The Humorously Dull History of Tudor England

Hello,

My friend.

Welcome to humorously dull history for sleep.

My name is Stephen Dalton,

And it is my hope that as I tell you lots of different facts about particular periods in history tonight,

You find me so incredibly boring that you fall asleep very quickly.

And maybe.

.

.

Even with a smile upon your face.

It is humorous history after all.

Tonight I'll tell you the humorously dull history of Tudor England.

From Henry VIII.

And his many waves.

To Elizabeth the first.

And her distinct lack of spouses to the ordinary peasant on the streets of london it's all here for you to enjoy as you go to sleep So just before we get started,

Allow yourself to settle into this moment.

Leave the day that was behind.

Feel the support.

Of whatever you lie upon.

If your eyes aren't closed yet.

Allow them to close.

Whatever has been.

Has been.

It's history now.

Whatever will be.

Loopy.

All you have is this moment.

And my voice.

So allow your curiosity to be a part of this pleasant experience as i tell you the humorously dull history of Tudor England.

Tudor England Did not begin with a bang.

Nor with a whisper.

Nor even with a particularly enthusiastic shuffle.

It began with a long and rather tedious argument about who ought to wear the crown followed by some low-level skirmishing.

Followed by One reasonably tidy battle.

In a field called Bosworth in 1485,

Which wasn't even shaped like a crown or a battlefield or anything poetic like that.

It was just a field.

With crush.

Possibly turnips.

We may never know.

No,

Technically.

The Tudors didn't just drop out of the sky in 1485.

Even if Henry VII occasionally looked as though he had.

They had been lurking in the margins for quite some time.

The Tudors,

You see,

Were Welsh.

Not Welsh in the exciting dragon-riding sense.

Welsh in the slightly damp hillside,

Complicated family tree sense.

With names like maridot and Awain.

And a lot of double Ds where you wouldn't expect them.

The family line began in earnest.

With a gentleman named Owen Tudor away now.

Married dead.

Tutor.

If you're the sort of person who enjoys repeating vows until you fall asleep.

Who managed to do.

Was many ambitious young men dream of We marry the queen.

Granted,

She was the widow of Henry V.

And,

Granted,

It was a bit of a scandal.

But scandal was practically a currency in those days,

Alongside sheep and French wine.

Her name was Catherine of Valois.

And she had cheekbones sharp enough to challenge a small army From this unlikely match came Edmund Tudor who married Margaret Beaufort.

A formidable girl of thirteen,

Who looked like she could outlive a famine.

And did.

From their union came Henry Tudor.

Who would eventually become Henry VII mostly by not dying.

By being marginally less unpleasant than Richard III.

Oh,

To be fair.

Was having a very bad decade.

And so after richard the third was prodded with a few too many pointy things and his crown was found in a bush yes a bush the tudors came to power This is officially the beginning of the Tudor period.

There were no fireworks.

There were no national holidays.

There was,

However.

An official date.

Which always helps.

22nd of August 1485 Write it down,

If you're the kind of person who writes things down before sleep.

Or just think about it.

Very.

Very slowly.

Now Henry VII himself.

Was not what you'd call.

.

.

Charismatic.

He looked permanently worried.

Like a man who had accidentally eaten something important.

And was waiting to see if anyone noticed.

He didn't host banquets or gallop through the countryside in embroidered tights.

Instead he liked taxes.

He liked them very much.

Possibly too much.

He also liked stability.

And he disliked wars.

Which made him both very clever.

And incredibly boring.

Perfect for us.

He wore dark clothing and frowned a lot.

And once went ten old minutes.

Without issuing a new financial policy.

It was during one of these silent moments presumably.

That someone painted his portrait He looks like a man.

Who would scold you for wasting ink?

And yet.

This browning,

Ink-counting man laid the groundwork for what would become One of the most chaotic.

Colorful.

And beheaded centuries in english history But for now.

.

.

He simply taxed things,

Frowned at ledgers.

And occasionally went to church.

He was insured.

A thrilling disappointment.

To anyone expecting fireworks.

But it was only the beginning.

And if you think things are going to speed up.

.

.

I'm afraid.

Your very.

.

.

Much.

Mistaken.

Part two.

Young Henry and the extremely long list of dinners.

Young Henry VIII did not emerge from the womb wielding a turkey leg Although that would have been appropriate.

End.

Frankly,

One brand.

No,

He was born in 1491 in Greenwich Palace,

Which no longer exists.

Having been unceremoniously dismantled.

And replaced with something entirely different.

Which is often the way with Tudor things.

The Tudors built endlessly and tore down frequently.

Like children.

With too many toy plugs And not enough patience.

Henry was the second son of Henry the seventh.

And no one paid him much attention at first.

Which is ironic.

Considering the amount of attention he would later demand.

His older brother Arthur was the golden boy.

And Henry was the spare.

Or be it.

The very loud.

Very athletic.

Very spoiled spare.

He played the lute.

He danced.

You wrestled people.

He once wrote a song about how great he was.

And then had it performed in front of visiting dignitaries modesty in the tudor court was considered a sign of either weakness or flemish heritage Now Arthur,

The original heir.

Was married off to a spanish princess named catherine of aragon The wedding was lavish.

The feast was legendary.

The mood was jolly.

The young couple retired to Lutlow Castle.

To do whatever it was young noble couples were meant to do.

Which mostly involved exchanging nervous glances and catching chest colds.

Quite certainly.

Arthur died.

Possibly of.

.

.

Sweating sickness.

Possibly of being seventeen and English.

Either way.

He became historically inconvenient.

This was very fortunate for Henry.

Who moved up a notch without lifting a finger He would later lift many fingers.

Some for violence.

Some for pointing at food and some for composing mediocre religious tracts.

But at this point in the story.

.

.

They simply moved into his brother's place.

And.

.

.

Eventually.

Married his brother's widow.

This was considered unusual.

Even by Tudor standards.

But they got a special papal dispensation for it.

Which is Latin for.

.

.

Yes,

Fine,

If you must.

Let's talk about meals.

Which in Tudor England We're not events.

So much as campaigns.

Dinner was a formal.

.

.

Strategic Undertaking involving dozens of staff.

Miles of linen and a significant amount of food.

Henry.

Even as a young man.

Liked to eat.

He enjoyed banquets.

He loved spectacle.

The table would be laid with glistening pies filled with quail.

Goose.

Anything else really?

There were jellies shaped like castles.

There were custards served in hollowed-out melons.

There were candied violets that stained the tongue purple.

And made people feel poetic for upwards of six minutes.

Of course.

All of this opulence took.

.

.

Powers.

Tudor feasts.

Often began in the late morning.

And ended shortly before the next one began.

People fell asleep at the table.

Dogs wandered in.

And Henry didn't just eat.

Mein dir.

He performed easing.

He gestured between bites.

He spoke about theology with grease on his chin.

He laughed with his entire chest.

He once threw a pear at a French ambassador.

But it was meant to be affectionate.

Probably.

It is worth noting that Forks had not yet taken hold in England.

Most people used spoons.

Knives and fingers.

Sometimes in that order.

Sometimes not.

Forks were viewed with suspicion.

Especially when they came from Italy.

Which was considered both exotic.

And terribly Catholic.

Eating with a fork was seen as either deeply untrustworthy or faintly friend.

Which were in some circles the same thing.

Meanwhile.

.

.

Back at court.

Henry was developing into a clever.

.

.

Overfed young monarch in waiting.

With opinions on everything.

He studied Latin.

He debated philosophy.

He wrote long,

Winding notes to his tutors about Aristotle.

Many of which survive today.

And none of which are exciting to read.

He also began forming his worldview.

Which would eventually lead him to declare himself supreme head of the Church of England.

But at this point mainly led him to declare himself supreme head of archery practice.

And So he waited.

And studied.

And dine.

And waited.

History.

Was about to speed up.

But not in this story.

We shall take our time.

Part three.

Of hoes,

Hounds and a very large hat collection.

Before Henry VIII.

Was Henry VIII.

The Henry VIII.

You're thinking of.

.

.

With the codpiece.

And the choirs.

And the unfortunate wives.

You were simply Prince Henry.

Duke of York.

And like most second sons.

Unexpectedly promoted to Air status.

He responded to his new role.

In the most natural way possible.

He began collecting things.

He collected.

Books,

For instance.

Latin ones.

Mostly unreadable.

All beautifully bound He liked books that looked impressive on shelves.

Even if they required a monk to explain what the verbs were doing.

You're so collected,

Dogs.

Which is considerably more relatable.

Me favoured Spaniels.

Greyhounds.

And a small nervous breed.

Known as the Liam Hound.

There were at one point.

.

.

So many dogs in henry's company that one ambassador from milan mistook the court for a hunting lodge There are records,

Actual records.

Of Henry writing affectionate little notes about his dogs.

In between declarations of war and lists of spices But beyond books and dogs and recollected clothes.

Tudor clothing was a great deal like Tudor politics.

Heavy.

Complicated.

Layered.

And prone to splitting open at the seams even as a young man.

Henry was deeply interested in what he wore.

He adored hose.

Which were tight-fitting leg coverings made of wool.

Or silk.

If one were feeling continental.

He once had a pair embroidered with tiny birds.

Not majestic eagles or royal falcons.

Tiny birds.

It's unclear what kind.

Possibly sparrows.

Possibly large.

Possibly an entire species invented by the tailor to justify the embroidery bill.

Henry's shoes were putted.

His shirts were ruffled.

His doublets were stuffed with horsehair and pride.

And then there were the He had hats for falconry.

Hats for feasting.

For sermons.

And for not quite listening to sermons.

White brimmed hats for riding.

Jeweled cups for sitting.

One hat.

Reputedly worn only once.

Was made of cloth of gold.

Lined with ermine.

And so heavy.

It had to be supported by a hidden wire frame,

Tucked inside the back of the chair.

A page fainted carrying it across the lawn.

And yet.

For all this regalia.

The most significant item in Henry's personal wardrobe.

Was the codpiece.

The cardpiece was a padded flap attached to the front of a man's trousers.

Technically a garment.

But more often a statement.

Henry's cut pieces grew over time.

So did his reputation.

There are entire debates among historians.

About how much was fashion.

How much was bravado?

And how much was Henry quietly trying to win arguments with France?

Using millinery alone.

One Italian diplomat.

Described it as a small tent of authority.

The French simply refused to comment.

Around this time Henry also developed an intense interest in sport.

Which is worth mentioning.

If only to understand.

Though someone so fond of pies could maintain such good calves,

He rode horses daily.

He fenced.

He jousted.

He ran at full speed.

Down palace corridors.

Despite.

Frequent complaints from the staff.

He was competitive.

Charming.

And entirely intolerable in victory.

At one particularly long tournament.

He awarded himself a trophy before the results were announced.

And insisted the trumpeters rehearse his name at breakfast This is the Henry the court first came to know.

A man of energy.

Enthusiasm.

And utterly exhausting charisma.

He sang loudly.

He flirted outrageously.

He read theology until his eyes watered,

Then immediately challenged someone to a wrestling match.

He was,

In short,

A sort of walking contradiction.

A devout Catholic with a private wine cellar the size of a chapel.

But he was still not yet king.

And although the crown was drawing nearer,

And the diet was growing heavier.

He remained at heart.

A prince with a choir boy's voice.

A scholar's curiosity.

And an increasingly elaborate hat.

Next.

We shall finally arrive at his coronation.

And the peculiar Very slow events surrounding it.

But only if you're still awake.

Part 4 The coronation and the goose grease.

The eighth's coronation took place on sunday the twenty fourth of june 1509 in Westminster Abbey.

And as coronations go.

It was both grand.

And faintly exhausting.

It began.

As so many Tudor affairs did.

With a long procession through the city.

During which Almost everyone who was anyone tried to look important.

While sweating under embroidered sleeves.

The route began at the tower of london a royal tradition meant to signify both safety and sovereignty although some suspected it was mostly because it had enough rooms to store everyone who needed dressing.

Henry had spent the previous night there in princely splendour.

Likely rehearsing regal expressions in front of a looking glass.

And trying not to spill anything on his coronation hose.

Now,

Coronation processions were not simple affairs.

They included heralds,

Trumpeters.

.

.

Knights.

Clergy.

Foreign ambassadors.

And more banners than any reasonable person could count.

It was less like a parade and more like a moving tapestry of velvet and logistics.

People lined the streets.

Shouting praise.

And hoping to glimpse the young king who was by all accounts both unusually tall.

And unusually handsome.

One Venetian observer wrote home.

Declaring Henry the handsomest potentate I ever set eyes on.

At Westminster.

The coronation ceremony was overseen.

By the Archbishop of Canterbury.

William Warram who had the difficult task of anointing Henry with holy oil without causing him to slip off the throne.

The oil.

May.

From olive oil.

Mask.

Civet.

Ambergris and rose water.

Was applied with solemnity.

And possibly a slight sense of worry.

As too much could lead to unfortunate wardrobe incidents.

However,

Henry remained stately throughout.

The coronation robes were heavy.

Rich cloths of gold lined with ermine and so layered.

That moving in them was something of an achievement.

He also wore a crimson surcoat beneath.

And a crown last worn by his father.

Freshly refurbished.

And likely smelling faintly of beeswax.

And political anxiety.

Catherine of Aragon was crowned alongside him.

A rare joint coronation.

She too.

Was dressed in cloth of gold.

Bore it with regal dignity.

Despite her own lingering worries,

She was only 23.

And already on her second Tudor husband.

Which was not something covered in the usual princess training.

After the abbey came the coronation banquet,

Held in Westminster Hall.

A location known for its acoustics.

It's hammer beam roof.

And its alarming number of pigeons in the rafters.

The feast was vast.

Tudor banquets were choreographed performances.

With dishes arriving.

In preposterous numbers.

Roasted peacocks redressed in their feathers.

Glided March panes,

A type of almond confection,

Spiced wines.

And jellies that wobbled in time with the music Historical records note.

That over a thousand dishes were served during the celebration.

It is not known how many were eaten.

How many were merely displayed?

Or how many were spirited away by hungry servants after the nobles became distracted by wine and ceremony.

One unique feature of the banquet.

Was the ceremonial arrival of the king's champion.

Sir Robert Dymo.

Clad in full armor.

Rode into the hall on horseback threw down a gauntlet and challenged anyone who disputed henry's right to the crown No one accepted,

Of course,

As it was considered both impolite and extremely dangerous.

And sew with a full belly.

An oiled forehead.

And a satisfied sense of divine favour.

Henry VIII's reign began.

He was young.

It was popular.

He was newly married.

And he had not yet executed a single spouse.

Minister.

Or monastic order.

But the future had other plans.

Part 5 tournaments,

Treaties.

And writing to the Pope.

Henry VIII's early reign was,

For a time,

Exactly what it said on the box.

He was young.

He was energetic.

He was educated.

It was popular.

And.

.

.

Crucially.

He hadn't yet made any spectacularly.

Irreversible decisions The first few years were filled.

With what might be described.

A ceremonial enthusiasm.

He was determined to prove himself.

As a chivalric king.

Bold in the saddle.

Strong in the arm.

Fluent in Latin.

And entirely too fond.

Of loot.

He held tournaments.

And not just small garden affairs.

But large,

Expensive.

Dangerously enthusiastic ones.

Involving full suits of armour.

And splinters the size of knitting needles.

The field of the cloth of gold.

That famously absurd festival of excess game laser.

But even in the early years.

.

.

Henry's court had the trappings.

Of a revivalist Arthurian circus.

He rode beneath banners with lions,

Griffins,

And his own initials.

He jousted often and with pride.

He nearly died once.

In 1524.

From a blow to the face.

When he refused to lower his visor.

A fact worth remembering.

When anyone refers to him as Wise.

But let us not get ahead.

In these early years.

1509 to roughly 1514.

Henry showed every sign.

Of being a model renaissance monarch He surrounded himself.

With humanists.

It corresponded.

With Erasmus.

He read Thomas More's Latin works.

He enjoyed debating theological questions.

Often in letters to the poker Umi still supported at this point.

With more ink than was strictly necessary.

He also composed music.

Though not especially remarkable music.

The peace.

Pastime with good company.

Often attributed to him.

May have been his composition.

The scholars argue over this.

And it's equally possible.

He simply had it commissioned.

And hummed along proudly.

Either way.

It became wildly popular.

Sung in taverns and courts alike.

And remains one of the more listenable Tudor ditties.

Meanwhile.

.

.

Catherine of Aragon was proving herself a queen of quiet strength and formidable intellect.

She spoke Latin fluently.

Was deeply pious.

And managed the royal household with care.

She also served as ambassador of Spain in England for a time.

The first woman in Europe to do so.

Henry admired her.

For a while.

He listened to her.

Together they were the golden couple.

The youthful king and queen.

Radiating prosperity and promise There were no divorces.

No excommunications.

And no monasteries on fire.

There was instead.

A great deal of correspondence with Rome.

Henry remained loyal to the papacy.

He earned the title.

VDI Defensor.

Defender of the Faith from Pope Leo X in 1521 for writing a treatise against Martin Luther.

The work was called assertio septum sacramentorum defense of the seven sacraments and although written with help from scholars,

Henry insisted on signing it himself.

The Pope was pleased.

Henry was pleased.

The printer was Tired.

And so the early years drifted on.

With feasting,

Jousting,

Letter writing.

And many,

Many new shirts.

Part 6 in which nothing of note happens.

To several million people.

While Henry VIII was busy writing letters to the Pope.

And nearly unseating himself at tournaments.

But the rest of England was doing what it always did.

Enduring the weather.

The neighbors,

And the price of barley.

Tudor England.

Meaning the actual land and people.

Not the shimmering world of palaces and scrolls.

Was a place of mud Repetition and very small improvements.

Often separated by years of nothing much.

Let us consider the village of Dullingham,

Which was and still is a real place in Cambridgeshire.

And which I am selecting not for its excitement but for its firm commitment.

To being precisely average.

In all things.

In the year 1512.

The inhabitants of Dullingham included.

Marjorie Wither,

Who made rush light candles using animal fat and bits of dried reed.

Walter Brewer It was not a brewer.

But it once helped one.

Humphrey sighed.

Who had gout.

And complained about it in loud seasonal rhythms.

And joan treadgold who owned a goose she claimed had healing powers but which in reality was just warm These people.

And many like them across England.

Did not write treatises.

They did not hold court.

They did not dissolve monasteries.

Or invent Protestantism.

What they did mostly was try to get through the week without spilling the grain.

Or accidentally dying of something medieval.

A day in the life of an ordinary Tudor subject began with waking up in a cold room.

Usually shared with at least three relatives.

Two fleas and one draught that couldn't be located or stopped Beds were made of straw.

Or in rare cases,

Feathers.

Which were far more luxurious.

Unless you happened to be allergic.

The first activity was usually to poke the fire.

Assuming it hadn't gone out.

Then came bread.

Always bread.

Bread for breakfast.

Bread with ale.

Bread to carry in a pouch in case of later hunger.

There were two types of bread.

Man shit.

Soft,

White.

Fine bread for the rich and rye and muslin.

Darker,

Coarser bread for everyone else.

People lived by the church calendar.

Which dictated not just when to pray but when to eat fast marry mourn and beat rugs There were over one hundred holy days a year.

Most of which were only loosely observed.

And often treated as excuses to stand around fields discussing the quality of eggs Clothing was functional.

And rarely washed.

Wool was the primary fabric.

Linen was worn underneath to absorb bodily unpleasantness so the wool didn't have to Bathing was rare.

Partly because of the weather,

And partly because it was thought to encourage illness.

Or worse.

And modesty.

People preferred to simply change their linen.

And hope for the best.

As for work.

Most Tudor villagers were engaged in agriculture.

Which was exhausting,

Seasonal,

Repetitive.

And very dull.

Flowering in winter.

Sowing in spring.

Weeding and worrying in summer.

Harvesting in autumn then starting again.

Unless something went wrong.

Which it often did.

This is important.

Most people survive.

Despite the grumbling.

The aching the bad pottage And the chance of catching the sweat from the fellow in the next parish,

They endured.

They marry.

They had children.

They laughed at things that probably weren't funny.

They told stories.

They gathered firewood.

They went to church.

They argued about fence lines.

They pressed apples into cider.

They lost spoons and found them again.

This was Tudor England too.

It smelled faintly of onions and shoe grease.

It moved slowly.

It changed reluctantly.

And it mattered quietly daily and in a way that no amount of royal parchment could erase Part 7 The Thatcher?

The town crier.

And a man named Osbert.

The Thatcher of a Tudor village was not glamorous.

Not fashionable.

And not particularly clean.

But he was essential.

Without him.

Every April would bring with it not only showers,

But a dripping bedroom ceiling.

And an extremely wet goose.

Thatched roofs were made from bundles of straw reeds or sedge.

Tied and layered in overlapping rows like natural shingles They were light,

Renewable.

And when properly done surprisingly good at keeping out the rain A good searcher.

Someone like Osbert Taylor of Market Drayton,

For example.

At a specific toolkit.

A legate for patting down the bundles.

A shearing hook for trimming.

And a personality best described as resigned.

Osbert had thatched the roofs of most of his village by age thirty.

And had seen the insides of every attic.

From one end of the high street.

To the other.

He was particularly known.

For his slow and cautious climbing method.

Which involved three ladders.

Two apprentices.

And one particularly wobbly barrel.

Touching wasn't seasonal.

It was perpetual.

By the time you'd finished one roof.

.

.

The one from three years ago would be sprouting mould.

We're developing a worrying list to one side.

And so.

.

.

Osbert plodded from house to house.

Muttering about ungrateful eves.

And charging by the ridge foot.

Which was only slightly less obscure than it sounds.

Then there was the town crier.

Before newspapers.

Announcements.

Or social media.

There was simply a man with a bell.

And lungs like a fireplace.

The town crier was responsible for informing the population about things they mostly already knew.

Such as upcoming feast days market regulations lost pigs and royal proclamations most of which were irrelevant by the time they were announced.

Criers were usually paid by the town and expected to be respectably loud.

Sober on weekdays.

And able to pronounce Latin names.

With enough conviction.

To fool the illiterate.

A typical announcement would begin with.

.

.

Oh yes,

Oh yes,

Oh yes.

From the French,

Écoutez.

Meaning.

Listen.

Followed by something no one had asked for.

And few could hear over the livestock.

One recorded cry from Ipswich in 1523 reads,

Yes be it known that no man shall tether his goat to the stocks nor shall any woman wash linens in the ducking pond lest the water become improperly soaked It is unclear what prompted this.

But it was clearly taken seriously.

As no further mention of goat tethering appears in the town records that decade.

Criers also had turned or disputes.

For example,

If two people claimed the same goose,

The crier would be asked to read out the ownership claim usually while the goose protested in real time.

Occasionally they lost their bells.

One crier from Exeter.

At his bell stolen by a prankster.

And had to spend the entire day shouting without it.

Which made him hoarse and extremely resentful.

Despite the noise.

The job was fairly safe.

Unless you rang your bell too close to a frightened mule which happened to peter longshank of lovenham in He survived.

But his bell was never quite the same.

So this was work.

For many.

Not glorious.

Not epic.

But honest and essential.

To be a Tudor Satcher.

Was to stare up at rooftops and think about how much worse they'd look if left to the weather To be a town crier.

Was to walk through the streets with a sense of purpose a bell and the belief.

That even if no one listened At least they knew you had said it.

Next we return to something even louder.

Part A.

Inside the royal Tudor household.

The royal household of Tudor England.

Was not a home in the ordinary sense.

It was more like a travelling bureaucracy with curtains,

A collection of people,

Protocols and platters that moved from palace to palace with the determination of a migrating goose,

But with less purpose.

And far more inventory.

The household was divided into departments.

Each with its own structure Uniforms.

And sense of quiet urgency.

There was a board of green cloth.

Which was not a game,

But an auditing body.

A wardrobe department which handled far more than clothes and a household kitchen which was responsible for preparing meals for anywhere between two hundred and twelve hundred people depending on how generous the king was feeling that week the tutors particularly Henry VIII.

Maintained multiple royal residences hampton court greenwich whitehall windsor and others.

And each was packed with attendants.

When the king moved,

So did the court.

This meant transporting beds,

Books,

Goblets,

Salt cellars,

Embroidered wall hangings.

And large numbers of folding tables.

The logistics of moving the royal household were so complex.

That one clerk described it as a kind of creeping cathedral.

At the top of the structure was the Lord Steward.

Responsible for the management of the entire household.

Like a headmaster.

But with more velvet.

And fewer blackboards.

Under him were gentlemen ushers.

Pages,

Grooms,

And a surprising number of yeomen.

Each with titles so specific.

They read like the cast of a Shakespearean comedy.

There was a.

.

.

Yeoman of the Ewery You handled water for washing.

The Yeoman of the Pantry a yeoman of the cellar.

And a yeoman of the removing wardrobe,

Whose primary task was to remove wardrobes.

Each room in a royal palace had a purpose and a person assigned to it.

Even a cushion might be under someone's official care.

The Presence Chamber,

A grand space where the monarch occasionally appeared.

At its own rules.

About who could stand where.

And for how long?

One foot too far forward And you were gently nudged back by a man in a hat.

With more tussles than authority.

The royal kitchens were vast and remarkably busy.

There were separate areas for boiling.

Baking.

Roasting.

Brewing.

And preserving.

The cooks worked in shifts beginning in the early morning.

And continuing late into the night.

Spices were kept under lock and key.

As they were more valuable than gold per ounce.

And the chief spicer was considered trustworthy enough.

To be allowed to speak at council meetings.

Although no one invited him twice.

Everything was hierarchical.

Even napkins had a system.

You could not simply wipe your hands and leave.

There was a folded method.

A handing over protocol.

And sometimes a silent bow if you were very important.

Someone else held the basin while you did it.

Despite.

.

.

The elaborate structure.

The household was often described as quiet.

Tapestries softened the echo of footsteps.

The smell of beeswax and rushes hung in the air.

Clerks copied inventories by candlelight.

Someone.

Somewhere.

Was always polishing silver.

It was a kind of controlled busyness.

That made time feel slow.

The kind of place where no one ran.

Unless they were late for a procession.

And even then.

.

.

They did it politely.

And although the royal family occupied only a few chambers at a time,

The entire palace was alive.

With preparations for things that might happen.

Just in case the king decided to appear or dine.

Or request a lute solo.

Much of the Tudor royal household's work was this.

Being ready.

Ready to light candles.

Ready to roll up carpets.

Ready to close doors.

Just as someone important passed through them.

It was a world where doing things very properly.

.

.

Was more important than doing them quickly.

And sad.

For a while.

Was how it remained.

Part 9 what the Tudors did for fun.

Judo england for all its ceremony and seriousness.

Had an unexpected fondness for fun.

Though not always the sort of fun one would call exhilarating.

Juder amusements were often slow.

Theatrical slightly damp.

And involved more costumes than necessary.

They also tended to occur in places with bad lighting.

And excellent acoustics.

Such as great halls,

Churchyards and occasionally the queen's bedroom.

At court,

Entertainment was taken very seriously.

There were entire departments devoted to it.

The Office of the Revels,

For instance.

Was responsible for designing Sewing.

And storing elaborate costumes and stage backdrops most of which smelled faintly of damp wool and political anxiety.

One surviving inventory includes.

.

.

Two clouds The lion's head.

And something labelled simply as The Irishman's hat.

Which historians still cannot explain.

The most beloved courtly amusements were masks,

Riddles,

Music.

Card games and on certain festive occasions.

Surprise intrusions dressed as Robin Hood The last category brings us to a documented event.

From May Day 1515.

When Henry VIII himself freshly married and flush with jousting injuries led a group of his favourite young noblemen into Queen Catherine's chamber.

Dressed as robin hood and his merry men.

They wore green costumes.

Carried staves.

And demanded playfully that the queen and her ladies come with them into the forest It was all pre-arranged,

Of course.

But everyone pretended it wasn't.

Catherine.

Who is dignified by nature.

And wearing sleeves that required their own attendance.

Played along graciously.

She agreed to go.

Providing they didn't ask her to walk across the garden path in full skirts,

Which sensibly they did not.

Once in the great hall the outlaws performed a short mask a kind of courtly skit with poetic dialogue and symbolic gestures.

After which there was dancing and refreshments,

Including Marchpane,

A Tudor almond suite,

Sculpted into the shape of a squirrel.

This was considered.

Merriment.

Were not dressing up as imaginary foresters.

Tudor courtiers liked to pose riddles,

Particularly during winter evenings when the fire was low.

And nobody wanted to play the lute anymore.

One such riddle recorded in a court manuscript and known to have been shared aloud during henry's reign A house full.

A whole full.

Yet you cannot catch a ball for.

What is it?

The answer.

This smoke.

People would ponder these for hours.

Occasionally accusing each other of cheating or else inventing answers that were better than the original some courtiers even kept riddle books tucked behind devotional texts for when sermons ran long Card games were also fashionable.

Particularly Primero.

An ancestor of modern poker.

Henry VIII was known to wager small sums.

Though records show he often lost.

Especially to women.

A fact that delighted his courtiers and irritated him.

On one occasion,

After losing five games in a row to Anne Boleyn.

He declared the cards dishonest and left the table.

In more public settings,

Entertainment could include pageants,

Morris dancing,

Puppet shows,

And occasionally animal displays.

One especially odd delight.

Was dressing up as wild men,

Which happened at a mass in 1527.

Six courtiers appeared covered in green cloth leaves and ivy Reciting love poems while waving branches They were meant to represent the untamed spirit of nature.

One slipped on a grape and fell into the queen dowager's footstool.

It was never repeated.

And then,

Of course,

There was music Le.

Vials,

Flutes,

Recorders.

And harps were everywhere at court.

Henry himself played the lute.

Sighing with some skill.

And composed music.

So this too was Tudor England,

Not just politics and portraits.

But riddles by candlelight.

Galliards in the presence chamber Almonds,

Squirrels And noble men with ivy in their hair.

Solemnly reciting poetry to women who were just trying to finish their pudding.

Part 10.

The rise and fall of Anne Boleyn.

Told very carefully.

And at a safe emotional distance.

Anne Boleyn arrived at the Tudor court sometime in the 1520s.

Quietly.

Like a footnote with excellent posture.

She had been raised partly in the Netherlands and France.

Spoke several languages.

And knew how to curtsy with exactly the right amount of interest.

She was not considered.

Conventionally beautiful.

At least not in the painted way of Tudor preference.

But she had a wit.

Presence.

And a very good eye for hats.

At first she was one lady among many.

Part of Queen Catherine of Aragon's household.

She played music.

Read French poetry.

And once won a friendly debate.

About the virtues of boiled pears versus stewed apples.

Then something shifted.

Henry VIII,

Still married to Catherine.

Still popular.

Still writing earnest theological letters.

Noticed Anne.

This took some time.

But once noticed.

She was not forgotten.

What followed was not a scandal.

So much as a reorganization of royal priorities.

Henry.

Still childless after many years of marriage His only surviving child being Mary.

Began to worry about the future.

He wanted a son.

He convinced himself that his marriage to Catherine was invalid.

Based on an obscure passage in Leviticus.

And a strong desire for things to be different.

Anne,

To her credit,

Or her caution,

Refused to be a mistress.

She would only be queen.

This made things complicated.

And when things become complicated at court,

They usually result in paperwork.

Henry appealed to Pope Clement VII,

Asking for an annulment.

The Pope declined,

Very slowly.

Because he was currently surrounded by the army of Charles V.

The Holy Roman Emperor.

Who happened to be Catherine's nephew.

These were not ideal negotiating conditions.

Henry grew impatient.

And grew popular with some.

Unpopular with others.

And increasingly skilled at managing conversations.

Without appearing to start them.

Eventually.

Henry decided.

That if Rome would not grant his request England would simply stop listening to Rome.

And so began.

The long,

Careful,

Extremely foot-noted process of breaking away from the Catholic Church.

By 1533.

Anne was Queen of England.

The coronation was elaborate.

Filled with tapestries,

Trumpets,

And politely hesitant applause.

She was heavily pregnant at the time.

And gave birth to a daughter elizabeth who was,

At the time,

Viewed with mild disappointment and a lovely christening gown.

But things changed again.

Anne wants the centre of attention.

Found herself surrounded by silence.

She had enemies now.

Real ones.

Not the figurative kind with gossip and glances.

But the kind who attended council meetings.

Her marriage to Henry began to cool,

As all royal marriages do,

When one partly keeps staring wistfully at jousters.

In 1536 Events came to a head.

Charges were brought.

Trials were held.

The details are recorded in great detail.

But here.

.

.

For the purposes of.

.

.

Keeping this sleep story safe.

And calm.

We will leave them politely outside the room.

All you need to know is Anne's story ends in the Tower of London.

Under grey skies and silent walls.

Her daughter elizabeth would one day become queen But Anne would not live to see it.

Her time was brief.

Brilliant.

And quietly decisive.

And though the world shifted beneath her,

Kingdoms.

Churches.

Entire dynasties.

She herself remains a figure both central and strangely unknowable.

Like a face behind glass.

Or a note left unsigned.

Part 11 the last of the Tudors.

And the gentle art of going to bed.

After the fall of Anne Boleyn.

Henry the eighth continued onward through four more wives a great deal of legislation and a growing sense that his portrait painter was being overly kind.

His third wife.

Jane Seymour gave him a son.

Edward.

And then passed away quietly.

Having achieved what no other wife had,

An uncontested place in the family tomb.

Edward became king at the age of nine.

Which is young for a monarch.

But just the right age for playing with maps and being told what to do by advisers.

His reign from 1547 to 1553 was earnest.

And Protestant.

And filled with paperwork he likely didn't read He died young.

Quietly.

And without much fuss.

Though with more hymns than most boys his age.

Next came Mary.

Henry's eldest daughter.

Daughter of Catherine of Aragon.

Her reign was marked by a return to Catholicism.

A marriage to Philip of Spain.

And all we will simply say about her reign is that it was solemn,

Serious.

And very cloudy.

And then,

At last.

.

.

In 1558.

Came Elizabeth.

She was the daughter of Anne Boleyn.

Never expected to rule.

And yet she did.

For 45 years.

It's way and more symbolic gestures than actual policies.

She remained unmarried.

She gave long speeches.

She was fond of dancing,

Poetry.

And clever word-play Foreign ambassadors wrote admiringly of her ability to avoid commitments while making everyone feel slightly flattered.

Under Elizabeth.

England began to change.

Theaters opened.

Books were printed.

Ships set off to explore things.

Tobacco arrived.

So did headaches.

The country grew richer.

Then poorer.

Then richer again But through it all.

Elizabeth held the center.

A queen with sharp eyes.

And a fondness for elaborate colours.

When she died in 1603.

The Tudor dynasty came to an end.

The crown passed to the steward.

Who arrived from Scotland.

With slightly different accents.

But by then.

.

.

Feudor England had left its mark.

In buildings.

Los.

Letters.

The national love of custard.

And so.

As our journey ends.

We return to something quiet.

Tudor people.

Like us.

But to go to bed.

It wasn't always easy.

Beds were lumpy.

Fireplaces crackle.

The wind made strange sounds in the such.

But they found ways to rest.

And wealthier homes.

Bed chambers were draped in heavy fabric to keep out the cold.

A warming pan might be passed between the sheets.

A shallow metal pan filled with cores.

Moved gently back and forth to take the edge off the damp in villages.

Families might share beds with feet pointing in different directions to conserve heat.

Children were tucked in.

Candles were blown out.

The last sound might be the creak of a wooden stair.

Or the muffled closing of a latch.

And for the monarch,

Too.

For Henry.

For Edward.

For Mary.

For Elizabeth There came the quiet moment when the court withdrew.

The last papers were signed.

The chamberlain bowed and the bedchamber door was closed.

Even in a world of processions and proclamations There was always the stillness.

The end of the day.

The slow rhythm.

Of sleep returning just as it does now.

So.

Rest now,

Listener.

Of this tale.

You've traveled through Tudor England.

Very slowly.

Through hats and riddles.

Kitchens and kings.

And now it's time.

To close your own chamber door.

And left.

Let the history settle.

There's nothing more to do.

You're already where you're meant to be.

Goodnight.