European artists played an important role in shaping the image of the witch, transforming it into a powerful cultural symbol. In the History Hit film The King’s Curse: Scotland’s Notorious Witch Trials, art historian Dr Catriona Murray explains how these depictions evolved.
The broomstick, for example, is evident in a medieval manuscript which identifies two women who are religious heretics. The broomstick is a classic icon now associated with witches, but why is it included here? “I suspect they are acting as phalluses,” explains Murray. “They are empowering these women and they are riding them. On another level they provide flight, and that’s one of the key characteristics of witches, that they fly to their Sabbath.”
Albrecht Dürer’s later, memorable depiction of witches resembles how we often think of witches today. “This is the hag, the crone. And one of the other things that’s very interesting about it is that she’s naked,” says Murray. “There’s a real focus on the gross nakedness of this old woman.” Witchcraft was often linked with ugliness, and Dürer’s witch has aged features and withered limbs.
Additionally, Dürer depicts her riding a goat, an animal particularly linked with the devil. She does so backwards to signify that the natural order is upset. “There’s a feeling of real [discomfort] here, that things do not happen as you expect them to happen.”
“This is the subversion of what the feminine should be doing, that there’s this patriarchal anxiety going on here,” says Murray.
The growing fear of witches in the 16th century included increased anxiety about them joining together in a coven. Increasingly witches were depicted in a group, as in a painting of the witch’s sabbath by Frans Francken. Francken picked up his brush at a time when the Spanish Netherlands experienced a growing panic about witches. He portrays witches of different social orders engaged in lewd dancing, spells and incantations, and also reading grimoires, which links female literacy and knowledge with witchcraft.
Heinrich Kramer’s Malleus Maleficarum, ‘Hammer of Witches’, had already provided instruction on how to catch witches. Kramer argued that women were particularly prone to witchcraft. He wrote accounts of their alleged powers and habits, including the harvesting of male organs and depositing them in birds’ nests, “where they move themselves like living members and eat oats and corn”.
In The King’s Curse: Scotland’s Notorious Witch Trials, Maddy Pelling and Anthony Delaney investigate one of Europe’s bloodiest witch hunts: Scotland’s North Berwick Witch trials of 1591.
In this extraordinary case, fears escalated all the way up the social hierarchy to the king himself, James VI. A wild storm in the North Sea had nearly killed James and his new wife Anne of Denmark, fuelling his fascination with the intellectual study of demonology. A maelstrom of terror brought together the king’s paranoia of a conspiracy against him with local rivalries and misfortune. It twisted together the fates of individuals from maidservants to magistrates in the hunt for scapegoats.
Anthony and Maddy host After Dark: Myths, Misdeeds & the Paranormal, a History Hit podcast.
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]]>The feminine beauty ideal was in essence to personify the English rose, and nobody embodied this more than Queen Elizabeth I herself. To this end various make-up techniques were devised and circulated in recipes, a phenomenon spurred on by the spread of the printing press.
Some of these methods were harmful, including arsenic skin masks, mercury lipstick, and lead skin whitener. Others were innocuous but to our eyes still quite strange. How about varnishing your face with egg whites?
Perhaps you would be even less keen on puppy juice, an Early Modern concoction as horrifying as it sounds.
“Unfortunately it’s exactly what you think it is,” explains Sally Pointer, educator and author of The Artifice of Beauty: A History and Practical Guide to Perfume and Cosmetics, who joins Professor Suzannah Lipscomb in an episode of Not Just the Tudors.
The prevailing Tudor enthusiasm for alchemy suggested that it was possible to extract the qualities of something through distillation. One of these distillations, which indicates a ruthless zeal in harvesting seemingly wholesome ingredients, was puppy dog water.
“You take a beautiful, young, soft, perfect puppy,” says Pointer. It is then (for lack of a better word) chopped up. It is then boiled. “Sadly it doesn’t survive the experience.”
The alembic it is distilled in contained other liquids, probably wine or water. “You distil it and the water is supposed to contain all the virtues of all the things that made the puppy young and beautiful and adorable.”
The resulting water would then be used as a cosmetic toner with moisturising properties.
“This wasn’t a one-off,” says Pointer. “We have lots of references to this.”
A recipe recorded in Nicholas Culpeper’s 17th century Pharmacopoeia Londinensis instructs:
“Takes Sallet Oil four pound, two Puppy-dogs newly whelped, Earthworms washed in white Wine one pound; boil the Whelps til they fall in pieces then put in the worms a while after strain it, then with three ounces of Cypress Turpentine, and one ounce of Spirits of Wine, perfect the Oil according to Art.”
Reassuringly, not everybody was keen on the idea. The famous diarist Samuel Pepys, whose private accounts make up one of the most important historical sources for the period, records that he became upset with his wife because she tried this puppy concoction.
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]]>Here we explore more about how merchants ensured quality control following The Great Debasement to prove that their coins, and the coins they were trading with, were accurate – and the importance of this in England’s credibility in global trade.
During the reign of King Henry VIII, England faced significant economic changes, notably marked by the Great Debasement. The Great Debasement refers to a deliberate policy undertaken by Henry VIII to devalue the currency as a means to bolster the royal treasury and address financial woes.
In order to increase revenue for the Crown, from 1544, Henry VIII began reducing the amount of precious metal in gold coins. This act aimed to create more coins from the same quantity of silver, effectively increasing the money supply. However, the consequence was a decline in the value of currency, leading to inflation and economic instability.
The process of debasement continued with subsequent reductions in the silver content of coins. In some cases, the precious metal content was replaced almost entirely with cheaper base metals such as copper. This policy had a profound impact on the economy, resulting in rising prices, economic uncertainty, disruption of trade, and a loss of public trust in the currency.
While the Great Debasement temporarily aided the Crown’s financial situation, it ultimately contributed to economic turmoil and long-term consequences for England’s monetary system, requiring subsequent monarchs to address and stabilise the currency.
The accuracy of a coin’s value was not just important internally, but also of upmost importance for merchants trading oversees – both for their personal credibility and indeed the credibility of the nation.
The devalued currency caused by the Great Debasement led to a decline in the purchasing power of English coins abroad. This made English goods more expensive for foreign buyers, diminishing the competitiveness of English exports in international markets. As a result, England faced challenges in maintaining its previous levels of trade and struggled to sustain favourable trade balances with other countries.
Furthermore, the fluctuating value of the currency caused uncertainty for foreign merchants and traders engaging in commerce with England. The diminished value of English coins made transactions and negotiations complicated, affecting trust and confidence in trade dealings.
The recovery of English trade after the Great Debasement was gradual and spanned several decades. Subsequently, to cover their backs, 17th century merchants carried their own scales and weights to do quality control checks themselves, proving and verifying that their coins, and the coins they were trading with, were accurate. They also used ‘merchant books’ which detailed all of the characteristics, dimensions and weights that coins should be, as well as featuring drawings of all their coins.
During the late 16th and early 17th centuries, under the reign of Elizabeth I, England began to witness a resurgence in trade. On ascending to power, Elizabeth I restored coins back to an accurate value, restoring faith in England’s coins. However, it’s hard to overstate just how much the Great Debasement had affected trade relations and the way in which foreign merchants, and foreign countries viewed England’s coinage.
However, eventually the Elizabethan Era saw significant advancements in trade and commerce. England’s maritime exploration, including voyages led by explorers like Sir Francis Drake and Walter Raleigh, opened up new trade routes and expanded commercial opportunities. Additionally, the establishment of trading companies, such as the East India Company in 1600, further bolstered England’s trade endeavours, leading to economic growth and prosperity. This would not have happened should the Great Debasement have still been in effect.
]]>Here we take a look at The Royal Mint’s archive of Henry VIII’s ‘coppernose’ coins, and explore more about The Great Debasement and how its economic effects continued for many years.
The main aim of the policy was to increase revenue for the Crown at the cost of taxpayers through savings in currency production, with less bullion being required to mint new coins. This was achieved by reducing the amount of precious metal in gold and silver coins and, in some cases, replacing it almost entirely with cheaper base metals such as copper.
In May 1544, Henry VIII’s debased coins entered circulation and by July of the same year, foreign merchants had discovered the reduced value of the newly minted silver groats and begun offering a lower price for them. Non-debased coins with an accurate value were often hoarded which took them out of circulation and further exacerbated the problem of an inaccurate currency. This ruined the credibility of British merchants and of the crown itself.
The thin layer of silver on Henry’s debased testoons had a tendency to wear off, particularly over the protruding nose of his portrait, revealing the copper colour underneath – earning Henry the nickname of ‘Old Coppernose’.
As a result of The Great Debasement, when Elizabeth I came to power in 1558, the poor quality of England’s coinage had greatly affected both confidence in the monarchy as well as the country’s trading relations. The Queen believed that these problems could be solved by restoring England’s coinage to its previously high standards.
In 1560, debased coinage began to be withdrawn from circulation and the withdrawn coins melted down and replaced with newly minted coins with an accurate value. This process was aided in 1561 by trials into producing coinage using machinery as a method to replace the crude system of hammer struck coins, and The Crown even made an estimated profit of £50,000. The success of the initiative and the restoration of the integrity of England’s coinage led to economic recovery and an expansion in trade.
Elizabeth restored the coins back to an accurate value which restored faith in England’s coins, but it’s hard to overstate just how much The Great Debasement had affected trade relations and the way in which foreign merchants, and foreign countries viewed England’s coinage. To cover their backs, merchants would carry their own scales and weights to prove that their coins, and the coins they were trading with, were accurate.
]]>Henry VII’s reign, commencing in the tumultuous aftermath of the Wars of the Roses, was characterised by the urgent need for stability and legitimacy. Amidst the political turbulence, the gold sovereign emerged not merely as a means of trade but as a meticulously crafted tool of statecraft, bearing the weight of monarchic authority and projecting an image of prosperity and control.
Here we explore how and why Henry VII used English coinage to help convey his power across his kingdom.
After defeating his Yorkist adversary Richard III, last of the Plantagenets, at the Battle of Bosworth Field, Henry Tudor was officially crowned King Henry VII on 30 October 1485. His coronation heralded the end of the bloody Wars of the Roses and brought in a new line of monarchs, with Henry VII being the first of the Tudor dynasty.
Henry VII was the last king of England to win his throne on the battlefield, and his coronation brought much-needed peace to the country after three decades of conflict. With it came the end of the medieval period. Such a monumental achievement spelled an equally monumental shift in power and – much like the monarchs that came before him – Henry VII was keen to convey this power and establish his authority.
Henry did this in part through the currency of his kingdom. As well as reintroducing more realistic portraiture on English coinage, a practice that had not been seen consistently since the Romans, Henry VII also brought several new coins into the English currency, including the iconic gold Sovereign – the first £1 piece in English history. Introduced in 1489 when Henry VII demanded a ‘new money of gold’, whilst the gold Sovereign wasn’t the first gold coin to be struck, it was the largest and most valuable English coin ever issued at that point.
The original design featured an image depicting Henry VII sat on his throne – complete with a crown, orb and sceptre – whilst the reverse displayed the Royal Arms atop a backdrop dominated by the unmistakable Tudor rose. This new coin symbolised power, and reinforced Henry VII’s authority as a new monarch.
This Sovereign features a huge Tudor rose that covers the whole of one side (tails) of it – a symbol of Henry VII, his house and his reign. Everything about this coin is hugely symbolic, and all trying to solidify Henry VII’s power. On the head’s side of the coin is Henry himself, sat on the throne wearing all the royal regalia – including the crown and holding an orb and sceptre. Everything about this coin is trying to cement Henry’s power as the new king, which was particularly important given the country had been in civil war for the past 30 years.
Indeed Henry VII’s reign was characterised by his success at restoring the power and stability of the English monarchy after the civil war, as well as his talent for replenishing the fortunes of an effectively bankrupt exchequer.
When Henry VII ascended the throne in 1485, he faced the immediate challenge of securing his reign – and the Tudor Dynasty – against political and economic rebellions. Recognising the pivotal role of revenue in establishing stability, he sought to finance a robust royal army.
Historically, the Crown had relied on the slow-moving Exchequer for its financial needs, and initially Henry reverted to using this. However, audits could take years to complete, meaning the Crown was always short of money. By 1487, Henry’s financial struggles prompted him to modernise royal income collection by appointing the King’s Chamber as the principal institution managing royal revenue.
This relatively new institution had previously been utilised by the Yorkist family, when Edward IV used it to run his finances. Whilst the Chamber lacked fully-established operating procedures, its comparatively more informal processes actually gave it greater flexibility. The Chamber went on to take charge of nearly all aspects of royal income, and effectively oversaw the national treasury, while the Privy Chamber handled Henry’s personal expenditure.
Henry was one of the few monarchs to process his own accounts, keeping meticulous records, and even counting bags of coins himself to scrutinise finances and balance the books. Henry ensured he appointed expert advisors with financial acumen, with two men, Sir Thomas Lovell and Sir John Heron, holding the post of Treasurer of the Chamber. However Henry also worked alongside both men, checking the accounts they had already gone over, and personally signing-off each page. Rather than this being a miserly act, Henry’s scrutiny reflected his focus on wealth accumulation for control, influence and power.
Henry VII’s tenure marked a departure from medieval financial systems, and he is credited with shaping the modern English Exchequer. As well as maximising tax revenue, Henry also gained wealth from an illicit trade in the dye-fixed alum, and benefitted from the peace facilitated by the end of the Wars of the Roses.
His resulting substantial wealth accumulation and financial prudence meant Henry was able to leave a considerable inheritance to his son and successor, Henry VIII. However, Henry VIII would not turn out to be as prudent.
]]>Cromwell’s astute leadership within the Parliamentarian forces not only secured victory but also paved the way for his governance during the Commonwealth era, with his image gracing English coins made by The Royal Mint – a testament to his stature and the imprint of his rule on the nation’s identity and currency.
Here we explore how Cromwell’s portrait became a symbol of authority and change on English coinage post-Civil War, and why these coins developed from a puritan to royalist style, reflecting the transformational era he heralded in English history.
The English Civil War had erupted due to escalating tensions between King Charles I and Parliament over issues of power, taxation, and religion. Parliament’s desire for more authority clashed with the king’s absolute rule. The conflict polarised supporters into Royalists (Cavaliers) backing the king and Parliamentarians (Roundheads) supporting Parliament.
Battles ensued across England, with Oliver Cromwell emerging as a prominent figure in the Parliamentarian army. The war culminated in the king’s defeat, his execution in 1649, the establishment of the Commonwealth under Cromwell’s rule, and a period of political upheaval and experimentation.
One of the biggest changes to English currency came when there wasn’t actually have a monarch to depict on its coins.
Up until Charles I’s reign, coins had all been very regal, but following his execution, England entered into a period called the interregnum where it didn’t have a monarch.
In 1649, the coinage of the Commonwealth under the rule of Parliament reflected Parliament’s deeply Puritan beliefs, and were also very heraldic. The wording appeared in English rather than Latin and the monarch’s portraiture was abandoned, resulting in a very heraldic coin, featuring the cross of St George on both sides.
After Cromwell took direct control in the 1650s, this Commonwealth and Puritan style was abandoned, and towards the end of his time as Lord Protector there was a complete reversion to the more familiar, royalist style of coinage, including coins featuring a portrait of Oliver Cromwell. The portrait depicted Cromwell almost like a Roman emperor, wearing a wreath, robes, and featured Latin inscriptions once more. This reversion to the familiar iconography of royal rule, without referencing Cromwell as king, was part of making the country feel at ease with Cromwell’s rule.
Roman emperors ruled as kings, however they actively distanced themselves from the term ‘King’ in order to avoid comparisons to the earlier monarchy of Rome. Julius Caesar even rejected the title when offered it. Rome’s republic was founded on anti-monarchical views so the avoidance of the title of ‘King’ allowed an emperor to keep up a false narrative of non- autocratic rule, despite the emperor very much holding the power.
There are many similarities between Britain’s interregnum period and Rome’s transition from a monarchy to republic to empire including the anti-monarchical stance which caused the change. Therefore, it’s incredibly fitting for Cromwell to have depicted himself as a Roman emperor. England had killed Charles I, the last king, and therefore Cromwell had to be very careful not to portray himself as a king.
Cromwell’s coins were developed further throughout his reign to include royal iconography on the reverse of them, including a crown, which perfectly exemplifies his delicate balance of not being stylised as a king but still showing the authority of a true monarch.
After the eventual restoration of the monarchy in 1660 under Charles II, the wearing of a wreath in this Roman emperor style became a general stylistic trend for monarchs over the next few centuries.
The first coins of Queen Victoria also follow this style, showing her bareheaded, but in the 1840s a hugely significant moment came where Victoria was shown on coins wearing a crown. This was the first time The Royal Mint had struck British coins showing a monarch wearing a crown since the start of the reign of Charles II.
For the rest of her reign Victoria tended to be shown as wearing various different crowns.
However, the kings that followed Victoria’s reign, starting with Edward VII, all went back to being depicted uncrowned on British coins. They wore no royal regalia, not even a wreath like the kings before Victoria had done. Instead, coins depicted just a simple portrait of them.
This practice lasted until Queen Elizabeth II, who’s portrait followed a similar trajectory to Victoria’s – wearing a laurel wreath on coins at the start of her reign, with further coins later on all with her wearing a tiara or crown.
The majority of Charles III’s new coins do not feature a crown, however some do, making him the first king to be shown crowned on British coins since Charles II.
]]>From the first arrival of Europeans until the early 17th century Sakoku Seclusion Edicts, Japan engaged in a period of trade dubbed the ‘Southern barbarian trade’ or Nanban trade. (Nanban after the designation routinely applied to other people from southern China, Southeast Asia and beyond.)
The Portuguese’ arrival in Japan coincided with the turbulent Sengoku ‘Warring States’ period. While they might exploit this division and their own exotic appeal to their advantage (their matchlock arquebuses were of particular interest), the Portuguese also found themselves subject to the feudal lords’ reversals of fortune. The exchange quickly acquired a religious character as Portuguese missionaries identified Japan as ripe for Christianisation.
The encounter between the Japanese and the European interlopers has found purchase in modern culture: Martin Scorsese’s 2016 film Silence adapted Shūsaku Endō’s 1966 novel about the arrival of Jesuit priests in 17th century Japan. Meanwhile John Blackthorne, the fictional protagonist of James Clavell’s acclaimed 1975 novel Shōgun and two television adaptations, is loosely based on a real English navigator. William Adams arrived in Japan in 1600, the first Englishman to do so, and achieved influence as a high-ranking samurai in the service of the Tokugawa shogunate.
The Portuguese were the first Europeans to arrive in Japan, landing on the island of Tanegashima in the company of Southeast Asians, labelled nanban (‘southern barbarian’) by the Japanese.
Following the arrival of Spanish Jesuits including Francis Xavier to Kyushu, Catholicism began to develop as a major religious force in Japan. King John III of Portugal was particularly interested in converting Asians to the Jesuit religion, prompting Francis Xavier’s journeying initially to India, and then to Japan.
When Francis Xavier first came to Japan, he considered Buddhism a variation on Christianity.
The Jesuits funded missionary work with profits from their trade post in Nagasaki, which received richly laden Portuguese ships. In May 1580, Ōmura Sumitada, the Christian daimyo in control, gave Nagasaki to the Jesuits. This resulted in a religious domain taking shape in Japan with warlord allies.
When Christians were welcomed by rulers, it was generally because trade was believed to follow in their wake. For the subsequent social changes experienced in Japan, the period is also known as the ‘Christian century’.
As Toyotomi Hideyoshi gradually unified Japan, he became concerned of Christianity’s influence. He condemned Christianity as a ‘pernicious doctrine’ and gave Jesuits 20 days to leave Japan. He relented, hesitant of disrupting trade. But he seized Nagasaki the following year, curbing European — and Christian — influence.
When the Spanish ship San Felipe was wrecked on Japan’s coast, its cargo and crew were captured by the local daimyo. Its pilot alluded to the links between existing Portuguese missionaries in Japan and the Spanish empire – for both Portugal and Spain were ruled by the same king at the time. Appalled by a perceived deception by the missionaries, Hideyoshi ordered the crucifixion of 26 Christians.
The Dutch followed the Portuguese and Spanish, and in 1609 the Dutch East India Company was granted permission to establish a base at Hirado, near Nagasaki.
The Tokugawa Shogunate, which came to power in 1603, firmly outlawed Christianity. The Tokugawa pursued an isolationist foreign policy, prioritising domestic unity and Japanese control over foreign relationships.
Japan’s shōgun Tokugawa Iemitsu was at least partly influenced in his scepticism of the Portuguese and Spanish by the advice of English navigator William Adams.
The Sakoku Edict of 1635 was intended to eliminate foreign influence by forbidding Japanese from leaving the country, banning Catholicism and restricting ports open to trade. An anti-Christian inquisition was set up to crack down on practising Catholics. Suspects were sometimes required to step onto likenesses of Jesus or Mary, or face torture and death.
The isolationist policy more or less continued until 1854, when the United States bent the Tokugawa Shogunate’s arm into signing the Kanagawa Treaty, which opened several ports to American vessels. (Commodore Perry had arrived with steam warships and threatened to burn Edo to the ground.)
Following the Shimabara Rebellion in which European Catholics were implicated, the Portuguese were excluded from Japan definitively. This meant that for the next 220 years, the Dutch were the only westerners allowed to access Japan. Their right to Hirado’s port was revoked. They were admitted only at Dejima, an artificial island in Nagasaki Bay which was the central route for foreign trade and cultural exchange with Japan between 1600-1869.
]]>One of the most damaging repercussions of this was the often-brutal suppression of the monasteries. With 1-in-50 of England’s adult male population belonging to a religious order and monasteries owning around a quarter of all cultivated land in the country, the Dissolution of the Monasteries uprooted thousands of lives and changed the political and religious landscape of England forever.
So why did it happen?
Long before Henry VIII‘s break with Rome the monastic houses of England had been under scrutiny, with stories of their lax religious conduct circulating the country’s elite spheres. Although there were vast monastic complexes in almost every town, most of them were only half-full, with those living there barely abiding by strict monastic rules.
The immense wealth of the monasteries also raised eyebrows in the secular world, who believed that their money may be better spent on England’s universities and parish churches, particularly as many spent exorbitantly inside the monasteries’ walls.
High up figures such as Cardinal Wolsey, Thomas Cromwell, and Henry VIII himself sought to limit the powers of the monastic church, and as early as 1519 Wolsey had been investigating corruption in a number of religious houses. In Peterborough Abbey for example, Wolsey found that its abbot had been keeping a mistress and selling goods for a profit and duly had it shut down, instead using the money to found a new college at Oxford.
This idea of corruption would become key in the dissolution when in 1535 Cromwell set about collecting ‘evidence’ of untoward activity within the monasteries. Though some believe these tales to be exaggerated, they included cases of prostitution, drunken monks, and runaway nuns – hardly the behaviour expected from those dedicated to celibacy and virtue.
The push towards more drastic reform was deeply personal however. In the Spring of 1526, having grown restless with waiting for a son and heir from Catherine of Aragon, Henry VIII set his sights on marrying the enamouring Anne Boleyn.
Boleyn had recently returned from the French royal court and was now a sparkling courtier, well-versed in the courtly game of love. As such, she refused to become the king’s mistress and would settle only for marriage, lest she be cast aside as her elder sister had been.
Driven by love and an intense anxiety to provide an heir, Henry set about petitioning the Pope to grant him an annulment from his marriage to Catherine in what became known as the ‘King’s Great Matter’.
Setting Cardinal Wolsey on the task, a number of challenging factors delayed the proceedings. In 1527, Pope Clement VII was virtually imprisoned by Holy Roman Emperor Charles V during the Sack of Rome, and following this was heavily under his influence. As Charles happened to be Catherine of Aragon’s nephew, he was unwilling to budge on the topic of divorce as not to bring shame and embarrassment to his family.
Eventually Henry realised he was fighting a losing battle and in February 1531, he declared himself Supreme Head of the Church of England, meaning he now had jurisdiction on what exactly happened to its religious houses. In 1553, he passed a law forbidding clerics to appeal to ‘foreign tribunals’ in Rome, severing their ties with the Catholic Church on the continent. The first step to the demise of the monasteries was set in motion.
Now in charge of England’s religious landscape, Henry VIII set about ridding it of the Pope’s influence. In 1535, Thomas Cromwell was made Vicar General (Henry’s second in command) and sent letters to all the vicars in England, calling for their support of Henry as the Head of the Church.
Under intense threat, almost all of England’s religious houses agreed to this, with those who initially refused suffering heavy consequences. The friars from the Greenwich house were imprisoned where many died of maltreatment for example, while a number of the Carthusian monks were executed for high treason. Simple obedience was not enough for Henry VIII however, as the monasteries also had something he was desperately in need of – vast wealth.
After years of lavish spending and costly wars, Henry VIII had frittered away much of his inheritance – an inheritance painstakingly amassed by his frugal father Henry VII.
In 1534, a valuation of the Church was commissioned by Thomas Cromwell known as the Valor Ecclesiasticus, which demanded all religious establishments give authorities an accurate inventory of their lands and revenues. When this was completed, the Crown had for the first time a real image of the Church’s wealth, allowing Henry to set in motion a plan to repurpose their funds for his own use.
In 1536, all small religious houses with an annual income of less than £200 were ordered to be closed under the Act for the Dissolution of the Lesser Monasteries. Their gold, silver, and valuable materials were confiscated by the Crown and their lands sold off. This initial round of dissolutions made up around 30% of England’s monasteries, yet more were soon to follow.
Opposition to Henry’s reforms were widespread in England, particularly in the north where many staunchly Catholic communities persevered. In October 1536, a large uprising known as the Pilgrimage of Grace took place in Yorkshire, in which thousands marched into the city of York to demand a return to the ‘true religion’.
This was soon crushed, and though the king promised clemency for those involved, over 200 were executed for their roles in the unrest. Afterwards, Henry came to view monasticism as synonymous with treachery, as many of the religious houses he had spared in the north had participated in the uprising.
The following year, inducements to the larger abbeys began, with hundreds forfeiting their deeds to the king and signing a document of surrender. In 1539, the Act for the Dissolution of the Greater Monasteries was passed, forcing the remaining bodies to close – this was not without bloodshed however.
When the last abbot of Glastonbury, Richard Whiting, refused to relinquish his abbey, he was hung drawn and quartered and his head displayed over the gate of his now-deserted religious house.
In total around 800 religious institutions were closed in England, Wales, and Ireland, with many of their precious monastic libraries destroyed in the process. The final abbey, Waltham, closed its doors on 23 March 1540.
With the monasteries suppressed, Henry now had vast amounts of wealth and masses of land. This he sold off to nobles and merchants loyal to his cause as a reward for their service, who in turn sold it off to others and became increasingly wealthy.
Not only did this strengthen their loyalties, but also built a wealthy circle of Protestant-leaning nobles around the Crown – something that would become vital in instilling England as a Protestant country. During the reigns of Henry VIII’s children and beyond however, these factions would grow into conflict as the successive monarch’s adapted their own faiths to that of their regime.
With the ruins of hundreds of abbeys still littering England’s landscape – Whitby, Rievaulx and Fountains to name a few – it is hard to escape the memory of the thriving communities that once occupied them. Now mostly atmospheric shells, they sit as a reminder of monastic Britain and the most blatant consequences of the Protestant Reformation.
]]>However, their nefarious plans were thwarted, thanks in no small part to a mysterious and pivotal piece of correspondence known as the ‘Monteagle Letter’.
What was written in the Monteagle Letter, and just how crucial was it in thwarting the Gunpowder Plot?
The Gunpowder Plot was born out of religious and political turmoil in early 17th-century England. At the time, England was predominantly a Protestant country, yet when King James I ascended to the throne after Elizabeth I’s’ death in 1603, many Catholics hoped their new king would be tolerant of their faith. However, they were left disappointed, and Catholics continued to face significant discrimination and persecution, with James issuing many tough anti-Catholic measures.
Robert Catesby, a soldier, was a well-know rebel, and along with his devout Catholic associates believed that violence was the only means of redressing their grievances and securing greater religious freedom.
To accomplish their objective, they hatched a plot to blow up the Houses of Parliament during the State Opening, which had been rescheduled for 5 November 1605 following a plague outbreak. They managed to rent a cellar beneath the House of Lords and stockpile 36 barrels of gunpowder, with the intention of causing a massive explosion that would kill the king, his ministers, and the entire English establishment.
The plan was distributed by letter to the plotters.
In October 1605, a mysterious letter arrived at the home of William Parker, the 4th Baron Monteagle, in Hoxton, London, allegedly delivered to his footman as he passed in the street, directed to his Lord by an unknown party. The letter contained around 160 words, was unsigned, written in a cryptic manner with disguised writing, and without a date. It warned Parker not to attend Parliament on 5 November.
The exact contents of the letter vary in different historical accounts, but they all spoke of a ‘great blow’ Parliament would receive, and all conveyed the same message: that he should avoid the upcoming State Opening. The letter raised suspicions and concerns about the safety of the King and Parliament, and the identity of its author remains a mystery.
Monteagle was a prominent Catholic, and earlier that year had written a letter to chief plotter Robert Catesby expressing his discontent at the standing of Catholics under James I’s new rule. He had also previously been imprisoned for his involvement in the Essex Rebellion. Despite his status now partly recovering, he had remained under suspicion by many in court, so he appreciated the chance to prove his loyalty to King James.
Instead of taking the warning and burning the note as it had asked, his first instinct was to share it with his close relative, Robert Cecil, the King’s Secretary of State. Cecil was a shrewd and astute politician who was not inclined to dismiss such a warning. Together with the other members of the Privy Council (the king’s advisors), they decided to investigate further.
The Monteagle Letter sparked an immediate response from the authorities. The Privy Council was divided on how to proceed, but Cecil convinced them to take the warning seriously, arguing that failing to investigate could have dire consequences, and that the potential threat to the King and Parliament was too great to ignore.
Intriguingly, Cecil decided to keep the investigation secret, and sent spies to watch over and search the cellar beneath the House of Lords. James I was shown the letter when he returned from a hunting trip on 1 November, and immediately realised there was a plot involving gunpowder.
As the plot unravelled, the authorities moved swiftly to apprehend the conspirators. On the night of 4 November 1605, Guy Fawkes, who had been tasked with guarding the gunpowder, was discovered in the cellar vaults beneath the House of Lords next to a large pile of wood. Although initially managing to persuade soldiers that he was looking after these for Lord Percy, when the guards returned around midnight, the 36 stockpiled gunpowder barrels were discovered, and Guy Fawkes was arrested. A search of his person revealed matches and kindling, further implicating him in the plot.
Guy Fawkes was tortured at the Tower of London until he revealed the details of the plot, and over the next few days, the other plotters were captured, with Catesby and 4 of his associates dying in a shootout with law enforcement at Holbeche House in Staffordshire. Four others were arrested and later executed, along with Guy Fawkes, by being hung, disembowelled and quartered, with their heads displayed on pikes.
The Gunpowder Plot was effectively foiled, thanks in large part to the Monteagle Letter’s warning and the subsequent investigation that followed.
The chief suspect is Francis Tresham, the last man recruited in the Gunpowder Plot. Tresham had had reservations about the Plot, doubting whether such a loss of life was justified. His sister was also married to Lord Monteagle – another reason why Tresham may wish to have spared Monteagle.
Indeed Catesby and fellow plotter Thomas Wintour suspected Tresham had been responsible for the leak from the start, and had summoned him to meet them once they learned of the letter. Nevertheless, Tresham had convinced Catesby and Wintour that he wasn’t a traitor. Furthermore, after the plot’s failure, Tresham had spent weeks held in the Tower of London signing statements and corresponding with Robert Cecil. In this, he insisted he’d always been opposed to the plot, and had offered his assistance with the investigation. It therefore seems strange that he wouldn’t have mentioned the letter if he had indeed been its author.
Overall, 13 men were involved in the Gunpowder Plot, so any of these could have been the letter’s author. The letter may also not have been the work of any of them – many other people could have been the culprit.
Furthermore, if Monteagle had suspected something was being plotted, he may have feared he would have been implicated due to his Catholicism, previous role in the Essex Rebellion, and friendship with many of the conspirators, and thus written the letter himself to both prevent the plot and prove his allegiance to the king. This is merely conjecture however, as are theories that Cecil himself may have learned of the plot and got one of his assistants to write the letter to Monteagle as a way to test Monteagle’s loyalty, and for Cecil to ‘discover’ the plot without revealing his sources.
Whoever was its author, the Monteagle Letter was the biggest tip-off in British history, providing an early warning about the impending plot and setting off a chain of events that ultimately thwarted the conspiracy.
The ensuing surveillance of the cellar led to the discovery of the barrels of gunpowder, providing concrete evidence of the plot’s existence, and enabling the conspirators to be arrested – preventing the catastrophic explosion that could have forever altered the course of English history by claiming the lives of King James I and members of his family, his chief ministers, and the many Members of Parliament in attendance. The Gunpowder Plot’s failure reinforced the position of the Protestant Stuart monarchy in England and further marginalised Catholics, leading to more religious persecution and division.
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