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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A groundbreaking discovery is helping to shed light on that infamous event: shifting sands have revealed the broken remains of HMS Northumberland, once the pride of the fleet. This lost 17th century warship is a near-pristine time capsule, but is now exposed to the elements and rapidly deteriorating. Archaeologists are racing against time to salvage its secrets before they vanish forever.

Join Dan Snow in Shipwreck: HMS Northumberland as he investigates the ship’s construction, its pivotal role in the Royal Navy’s pursuit of the “perfect warship”, and the dramatic circumstances surrounding its ultimate loss. This is the compelling story of a natural disaster that shocked a nation and devastated the burgeoning Royal Navy.

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The rise of a naval power

The 17th century was a pivotal period for England’s naval ambitions. Once a marginal player, the nation was determined to challenge the maritime dominance of the Dutch and Spanish. This ambition fuelled a massive shipbuilding spree, investing heavily in a navy designed for power and global reach. Among these new vessels was HMS Northumberland, originally launched in 1679. A state-of-the-art, 70-gun warship, she represented a technological marvel – the pride of the Royal Navy.

However, the sea can be unpredictable and unforgiving, and even the strongest ships faced severe weather, navigational hazards, enemy action, and human error. HMS Northumberland’s story encapsulates the immense risks inherent in naval power projection during this era.

A night of catastrophe

On the fateful night of 26 November 1703, HMS Northumberland and other victorious Royal Navy warships were returning to British waters after the Battle of Vigo Bay, the first engagement in the Spanish Wars of Succession. Laden with the spoils of war, HMS Northumberland sailed up the English Channel, intending to pick up a specialist pilot to navigate the treacherous Thames Estuary.

With the weather rapidly deteriorating, the squadron anchored off the East Coast of Kent. As night fell, a building gale escalated into a fearsome storm. Despite desperate efforts, ships were battered, torn from their moorings, smashed against the treacherous Goodwin Sands, and swallowed by the waves. In just one terrible night, 14 ships were lost, a significant portion of the Royal Navy’s losses over an entire decade of war. For centuries, these wrecks lay hidden, until recent shifting currents began to reveal their secrets.

Forged in Chatham

Dan traces the story of HMS Northumberland back to its origins: Chatham Dockyard in Kent, the birthplace of the modern Royal Navy. Here, he meets maritime historian Nick Ball, who explains the monumental undertaking of building these warships – the most complex single objects constructed globally at that time. 

Nick also highlights the fierce arms race between England and the Dutch for trade dominance. England’s government recognised that national prosperity hinged on naval strength, prompting massive investment. This drive was further fuelled by a desire to redeem itself from one of the most humiliating defeats in its history: the Dutch Raid up the River Medway.

Dan Snow and Curator Simon Stephens from the National Maritime Museum inspect a 300 year old model of a similar class of ship to HMS Northumberland

Image Credit: National Maritime Museum / History Hit

A glimpse into the Stuart navy

Originally built in 1679, HMS Northumberland underwent a major refit, relaunching in 1702. The attack in the Battle of Vigo Bay was her first action since the refit. 

With no contemporary plans of HMS Northumberland surviving, Dan gains unique access to a 300-year-old model at the National Maritime Museum. He speaks with Curator Simon Stephens, who reveals how this remarkably detailed model provides an unprecedented representation of this class of ship.

Today, Britain boasts two iconic historic naval vessels – Henry VIII’s ‘Mary Rose‘ (1510) and Nelson’s ‘Victory‘ (1765) – but a crucial 250-year gap exists between them. HMS Northumberland, built halfway between these giants, acts as the missing link, offering a rare chance to complete our understanding of the Royal Navy’s evolution and the formidable Stuart navy.

Diving the wreck

What traces of the real HMS Northumberland remain after three centuries on the seabed? Dan receives a special invitation to join maritime archaeologist Dan Pascoe and his team as they dive the wreck on the Goodwin Sands. An oxygen-free environment has preserved the vessel and its contents for centuries, but shifting currents now pose an urgent threat. Exposed areas are rapidly degrading, prompting a race against time. 

Ropes visible when diving the wreck of HMS Northumberland

Image Credit: History Hit

Pascoe explains the team’s critical mission: to “excavate this site so they can expose parts of the site that haven’t been uncovered that will have pristine surfaces, and those surfaces will provide the details that will tell us so much more about the ship and the people that lived and worked on board”.

HMS Northumberland was a ship forged in an age of expanding empires, shaped by war and innovation, only to be brought down not by battle, but by the relentless power of the sea. Its discovery offers an unparalleled opportunity to unlock the secrets of the Stuart navy and the lives of those who sailed her.

Don’t miss Shipwreck: HMS Northumberland and witness the start of this extraordinary archaeological race against time to uncover the lost history of a ship that is the missing link in the story of the Royal Navy. What will its timbers reveal?

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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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European artists played an important role in shaping the image of the witch, transforming it into a powerful cultural symbol. In the History Hit film The King’s Curse: Scotland’s Notorious Witch Trials, art historian Dr Catriona Murray explains how these depictions evolved.

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The broomstick, for example, is evident in a medieval manuscript which identifies two women who are religious heretics. The broomstick is a classic icon now associated with witches, but why is it included here? “I suspect they are acting as phalluses,” explains Murray. “They are empowering these women and they are riding them. On another level they provide flight, and that’s one of the key characteristics of witches, that they fly to their Sabbath.”

Albrecht Dürer’s later, memorable depiction of witches resembles how we often think of witches today. “This is the hag, the crone. And one of the other things that’s very interesting about it is that she’s naked,” says Murray. “There’s a real focus on the gross nakedness of this old woman.” Witchcraft was often linked with ugliness, and Dürer’s witch has aged features and withered limbs.

The Witch, Albrecht Dürer, circa 1500

Additionally, Dürer depicts her riding a goat, an animal particularly linked with the devil. She does so backwards to signify that the natural order is upset. “There’s a feeling of real [discomfort] here, that things do not happen as you expect them to happen.”

“This is the subversion of what the feminine should be doing, that there’s this patriarchal anxiety going on here,” says Murray.

The growing fear of witches in the 16th century included increased anxiety about them joining together in a coven. Increasingly witches were depicted in a group, as in a painting of the witch’s sabbath by Frans Francken. Francken picked up his brush at a time when the Spanish Netherlands experienced a growing panic about witches. He portrays witches of different social orders engaged in lewd dancing, spells and incantations, and also reading grimoires, which links female literacy and knowledge with witchcraft.

Heinrich Kramer’s Malleus Maleficarum, ‘Hammer of Witches’, had already provided instruction on how to catch witches. Kramer argued that women were particularly prone to witchcraft. He wrote accounts of their alleged powers and habits, including the harvesting of male organs and depositing them in birds’ nests, “where they move themselves like living members and eat oats and corn”.

In The King’s Curse: Scotland’s Notorious Witch Trials, Maddy Pelling and Anthony Delaney investigate one of Europe’s bloodiest witch hunts: Scotland’s North Berwick Witch trials of 1591.

In this extraordinary case, fears escalated all the way up the social hierarchy to the king himself, James VI. A wild storm in the North Sea had nearly killed James and his new wife Anne of Denmark, fuelling his fascination with the intellectual study of demonology. A maelstrom of terror brought together the king’s paranoia of a conspiracy against him with local rivalries and misfortune. It twisted together the fates of individuals from maidservants to magistrates in the hunt for scapegoats.

Anthony and Maddy host After Dark: Myths, Misdeeds & the Paranormal, a History Hit podcast.

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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.