Tudor enthusiasts, how much do you know about Christopher "Kit" Marlowe? His is a name we hear occasionally throughout our study of Elizabethan history (particularly regarding playwrights and poets), but have you ever spent a lot of time studying his life? I'll be the first to say that I hadn't, and my knowledge of Kit's life was very scant prior to picking up this new novel by Allison Epstein. I knew that he had run in similar circles to William Shakespeare - becoming a notable playwright in London's Bankside district, and that he had died in a horrendous eye-stabbing at a London pub - popularly explained by "a disagreement over the bill."  But one thing I hadn't heard before was that he was suspected to have been a covert spy within Sir Francis Walsingham's intelligence network, serving Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth I.
This novel, spanning the years 1585-1593, follows this theory. Kit is in his last year of study at Cambridge when he's approached by none other than Elizabeth's spymaster himself, and sent on an undercover mission to the household of Mary, Queen of Scots. From there, Kit's life becomes immersed in the Crown's intelligence work, and suddenly he finds himself spying on the Scottish queen and breaking codes to reveal secret plots against Elizabeth. It doesn't take long before this work takes a mental toll on Kit, but as he finds out - you don't easily escape the life of a spy once you've proved yourself useful to Walsingham. What follows is a story of Kit's personal struggle to compartmentalize his life - the secret jobs he's required to do, his budding career as one of the most notable playwrights in London, and his personal relationships (notably with his best friend-turned-lover, Tom Watson). 

Happy Tudor New Year, Tudor enthusiasts! If we were living in the sixteenth century, today would mark the official start of the new calendar year, as we would be following the traditional Julian Calendar (instituted by - you guessed it - Julius Caesar). This New Year's Day was termed "Lady Day", as it was (and still is) the Christian Feast Day of the Annunciation - the day that commemorates the archangel Gabriel's visit to the Virgin Mary, when he informed her that she would become the mother of Jesus Christ, the Son of God. One of the most important days of the liturgical calendar, this Feast was of the utmost importance to the Tudors - whose everyday lives were so heavily influenced by the Church's teachings and Christian tradition. Everything they did - from what they were allowed to eat, to the activities in which they partook, to the intimacies they enjoyed with their spouses - were dictated by biblical events and holy seasons. Depending on the day, the week, or the month, people's behavior was influenced by the Church's holy calendar - so it should come as little surprise that this most important of holy days held an extra special significance in their year. 
The Feast of the Annunciation of the Blessed Virgin Mary (as it was phrased in the 1549 Prayer Book of Edward VI) had been celebrated as the official start to the year in England since 1155, and would continue until the adoption of the Georgian (or 'Gregorian') Calendar in 1752. Interestingly, Scotland adopted 1 January as the official New Year's Day 152 years earlier than England, in 1600. 

A look back at the history of the Julian Calendar shows us that Caesar had actually deemed 1 January as the start of the year - honoring the month of January's namesake, 'Janus', the Roman God of new beginnings. Janus was a god depicted with two faces - one in which to look back upon the past, and one to look forward to the future (hence our modern-day tradition of reflection and resolution on New Year's Day). As part of the Roman tradition surrounding this day, sacrifices were offered to Janus and gifts were exchanged in celebration. Parties and merrymaking were also a huge part of the day. But some of this changed in Medieval Europe, when the Feast of the Annunciation was deemed a more significant start to the calendar, and religious leaders changed the official New Year's Day to 25 March. Now, "Lady Day" was still a day of religious observance, celebratory feasting, and partying (among some, at least) - but 1 January retained the tradition of gift-giving. Thus, New Year's gifts that we read about in primary source material among our favorite Tudor figures were exchanged on 1 January - not 25 March. 
Among the upper-classes and royalty, merrymaking very much occurred for our Tudors on this day. Diarist Henry Manchyn recorded a jousting tournament on "Lady Day" in 1555, during Queen Mary I's reign, in this way (transcribed with modern spelling): ​

Part of the significance for "Lady Day" - apart from the feasting, jousting, and general celebration at court - was the start of the agricultural season and the deadline for certain dues to be paid to the crown. Accounts from Henry VIII's reign show that this was a common due date for monies to be paid. Many new job roles would begin on this day, and farmers would traditionally move to their new plots of land to start work. It's clear that, if you were a 'normal' person living in the sixteenth century, this New Year's Day was not particularly celebratory, so much as legal and practical. Farmers, merchants, blacksmiths and the like, for example, were not raising a toast to the Virgin Mary. As was often the case, the social classes divided the ways in which "Lady Day" was observed.
This day is important for historians and enthusiasts of the Tudor period to note, as it affects the way we read source material from the early months of each year during this time. Events between 1 January and 24 March were recorded as having occurred in the year prior to the one we now recognize - for example, Henry VIII's death on 28 January was recorded as 1546, not 1547; Elizabeth's death on 24 March was recorded as 1602, not 1603. This can cause some understandable confusion if we are not aware of the differing calendar structure. 
I hope this blog post has been informative and interesting for you. I, for one, have really enjoyed diving into the complex history of "Lady Day" as the start of the sixteenth-century new year, and its religious significance to our Tudor figures!

On this day in 1603, Queen Elizabeth I - the final monarch of the Tudor dynasty - breathed her last at Richmond Palace between the hours of 2:00 and 3:00 in the morning. At the time of her death, she had reigned over England for an impressive (nearly) forty-five years - the longest of any Tudor king or queen. She had been known, among other things, as 'Gloriana', the 'Virgin Queen', and 'Good Queen Bess' - and her legacy would leave an impression on England as having been one of the most noteworthy and successful monarchs in the country's history. Hers was a reign of relative religious tolerance (though this can certainly be debated if you ask fervent Catholics of the time), financial stability, and impressive militaristic strength. She had been the princess that her father, Henry VIII, hadn't really wanted - and certainly hadn't foreseen ever sitting upon his throne - and yet, she became arguably the most successful and prosperous ruler of the dynasty. The once-bastardized daughter of the disgraced and beheaded Anne Boleyn, Elizabeth proved to be glorious indeed... but on 24 March 1603, her impressive and unexpected life came to an end after a long sixty-nine-and-a-half years.
According to contemporary chronicler William Campden, Elizabeth's poor health appears to have begun roughly two months prior to this day. It has been noted, however, that she complained of feeling unwell as early as Autumn 1602, when she apparently caught a chill outdoors and suffered from a sore throat and body aches. Campden noted that, prior to this, she had enjoyed 'health without impairment' - calling out her temperate diet and abstinence from wine. However, the now-elderly queen had begun to suffer weakness and illness in January, and departed from Westminster to Richmond Palace, where she intended to 'refresh herself'. But it clearly did not take long before those around her - as well as she herself - realized that there may be no coming back from this decline. The once-notoriously strong-willed and hearty queen now looked her immortality in the eyes, and grew ever more depressed as she spent more and more time in prayer. She conferred with the Archbishop of Canterbury and Bishop of London, and became shorter-tempered and more melancholy than she had been.
Her physicians in these final weeks noted a swelling of glands (which they referred to as 'almonds' in her throat), as well as a loss of appetite. She complained of her inauguration ring - which symbolized her marriage to England as its queen - becoming 'so grown into the flesh', that it required filing off from her finger. Her throat became dryer and sorer as February became March, and she reportedly spoke to her attendants with less frequency - likely falling deeper into a dark depression as she knew death was approaching. She was so consumed with grief and foreboding, that she was reported to have sat on cushions in her chambers for hours on end, speaking to no one.

When it became clear within the first weeks of March that the country was in need of a known successor, Elizabeth's Lord Keeper, Sir Thomas Egerton, and Secretary Robert Cecil begged the queen to name her heir. As she had no children of her own,  nor any close legitimate relatives who would satisfy the role, she named the thirty-seven-year-old James VI of Scotland - the son of her cousin, Mary, Queen of Scots, whom she'd had executed sixteen years prior. The Tudors would be no more, upon her death. With this gasping announcement, she was ushering in the start of the Stuart dynasty.
According to Archbishop Whitgift (of Canterbury), Elizabeth made no reply whenever he spoke of her rallying from her illness and recovering to full health. Instead, when he mentioned the joys of Heaven, she squeezed his hand - as if to say that this was her preference. At the very respectable (if ancient, by Tudor standards) age of nearly seventy, she appears to have resigned herself to leaving the world and taking to her final rest. Still, when Robert Cecil suggested that she must leave her cushions in favor of her more comfortable bed, Elizabeth snapped at him, saying, "'must' is not a word to use to princes, little man." Even in this fragile state, no one was going to tell the mighty Elizabeth what to do - and there is reason to believe that she might have felt a bit apprehensive going to bed, knowing it would likely be for the final time.
Finally, succumbing to the reality of the situation, Elizabeth did go to bed, surrounded by her trusted ladies. She fell into a deep sleep on the night of 23 March, and passed away in the deepest hours of the early morning of Thursday, the 24th. It was the eve of the  Feast Day for St. Mary the Virgin - an appropriate day for the Virgin Queen to depart this earth. Interestingly, as the Tudors still used the Julian calendar, this was also the final day of the year 1602 (the new year began on the aforementioned feast day, the 25th of March). So, contemporary records of this event would show the queen as having died in 1602.
Within a few hours, Elizabeth's councilors would begin plans to proclaim James VI of Scotland as King James I of England, and the queen's death would be announced the following morning - spreading through the streets of London like depressing wildfire. For many citizens of Tudor England, Elizabeth had been the only monarch they'd ever known in their lifetime - certainly the only one they could recall. Her death brought about some uncertainty and fear of the unknown.
While the people of England digested the information about the passing of their 'Good Queen Bess', the deceased monarch's body was embalmed and placed in a lead coffin - having not been subjected to a postmortem examination, at her own bequest. Soon, she would lie in state while the new king took up his post, and her life would later be celebrated and commemorated with a grand funeral at the end of April.

On this day in 1519, a girl by the name of Katherine Willoughby was born at Parham Old Hall in Suffolk, to parents William Willoughby and Maria de Salinas. Her father's title was 11th Baron Willougby de Eresby, and as a wealthy owner of lands throughout Lincolnshire, he had married one of Queen Catherine of Aragon's Spanish ladies-in-waiting, Maria, in 1516. As such, the Willoughbys were a well-to-do family in good standing throughout the early 16th century, receiving favors from Henry VIII and his first queen. Katherine (likely named in honor of the queen) was their only surviving child. When she was seven years old in 1526, her father died, and she was sent to the home of Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk, and his wife (Henry VIII's sister), Mary, Dowager Queen of France. There, she became the Suffolks' ward, and it was expected that she might marry the duke's son Henry, 1st Earl of Lincoln, when she came of age. However, plans changed in 1533, when the duchess died and the duke was suddenly in need of a wife and financial security. Katherine was, after all, already the Baroness Willoughby de Eresby by birth, and one of the wealthiest heiresses in England. At the tender age of fourteen (compared to the duke at forty-nine), she was quite the catch for a man who had debts to settle, and his eye on valuable lands.
Claiming the young noblewoman for himself, instead of marrying her to his son as he had originally claimed to intend, the two wed just three months after his wife's death. At this turn of events, Katherine's life changed dramatically. As her husband was one of the king's closest friends, she now spent much of her time at court in Henry VIII's presence - even supposedly catching his eye with her beauty and charm (as a claim from 1538 states). She gave the duke two sons - Henry and Charles (the former becoming the second Duke of Suffolk when Charles Brandon died in 1545.
Over time, the formerly-raised Catholic Katherine turned reformist in belief, supporting King Henry's break with Rome, attending Hugh Latimer's sermons at Hampton Court, and become outspoken about reform. When the king married his sixth wife, Catherine Parr, the now-Dowager Duchess of Suffolk became close with her - even helping to fund the publication of the Protestant queen's book, Lamentations of a Sinner in 1547.

When Catherine Parr died in 1548 (one year after Henry VIII), her infant daughter, Mary, was handed over to Katherine for care - at the request of the father, Lord Admiral Sir Thomas Seymour. This was apparently not ideal to Katherine, who complained via letters to the Lord Protector of the Realm, Edward Seymour, that she should be given a monthly allowance to pay for the baby's upkeep (though there is no report of any such allowance being granted). As the infant Mary disappears from the historical record by 1550, it's assumed that she passed away by her first birthday.
Tragically, Katherine's own sons succumbed to the sweating sickness of 1551. While they had fled their studies at St. John's College, University of Cambridge, to avoid the contagion, they died within half an hour of each other at Katherine's rented house in Buckden. Katherine had not arrived in time to say a proper goodbye to either of them - as the eldest, Henry, had died before she got there, and Charles had already drifted into unconsciousness - dying within minutes of her arrival.
In 1552, Katherine married once again - but this time, for love. Richard Bertie served as her Gentleman Usher prior to their wedding, and the couple had a daughter named Susan in 1554 - soon after Queen Mary's ascension to the throne. As previously stated, Katherine had become a staunch Protestant during her years at court, so now that a Catholic queen ruled England (and swiftly began persecuting reformers), Katherine and her family chose to flee for the continent - preferring to live in exile and poverty rather than risk the ugly fate of a Protestant in Marian England. While in exile, Katherine gave birth to a son named Peregrine in 1555. Once Queen Mary died in 1558, the family determined that it was safe to return to England.
Throughout the rest of her life, Katherine devoted herself to advocating for the Protestant cause, and many books written on reform during the latter-part of the sixteenth century were dedicated to her or bore her coat of arms. England had not become the Protestant utopia that Katherine and Richard had hoped it would be under Elizabeth I (and their troubles were far from over open returning home), but they managed to avoid arrest and execution (perhaps narrowly) for their outspoken religious beliefs.

Katherine died on 19 September 1580 at the respectable age of sixty-one, leaving behind her a legacy of a feisty, sharp-tongued, yet devout nature. She passed at her preferred home of Grimsthorpe Castle in Lincolnshire, and an elaborate tomb was erected in her honor at St. John's Church, where Richard Bertie would be buried beside her two years later.

On this day in 1496, Queen Elizabeth of York gave birth to her fifth child - her third daughter, whom she and Henry VII named Mary. The infant princess was born at Sheen Palace (later known as Richmond), and though her mother would later give birth to two or three further children, Mary would be the youngest surviving child of the family - growing up with older siblings, Arthur, Margaret, and Henry. It was with Henry that Mary shared an especially close bond throughout childhood, earning so much of his affection that he would later name his first surviving daughter after her. 

As was the case with most royal children, Mary was exceptionally-well cared for from infancy through childhood, and was given her own household at age six. From this time, she was raised under the care of governess Joan Vaux, whom she affectionately referred to as 'Mother Guildford'. Her education was standard for a princess of the times - her lessons including languages such as French and Latin, musical instruments of the lute and clavichord, courtly dancing, and womanly arts and pastimes, like embroidery. 
Notably, also at age six, Mary became motherless when Elizabeth of York died following the birth of the final royal child, Catherine, who also died. The following year, it was noted that a number of payments were made to the royal apothecary (which continued through 1509), indicating that Mary's health may have been fragile between these years - ages 7-12. Despite whatever potential health issues ailed her, however, she was known as one of the most beautiful princesses in Christendom (as this portrait from 1516 illustrates). If she was indeed a sickly child, it doesn't appear to have affected her appearance, and by the time she reached age ten, offers from European kingdoms were being made for her hand. She was described a few years later (at the age of eighteen) in this way: 'handsome and well favoured, were not her eyes and eyebrows too light; she is slight, rather than defective from corpulence, and conducts herself with so much grace, and has such good manners, that for her age of 18 years - and she does not look more - she is a paradise.'
On 21 December 1507, a betrothal agreement was made with the Holy Roman Emperor, promising her to his young son, Charles (who was four years younger than Mary). However, the betrothal was called off in 1513, and the following year a new - and far less enticing, I would imagine - arrangement was made by Cardinal Wolsey. On 9 October 1514, the eighteen-year-old Mary was married to the 52-year-old French king, Louis XII. Though this arrangement certainly didn't appeal to Mary from an attraction standpoint, her royal husband was certainly thrilled to marry such a beauty - referring to her as a 'nymph from heaven.' And despite her own disinterest, her lively and friendly personality showed itself upon meeting her royal groom, when she reportedly blew a kiss to him in greeting (which delighted him).

It was during her brief time as Queen of France that Mary was attended by the Boleyn girls, Mary and Anne, while also being served by her former governess, 'Mother Guildford', who acted as her principal lady in waiting. Her time at the French court was cut incredibly short when her husband died only three months into the marriage - in January 1515, when it was reported that 'exertions of the royal bedchamber' had exhausted his heart. In all likelihood, his death had nothing to do with exhaustive lovemaking - and much more to do with gout.
We know that Mary had been unhappy with the arrangement to marry the old French king, and it has been argued that, at the time of her first marriage, she was already in love with her brother's close friend, Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk. A letter dated from 1515 makes clear Mary's own understanding that she had been promised the ability to marry whoever she might choose, following the death of the French king. Indeed, she argued that this was the reason for her agreement to the match in the first place. However, her older brother and king of England, Henry VIII, sought to plan a new marriage for his sister upon her first husband's death - likely seeking a match that would serve England's political interests, as the marriages of princesses were intended to do. Some possible husbands included Antoine, Duke of Lorraine, and Charles III, Duke of Savoy. Even King Francis I (her husband's successor as king of France) threw his hat in the ring - though he was already married to Queen Claude. 

Henry VIII must have been aware of his sister's affection for Charles Brandon - and his for her - because when he sent Charles to fetch Mary back from France in January 1515, he made his friend promise not to propose to her. This may have been said only in jest, of course, because the thought that the Duke of Suffolk would claim a princess for his wife was quite likely an unthinkable prospect. But in fact, that is exactly what happened - and likely because of Mary's insistence. While Charles was in France, she reportedly wept to him of her feelings, persuading him to disregard his promise to her brother, and the two were married in secret at the Hotel de Clugny in Paris on 3 March 1515.
When this news reached Henry, he was irate. Charles - his closest friend - had committed treason against the English Crown by taking a royal bride without the king's consent. The privy council urged him to take swift action against the duke (and as a traitor, Charles was subject to the very real possibility of imprisonment and execution). But affection for Charles (and of course, for Mary) saved him from death - and instead the couple was fined heavily by the Crown for their offense. They were reportedly required to pay £24,000 (the equivalent of roughly £7,200,000 in today's value) in yearly installments of £1,000 - though this was later decreased when Henry calmed down. In addition, Mary was forced to hand over her £200,000 dowry from the king of France, as well as all valuables given to her by her first husband. In short, her second marriage - which was clearly pursued in the name of love - came at a heavy financial cost. However, the princess never appeared to regret the decision. 

While Charles was Mary's second husband, she was his third. Becoming his wife also made her the stepmother to his two daughters (Anne and Mary) by his second marriage to Anne Browne, who had died four years prior. In 1515, Charles was around 31 years old, and interestingly, despite Mary's new title of Duchess of Suffolk, she continued to be known at the English court as the Queen of France. Though she was permitted to return to court after regaining her brother's friendship, Mary appears to have preferred living away from the hustle and bustle - choosing instead to spend her time at her husband's country home of Westhorpe Hall in Suffolk. With him, she gave birth to four children: Henry (who died at four years old), Frances (the future mother of Lady Jane Grey), Eleanor, and Henry. 
Following the ordeal of her second wedding and having finally regained Henry's favor (the two were allowed to have a second grand wedding at Greenwich Palace in Mary 1515), she once again found herself at odds with her royal brother when she opposed his determination to annul his first marriage with Catherine of Aragon. As a supporter of the 'true faith' of Rome, Mary reportedly despised Anne Boleyn - who caught the king's attention sometime around the mid-1520s. Whether she had already formed this opinion of Anne while interacting with her in France is unclear, but during the king's 'Great Matter', Mary was decidedly on Catherine's side. 
However, as we know, the annulment went forward and Henry VIII's second marriage took place in 1533 - the same year that Mary succumbed to illness, dying on 25 June at Westhorpe Hall at the age of 37. It is suspected that she had suffered from a lengthy bout of the sweating sickness - although modern medical experts and historians have also speculated about tuberculosis, appendicitis, and cancer. 
Following her death, Mary's embalmed body lay in state at Westhorpe Hall for three weeks prior to her elaborate funeral at Westminster Abbey on 20 July. Her husband - now widowed for a third time, would marry his son's betrothed, the fourteen-year-old lady Katherine Willoughby, within months of Mary's death. (But that's a blog post for another time.)
Today we remember a Tudor lady who very much did things her own way - bypassing Henry VIII's political ambitions for her life, taking her future into her own hands, and marrying for love. This was a luxury that very few princesses of the time were afforded, and it makes Mary an interesting and notable Tudor figure in her own right. 

On this day in 1539, Sir Thomas Boleyn, 1st Earl of Wiltshire, died at Hever Castle. His death followed three years after the execution of his daughter Queen Anne Boleyn at the command of her husband King Henry VIII. For many Tudor enthusiasts, the later career of the Earl of Wiltshire fades into obscurity, as his name (and that of 'Boleyn' in general) drops significantly from the historical record. But does that mean that Sir Thomas Boleyn retreated to his family home and stayed far away from court following his daughter's fall from grace and gruesome death? In fact, not really - though even his Wikipedia page makes it seem like he wallowed in disgrace from May 1536 until his death in March 1539.

In truth, Sir Thomas Boleyn did fall from favor in 1536 alongside his daughter's downfall, and he was stripped of his title of 'Lord Privy Seal' - which he had gained during Anne Boleyn's rise several years prior. While he had enjoyed great favor at court during her short time as queen, he actually took part in the secret commission to inquire about Anne's supposed sexual misconduct and treason against the king. Can you imagine being a father and taking this role  upon yourself, trying to uncover evidence against your own daughter, which would surely have her 'Queen' title stripped from her? It's unclear, of course, if Thomas knew the extent to which he would be helping to condemn her. Had he been aware that the executioner's axe was on the other side of those inquiries, would he have persisted against her? Sadly, we'll never know, but hindsight and full context of the situation paints a grim picture of Sir Thomas Boleyn and the depths to which he would go in order to maintain the king's favor. He is a father who assisted in convicting his own daughter (as well as his son, George, who was ultimately convicted of incest with Anne, and beheaded days before her).
As one can imagine, the shame, embarrassment, and utter disgrace must have fallen heavily upon Thomas as May 1536 came to a close. Two of his children had died as traitors against the Crown, he was stripped of his own honors and status, and certainly left court for a time following that traumatic period. However, within a year he is recorded as being back in the king's service and assisting to squash the rebels taking part in the Pilgrimage of Grace between late 1536 and early 1537. This shows that, at the earliest, he was back in action within five months of Anne and George's executions - and at the latest, within nine months. Why or how he was brought back into service and relative favor remains unclear, but it's striking to me that a man who experienced so much trauma at Henry VIII's court, and who's family was irreparably damaged, continued to serve the Crown within such a short period of time.

Even more shockingly, Thomas is noted among the gentry present at Prince Edward's christening in October 1537. Yes, he - the father of Henry's second queen - attended the christening of Henry's son by his third queen (the very son that Anne had failed to provide). We can assume that this event was a bit surreal and jarring for Thomas, but it is probably also safe to assume that he wouldn't have dared refuse such an invitation. If he cared at all about preserving any shred of royal favor by this point, his hands were tied and he likely felt the need to show his support to the king in any way possible.
In April 1538, Thomas's wife Elizabeth passed away, and later that year he is recorded to have been fully back at court - less than two years after his family's fall. When March 1539 came and Thomas himself died at the family home of Hever Castle, King Henry VIII reportedly ordered masses to be celebrated throughout the country for the deliverance of his soul. For the king to request such a thing was no small matter - it is a sure sign that Sir Thomas Boleyn was firmly back in favor, and that his death touched the king.
Upon his death, Thomas ensured that his only surviving child, Mary (now the wife of William Stafford) would be able to inherit and reside in Rochford Hall in Essex. This might serve as some evidence that he - still haunted and traumatized from the events of 1536 regarding two of his children - was making an attempt to care for his third.
He was buried in St. Peter's Church in the village of Hever, with a monumental brass commemorating him - depicting him finely dressed and wearing the insignia of a Knight of the Garter. The brass plate reads:

Yes, you read that right. The tomb's plate reads '1538', because the Tudor calendar did not restart until 25 March (the Feast Day of the Virgin Mary's Annunciation). Confusing, I know. So although we refer to his death year as 1539, given our modern-day calendar year and New Year's Day of 1 January, it would still have been 1538 in Tudor times.

The story of the Boleyns' fall from grace and swift disappearance from relevance after the 1530s is striking and sad, to say the least. Indeed, the Boleyns largely disappear from England after Mary's death in 1543, and it's thought that extended family members may have left the country during the latter part of the century, in an attempt to distance themselves from the scandals of 1536.
This post felt necessary in order to shed some light on a little-known time in Sir Thomas Boleyn's life, when it is often thought that he never stepped foot back in court or showed his face to Henry VIII after his daughter's execution. The truth of the matter is surprising to me on an emotional level - that he chose to return to the court that butchered two of his children (which he took an active role in). But given the context of the time period, we must understand that serving the king as a member of the peerage was likely Thomas's only option to maintain any ounce of dignity and respect for his family name. It may not have worked for long, but can we really blame him for trying?

On this day in 1524, the 33-year-old Henry VIII took part in a jousting tournament, facing off against his close friend and courtier, Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk. Henry loved to joust, and had probably been taking part in the sport for close to fifteen years by this time, but there was no denying that it was a dangerous event. Though the types of jousts enjoyed by the Tudors and their courts were likely 'Jousts of Peace', which involved hollow lances intended to shatter upon impact (as opposed to the sharp, solid lances used in 'Jousts of War'), one need only consider the speed with which the opposing horses barreled towards each other in order to realize just how much injury could be afflicted on the participants. And while we, as Tudor enthusiasts, often recollect on Henry's infamous jousting injury of January 1536 - in which he was unseated and possibly rendered unconscious for a few hours - this first injury of 1524 is less discussed. Let's dive into the cringeworthy details.

Despite reports that Henry VIII practiced jousting and combat 'almost every day of the week' (as recorded by Luis Caroz de Villaragut, writing to Ferdinand of Aragon in May 1510), on this particular day in 1524, Henry made a careless mistake. Before entering the jousting arena opposite the Duke of Suffolk, Henry forgot (or neglected, for some reason) to lower the visor of his helmet. Now, why no one stopped him from galloping onward - or why Suffolk didn't refrain upon seeing the king's exposed face - I'm not sure. Chronicler Edward Hall does report that onlookers cried out 'Hold! Hold!',  but the joust continued on, and Suffolk's lance struck Henry's right brow (imagine that - just an inch or so above his eye), causing it to splinter and send wooden fragments flying. Naturally, we can assume that the king was unhorsed, and Suffolk, horrified, ran to his side - swearing that he would never joust against him again. But (get this) Henry laughed it off!  He apparently laughed at Suffolk and insisted that it was no one's fault but his own for neglecting the visor, and retorted that at least his sight had been spared. Then, he proceeded to gather himself and run six more courses, just to prove that he was perfectly fine. One can only imagine the state of his injured face.

Edward Hall recounted the event in the following text:

'Then the Duke set forward and charged his spear, and the King likewise inadvisedly set off towards the Duke. The people, perceiving the King’s face bare, cried “Hold! Hold!”, but the Duke neither saw nor heard, and whether the King remembered that his visor was up or not few could tell. Alas, what sorrow was it to the people when they saw the splinters of the Duke’s spear strike on the King’s headpiece. For most certainly, the Duke struck the King on the brow, right under the defence of the headpiece, on the very skull cap or basinet piece where unto the barbette is hinged for power and defence, to which skull cap or basinet no armourer takes heed of, for it is evermore covered with the visor, barbet and volant piece, and so that piece is so defended that it forceth of no charge. But when the spear landed on that place, it was great jeopardy of death, in so much that the face was bare, for the Duke’s spear broke all to splinters and pushed the King’s visor or barbet so far back by the counter blow that all the King’s headpiece was full of splinters. The armourers for this matter were much blamed and so was the Lord Marquis for delivering the spear when his face was open, but the King said that no-one was to blame but himself, for he intended to have saved himself and his sight.

The Duke immediately disarmed himself and came to the King, showing him the closeness of his sight, and swore that he would never run against the King again. But if the King had been even a little hurt, the King’s servants would have put the Duke in jeopardy. Then the King called his armourers and put all his pieces together and then took a spear and ran six courses very well, by which all men might perceive that he had no hurt, which was a great joy and comfort to all his subjects there present.'

Personally, I can't imagine how Henry VIII stood up, laughed it off, and continued to joust after an injury like this. Reading about this event just makes me think of the French king, Henri II (depicted in the second image of this post), who died after being struck in the eye with a jousting lance in 1559. Reportedly, a shattered sliver of the lance penetrated so deeply into the French king's eye that it struck his brain. Having read about Henri II's agonizing death, and realizing that Henry VIII's blow was mere inches from his right eye (if that) makes me cringe. Also, it seems a miracle that the wooden fragments that splintered upon impact didn't lodge themselves in his eye - which may have resulted in a similar tragedy. All in all, this injury baffles me and makes me squirm. I have to wonder what Henry's wife, Catherine of Aragon, was thinking as she almost certainly watched the joust from her royal box. It must have been a frightening and bloody sight, to say the least.
Henry did reportedly suffer from migraines for the rest of his life, which may have been linked to this day. But he certainly continued jousting - taking part in many more tournaments up until January 1536, when he was more seriously injured and discontinued his involvement in the sport he loved.
This must have been an anxiety-inducing event, and a painful day for Henry VIII, no matter how nonchalant he might have been following the blow. I, for one, am still cringeing.

[Disclaimer: This review contains spoilers!]
Tudor enthusiasts, I've just read (or rather, listened to) a fabulous novel. Alison Weir's third installment in the 'Six Tudor Queens' series was just too tantalizing for me to resist, especially as I'm currently working on writing my first non-fiction book on Edward VI. A novel about his mother, Jane Seymour (about whom precious few novels have been written), greatly appealed to me as a way to view her story and the lead-up to Edward's birth through 'her' eyes. I have to say, I hung onto every single word and really, really enjoyed this book. I just have to share my thoughts with you!

This novel follows Jane's story from her childhood aspirations to enter a nunnery, all the way through to her death in 1537, following the birth of Prince Edward. The character arc that Alison Weir creates over these ~30 years is fabulous, and I feel the reader truly gets to witness Jane grow up, adapt to the world around her, and find her place in Henry VIII's court. As with all of Weir's novels, this one relies heavily on scholarly research and primary source material - which I really appreciate, as both a lover of creative historical fiction AND a stickler for accuracy. I personally  really respect Weir's dedication to presenting her stories in as accurate a way as possible - only really taking creative license in order to fill in details not included in the historical record. While I also enjoy novels with more of a "what if?" twist, it's really nice to know that I can crack open an Alison Weir novel with the expectation of getting a very fact-based portrayal of the story in question. I have a lot of faith and trust in her fiction writing, as a result.
The portion about Jane's childhood follows her happy home life, her exploration of religious life at the local priory, and ultimate decision not to pursue the sisterhood. We see her older brother Edward's first marriage to Catherine Fillol play out dramatically, as the bombshell of her infidelity (with none other than Jane and Edward's own father) is dropped. The trials that her family faces together weave a story of unconditional love and strong bonds - truthfully, a rarity in most stories about Tudor families. The Seymours were certainly ambitious and self-serving to some degree, but according to Weir, they also loved and valued each other deeply.
Jane's entrance into court life and the service of Queen Catherine of Aragon paints the character that we'll see evolve in Jane throughout the rest of the story. She's deeply loyal to Henry's first wife, and admires her devotion to the Catholic Church, her extreme piety, and her kindness. Much of the early portion of the book follows the king's 'Great Matter' and path to annulment from Catherine, and his subsequent courtship and marriage to Anne Boleyn - and Jane's convictions are made quite clear. She'll never see Anne as a true queen, and will support and mourn Catherine's lot in life as long as she lives. Wrested away from Catherine's service after the queen's banishment from court, Jane is begrudgingly entered into the new Queen Anne's service, and she's none too pleased about it.

The real meat of this story details Anne Boleyn's queenship and fall, and Jane's role in it. For most of this time, we don't see much of Jane's interactions with King Henry - until their progress in 1535, when Henry and Jane experience a moment of private conversation at her family home of Wolf Hall, and we see Henry's feelings for her begin to manifest. On that note, I must say that I loved Weir's portrayal of Henry. He was made to be the perfect human character in his book - at times charming, romantic, and utterly kind... and then meting out harsh discipline, judgment, and royal wrath as he felt the need to assert his authority. The reader can, in my opinion, fully understand and relate to Jane's feelings towards him. As this part of the book progresses, we see her fall in love with him - while holding reservations about his character, as she's seen the way he treated the former queen and their daughter, the 'true princess' Mary. At times, she's uncomfortable and intimidated by him - recognizing that there are things he does that actually makes her hate him some of the time - but his charm, care, and devotion to her also makes her swoon and feel perfectly cared for and protected. I imagine that falling in love with Henry VIII in the 1530s was exactly like this, so I was glued to every word of these scenes between them.
Jane becomes 'the haunted queen', as the title suggests, because of her role in Anne's ultimate downfall. I won't spoil anything here, but she does play a part beyond the wallflower in the background that we might often envision. She had a vested interest in Anne's removal from court - but her fate of execution is certainly something that haunts Jane throughout the rest of the book, showing itself with dark shadows of (perhaps) Anne, lurking in the corners of Jane's bedchamber at night.
The rest of the story, naturally, follows Jane's time as Henry's third wife and queen, and takes up a relatively small portion of the book, given that she was only alive for another year and a half or so following their May 1536 wedding. Through this time, though, Weir makes a number of interesting claims in the novel - again, based on research. One thought-provoking example is the portrayal of Jane being pregnant at her wedding. We often think of Jane Seymour as struggling to conceive a child with Henry throughout their first several months as a married couple - until early 1537, when she finally conceived Edward. However, Weir points out evidence in the Author's Notes that speaks to some contemporary evidence for at least one earlier pregnancy that resulted in miscarriage. If Jane truly did experience pregnancies prior to Edward, they would have almost certainly ended in early miscarriage, because if she had progressed in pregnancy to a noticeable degree, it absolutely would not have been lost in the historical record. Think of how many miscarriages/stillbirths we know of for Catherine of Aragon and Anne Boleyn - Jane's experience would be no different, if the court were aware of her pregnancies.

Weir cites a few contemporary quotes regarding Jane as 'great with child' upon her marriage in 1536 (which, as she points out, does not necessarily mean that she was large and far along - only that she had been confirmed to be pregnant). While we can't know for sure if this was the case, it's not a far-fetched theory, in my opinion. Weir also makes the argument that, had Jane really been pregnant in May 1536, it would likely have greatly contributed to Henry's haste to dispose of Anne Boleyn, and his urgency to marry Jane. We do know from the historical timeline of events that Anne's fall was swift and decisive - possibly to the point of concocting evidence out of thin air, just to be rid of her. And marrying Jane within days of Anne's beheading seems a bit more understandable if we consider that Henry may have been aware that she was already carrying his child. Again, no guarantee that this was the case, but it's interesting to ponder.
In the book, Jane goes on to have another miscarriage before successfully conceiving Edward and carrying him to term, giving birth in October 1537. The details of this birth were thoughtfully considered and handled by Weir - who opted not to entertain the myth of a C-section being performed, or Henry VIII's insistence that the son should be saved at the expense of the mother. Instead, Jane's birth is detailed as difficult and long, but nothing particularly out of the ordinary. As Jane recovers, Weir dives into further theory and evidence to explain her ultimate end.
As Weir describes in the Author's Note, it has long been believed that Jane may have succumbed to Puerperal Fever (or 'childbed fever'), which took the lives of many a medieval and Tudor woman. The evidence for this, she explains, is the detail of Jane being 'cold' during her final days - which may be interpreted as feverish. However, she points out that Puerperal Fever was extremely common in these days, and would have been easily recognizable - not only by the ladies who were caring for Jane, but certainly by her medical team. The symptoms of Puerperal Fever were easily-enough spotted, so the fact that her fatal illness and cause of death has remained somewhat of a mystery is cause of make us scratch our heads, and determine that it likely wasn't the cause.
Weir also notes a difference in interpretation regarding the phrase 'natural lax' - which Jane's physician recorded as having occurred days after Prince Edward's birth. Many historians have interpreted this phrase 'lax' to mean heavy bleeding - which has caused fingers to point towards postpartum hemorrhage as the cause of death. However, Weir makes the argument that 'lax' in late medieval times referred to a loosening of the bowels - the term 'laxative' deriving from it sometime later. So instead of the common assertions that Jane perhaps died of heavy postpartum bleeding, Weir makes the case for a bad bout of food poisoning - causing diarrhea and severe dehydration, which was exacerbated by a pulmonary embolism (perhaps being dislodged during Jane's movements to and from her bed). Weir consulted modern-day physicians, presenting historical evidence and seeking their professional opinions - and thus came to these conclusions. Therefore, the portrayal of Jane's illness late in October 1537 and her ultimately excruciating death, are explained in this way.

I do love when common attitudes and historical opinions are challenged like this, so I really enjoyed the Authors Notes for this book, hearing Alison Weir's reasonings behind several of these assertions and scenes. It all appears quite plausible to me, and can give us as readers pause to consider different theories that we may not have known about prior to reading this novel.
Ultimately, I really like Jane Seymour. Considered to be one of Henry VIII's lesser-known brides, she was the only one of them to succeed in her royal duty as queen - becoming Henry's 'most beloved' queen and rightful wife, beside whom he chose to be buried when he died ten years later. For these reasons, I believe Jane deserves a second thought, and certainly more attention than she is often given. Perhaps not so much the meek, demure, complete innocent that we often think of, Jane may have had a more complex character - devout in her conservative religious views, courageous enough to challenge the king on his policies regarding the dissolution of the monasteries and the rebels of the 'Pilgrimage of Grace', I would argue that Jane is a much more interesting, active Tudor player than we've given her credit for. Alison Weir's depiction of her is absolutely fabulous, I think, and her story was truly believable. I was sucked into it, and transported to Tudor times while listening, and I'd recommend it to any Tudor enthusiast on the hunt for a good, thought-provoking Tudor novel, based heavily in impressive historical research.

If you were to find yourself in the enormously fortunate position of an English duchess, enjoying incomparable wealth and the most sumptuous living conditions imaginable, would you spend a considerable portion of your time wishing that you were, instead, a nun? Given that taking up the altogether different life of a nun would surely entail renouncing your life of luxury and lavishness, it is probably safe to bet that most of us would answer this question with a resounding ‘no’.

It may be somewhat surprising, then, to learn that Cecily Neville, the fifteenth-century Duchess of York and mother of two English kings, Edward IV and Richard III, spent rather a lot of time in her beautiful palaces attempting to emulate the life of a nun. Peculiar though this may seem, Cecily was by no means alone in her desire to model as much of her daily life as possible on the strict routines of the late medieval convent; many late medieval and Early Modern noblewomen found mirroring the routines and activities of professional religious women hugely enjoyable and fulfilling. Margaret Beaufort, for instance, mother of Henry VIII, was so keen to share in the practices of medieval convents and monasteries that, in 1504, she acquired permission to visit a couple of institutions, so that she could join in with their meals and talk with the residents. In light of the extremely strict rules of most medieval convents and monasteries, it is remarkable that Margaret was able to find a way to enter for private visits. Much of Cecily’s interaction with the practices of the convent came not via physical visits to the religious orders, but through her extensive reading of books that were also read by nuns. In sharing her reading interests with the residents of the late medieval convent, Cecily was able to build a connection with her fellow religious women from the superior comfort of her royal palace. In this post, I’d like to introduce you to some of the books that Cecily loved most, and talk a little about how her domestic circumstances interacted with her religious practices, which were a hugely important part of her life.

Before we go any further, it’s worth taking a brief look at Cecily’s biography. She was born in 1415 at Raby Castle, in Durham, northeast England, as the eighteenth child of Ralph Neville, 1st Earl of Westmorland, and his second wife, Joan Beaufort. At the age of nine, Cecily was betrothed to Richard Plantagenet, third Duke of York, who was then thirteen years old. Cecily’s father died in 1425, and she was married to Richard by October 1429, at the age of just fourteen. Cecily and Richard had their first child, Anne, in August 1439, before moving to Rouen, France, in 1441, after Richard had been made a king’s lieutenant by Henry VI. During her time in France, Cecily gave birth to a son, Henry, who died in infancy. Just a little while later, Cecily had another son, Edward, who would later become King Edward IV. Cecily and Richard returned to England in the late 1440s. During the mid-1450s, Cecily’s husband was growing increasingly resentful of the influence of Edmund Beaufort, 2nd Duke of Somerset, and Cecily’s cousin. This resulted, in 1455, in the beginning of the decades-long series of battles now known as the Wars of the Roses. During the early years of the conflict, Cecily based herself in Ludlow, close to England’s border with Wales, before returning to London with her children in July 1460, following a major victory for the House of York in the Battle of Northampton. This sense of triumph was, however, relatively short-lived. In December 1460, at the Battle of Wakefield, the Lancastrians were triumphant, and Cecily’s husband, second son, Edmund, and brother were all killed. The deaths of these major Yorkist figures did not bring the conflict to a close, however, and Cecily’s sons and future kings of England, Edward and Richard, continued to fight for the House of York. Cecily outlived both of her regal sons, and died at the age of 80 in 1495 at Berkhamstead Castle, Hertfordshire.
 
As was often the case for medieval noblewomen, a significant proportion of Cecily’s life was defined by marriage, childbearing, military battles and, of course, the many bereavements that came with having multiple family members engaged in frequent conflict. This meant that many royal and aristocratic women developed a much deeper interest in religious practice after their husbands had died, perhaps because they needed to find something to occupy their time; it is also possible that widowhood was the first opportunity that women such as Cecily had to explore their interest in religion in greater depth. Cecily was particularly interested in the writings and religious order of St Bridget of Sweden, a fourteenth-century noblewoman whose many spiritual revelations, or visions from God, were collected into a lengthy book known as the Liber celestis. Bridget’s works were immensely popular in late medieval England, and it is possible that Cecily found Bridget’s visions particularly interesting because the two women shared a similar background. Like Cecily, Bridget was married at the age of fourteen, in 1316, and she gave birth to eight children. Having spent her married life raising children and managing a large, busy household, Bridget developed a profound interest in the religious life following her husband’s death, entering a Cistercian abbey and making a pilgrimage to Rome in 1350. It is possible, therefore, that Cecily saw something of herself in Bridget’s trajectory towards a more deeply pious life, and wanted to emulate it for herself.

It is certainly the case that Cecily made sure that her domestic routines mirrored those of the professional religious institution. As in a convent, Cecily established a strict routine in which she listened to a lecture about religious matters during her dinnertime, before conducting a discussion about what had been learned with the rest of her household while supper was taken. Like Bridget of Sweden, Cecily was also in charge of a large household of staff, important visitors and family members, and she had taken a vow of chastity following her husband’s death. Cecily also made sure that her enthusiasm for her religious faith was embedded in the very fabric of her royal home. The walls of the palace were, apparently, affixed with images and tapestries of Jesus’ crucifixion, as well as the stories of Mary Magdalene, John the Baptist and St George, the patron saint of England.
 
When I first started working on Cecily and her fascination with the lives and reading of nuns, I wondered how she reconciled her own life of lavish luxury with the much more austere circumstances that medieval nuns were expected to embrace. It is impossible to say, of course, just how Cecily negotiated the significant conflict between her actual lifestyle and the one that she spent such a great deal of time imagining. The religious literature that Cecily most enjoyed reading does give us something of a clue, though, as to how she might have put her domestic circumstances to effective use in the service of her religious ambitions. Fifteenth-century religious literature was absolutely full of domestic images, metaphors and allegories, with spiritual writers drawing heavily on the imagery of the household in order to articulate often complex religious ideas. One aspect of religious life that late medieval women found especially appealing was the prospect of entering into ‘spiritual marriage’ with God. This meant that the woman would devote herself entirely to God, just as she would when taking her marriage vows, and imagine Jesus as her husband.
 
Bridget of Sweden’s visions of her own spiritual marriage with Jesus, which Cecily would probably have been very familiar with, draw heavily on the imagery of comfortable domestic circumstances. The second part of Bridget’s Liber celestis contains a fairly long allegory, in which the necessary religious values and virtues that make a successful spiritual marriage are reimagined in terms of the material goods that a literal newly married couple would need to buy for their household. In Bridget’s allegory, Jesus tells his prospective wife what she must stockpile in three different houses, the first of which should contain various different foods and drinks; these sustaining items all represent different Christian values and beliefs. The spiritual wife should make sure, for example, that the house contains bread, which symbolises ‘good will’, along with some salt to sprinkle on it, which represents God’s wisdom. The second house should contain various different types of cloth, including linen, which represents good and kind actions, as well as silk, which stands for rude, vain speech. In the third and final house, the spiritual wife is expected to gather various animals and farming tools, including an axe, which the couple should use to cut through any ‘weeds’, which represent the sin of pride, that grow around their household.

Given that Bridget writes herself and Jesus as an apparently wealthy couple, who own a large estate containing three well-stocked houses, it is not at all surprising that Cecily would have enjoyed reading this text. Though many late medieval religious texts place great emphasis on the importance of living simply and plainly, Bridget deviates from this by appearing to celebrate domestic wealth and comfort as the ideal basis for a successful spiritual marriage with Jesus. It is possible, therefore, that Cecily saw something of herself in Bridget’s allegory of the perfect spiritual marriage, and appreciated the implication that living an exceedingly comfortable life was no barrier to pursuing a life of religious devotion.
 
Interestingly, Bridget of Sweden is by no means alone in suggesting that a life of material luxury could be an imaginative gateway to a deeper intimacy with God. One late medieval religious text that also seems to explore this idea is the Tretyse of Loue, a fifteenth-century English translation of an earlier French text, which was originally written with a female aristocratic reader in mind. The Tretyse is a guidance manual; this genre was enormously popular throughout the Middle Ages, especially with women, and its texts generally advised readers on how to practise their faith most effectively. At one point in the Tretyse, the anonymous author asks his reader to think about how her own luxurious domestic circumstances might help her to contemplate the altogether different living conditions of Mary, Joseph and Jesus:
 
'Now I pray yow, ryght dere sustyr, remembyr yow stedfastly whanne ye lye in your large softe bed, wel arayed wyth ryche clothys and warme couerynge and hote furrys, so well at ese, and your Ientylwoman so redy to serue yow, thanne thynke ye often wyth grete pyte how she that was the quene of angellys and Empresse of all þe worlde, how hyr bed was streyght and harde and arayed wyth pore clothys.'
 
Now, I am asking you, dear sister, always remember, when you are lying in your large, soft bed, beautifully adorned with lavish fabrics, warm blankets and cosy furs, lovely and comfortable, and with your serving lady so eager to serve you: think often, and with great pity, how she who was the queen of angels and empress of all the world [the Virgin Mary], had only a very hard, straight bed, which had hardly any blankets or coverings on it (translation mine).
 
What the author of the Tretyse is asking his reader to do, here, is fairly paradoxical: he wants her to use her luxurious domestic circumstances to think about the distance that this places between her and the Holy Family. This instruction would have given a reader like Cecily the opportunity to put her luxurious domestic circumstances to use in order to think more deeply about one of the most important aspects of the narrative of Jesus’ life on earth; the poverty of Jesus and his parents was always heavily emphasised by medieval religious writers. Far from being a barrier to her desire to mirror a nun’s approach to her faith, then, Cecily’s life of lavishness was often put to use by her favourite religious writers in order to help her achieve her spiritual ambitions. For the late medieval aristocratic woman, it wasn’t necessary to actually embark upon a life of austerity and deprivation, as nuns were expected to do. Instead, it was enough to simply think about material poverty, particularly that of the Holy Family, and to use your most beautiful cushions, furry blankets and embroidered bedclothes as props in your spiritual imaginings.

References
 
Armstrong, C. A. J., England, France and Burgundy in the Fifteenth Century (London: The Hambledon Press, 1983)
 
Bartlett, Anne C., and Thomas H. Bestul, ‘Introduction’, in Cultures of Piety: Medieval English Devotional Literature in Translation, ed. by Anne Clark Bartlett and Thomas H. Bestul (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1999), pp. 1-18
Laynesmith, J. L., Cecily Duchess of York (London: Bloomsbury Academic, 2017)
The Liber Celestis of St Bridget of Sweden, ed. by Roger Ellis, EETS O. S. 291 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1987)
The Tretyse of Loue, ed. by John H. Fisher, EETS O. S. 223 (London: Oxford University Press, 1951)

On this day in 1526, Mary Boleyn gave birth to a son and named him Henry. At the time, Mary had been the wife of William Carey for six years - enjoying a rather interesting marital relationship ever since. In addition to being a wife, she was also the royal mistress of Henry VIII, and had been (probably) since shortly after her wedding (Tracy Borman argues for around 1522). During this time, she had already given birth to one child - a daughter named Catherine, born in either 1523 or 1524.  While Catherine was never acknowledged to be the daughter of Henry VIII - rather than William Carey - many historians have gathered reasonable evidence to assume that she was, in fact, a royal bastard. Later in her life, for example, Henry VIII would appoint Catherine as a maid of honor to his fourth wife, Anne of Cleves, in 1539. Once she would marry in 1540, her husband, Francis Knollys, would be appointed as a Gentleman Pensioner, and Henry VIII would take action to ensure that the Knollys' family manor of Rotherfield Grey would pass to the couple. Though it is certainly difficult (if not impossible) to prove Henry's paternity of Catherine, it has been a question debated by historians for centuries - generally leaning towards the agreement that she most likely was his bastard daughter. In any case, the arrival of Mary Boleyn's second child create another opportunity for speculation and debate. 

We do not know many details surrounding Henry Carey's birth, but both he and his older sister came under the wardship of their aunt, Anne Boleyn - who was, in the late 1520s, not yet married to Henry VIII, but certainly well on her way. Anne was a generous aunt, and ensured that Henry was well-educated at a Cistercian monastery, as well as tutored by the French poet, Nicholas Bourbon. Both he and Catherine maintained regular contact with their mother, Mary, who remained close to Anne until she secretly wed her second husband, William Stafford, in 1535. When Anne Boleyn was executed in 1536, Henry was only ten years old, and likely had no formal contact with Henry's court from that point (at least, for a period of time). Mary Boleyn died in 1543, and on 21 May 1545, Henry married a young lady named Anne Morgan, with whom he fathered a whopping total of thirteen children. What followed for Henry was an impressive career in government - serving twice as a member of Parliament, representing Buckingham, and being knighted in 1558 by his cousin, Queen Elizabeth I - at which point he earned the title 1st Baron Hunsdon. He went on to own manors and estates (one of which had previously belonged to the queen's sister, Mary), and was granted an annual pension of £400. In 1560, he was appointed master of the queen's hawks, earning £40 per year. In 1561, he became a Knight of the Garter, and in 1564, was made Captain of the Gentleman Pensioners - becoming, effectively, the queen's personal bodyguard. In 1568, he was named Governor of Berwick-upon-Tweed in Northumberland, and beginning in 1569, began serving Elizabeth in a number of military posts - including as Lieutenant General during the Rising of the North (resulting in a very loving and complimentary letter from the queen herself). Following his military triumph, he was appointed Warden of the Eastern March and the Keeper of Somerset House, before being named a Privy Counselor in 1577 at the age of 51. As if he didn't already hold enough titles, he also became Lord Chamberlain of the Household in 1585, Lord Chamberlain Lieutenant, Principal Captain and Governor of the Army, Chief Justin in Eyre, Commissioner of the Office Earl Marshal and High Steward of Ipswich and Doncaster, Chief Justice of the Royal Forces, and (finally) High Steward of Oxford.
Whew. He became, in short, very successful and wealthy.

Clearly, Henry Carey was an impressive Tudor man (my fingers are tired from typing his many accolades, accomplishments, and titles), but now to the real question at hand: Who was his father? As was the case with Henry's sister, the question was debated at the time - and continues to be questioned to this day. However, I am of the opinion that the evidence doesn't stack up to support Henry VIII having fathered Henry Carey. I'll go into my reasonings (and the arguments against my point) below:

The evidence for Henry VIII's Paternity

• Some historians have looked at Henry VIII's attention to the Carey children as evidence for his paternal connection to them. Historian Elizabeth Norton references that both Henry and Catherine 'attracted Henry VIII's benevolent if distant attention' - with Catherine's later appointments at court serving as evidence of the king's favor upon her. (And for the record, I am much less doubtful of the assertion that Henry VIII was Catherine's father. In fact, I believe this is likely to be true). 
• The only other bit of evidence that I can find for Henry Carey's biological relationship with Henry VIII is that he reportedly looked a bit like him. Contemporaries apparently commented on his likeness to the king, and given Mary Boleyn's relationship with Henry VIII during the 1520s, it makes sense that gossip and speculation would have stemmed from this. The only portrait I have seen of Henry Carey does, indeed, depict him with reddish-brown hair (not unlike the Tudor coloring), while William Carey's hair appears brown. Mary had light-colored hair (perhaps blonde, or light brown). 

We can't know the answer, and we never will, but this is certainly an interesting Tudor question to ponder. Tracy Borman argues that Henry Carey almost certainly wasn't the king's son, while Elizabeth Norton leaves the door open to possibility. Alison Weir and Peter Ackroyd don't even mention Henry Carey in Children of England and Tudors (respectively), though they do mention Catherine.
Ultimately, though there's no way to know for certain, I believe that Catherine may likely have been Henry VIII's daughter, but Henry was William's. He enjoyed favors, titles, wealth, and privilege due to his familial connection to Elizabeth I, but was never referred to as her 'brother'. Henry Carey was, undoubtedly, an impressive Tudor courtier, advisor, and military officer, among many other things - but I do not believe he was Henry VIII's son.

What do you think, given the evidence? Weigh in on this controversy below in the comments. I'm anxious to hear my readers' thoughts!