice of England has never been so degraded and injured as by the condemnation of the honourable Sir Walter Raleigh.”