Coventry Guildhall Tapestry

On 27 September,  a number of Society members were present for a fascinating day exploring the tapestry at St Mary’s Guildhall in Coventry, organised by Tudor Coventry CIC and Medieval Coventry. This tapestry depicts a king and queen kneeling either side of the Assumption of the Virgin Mary. There are an assortment of men behind the king, and women behind the queen and a row of saints above them. It was made in the early sixteenth century and was long thought to depict a Tudor court. However, Christian Liddy has argued that it depicts the mid fifteenth century when Coventry became the home of Henry VI’s court in the wake of Richard duke of York’s second protectorate.[1]

There has also been more recent speculation that one of the figures represents Richard III.[2] The character in question holds an item that has clearly been rewoven in an attempt to alter the image which looks to have been a snake originally. This has been interpreted as ‘an emblem of evil and deviousness’, according to an article on the guildhall website. The figure also holds a small item which has been identified as a coin and thus a symbol of Judas.

When the Society Conference was held in Coventry two years ago, member Fred Hepburn persuasively argued that the striking figure was much more likely to represent Richard duke of York than his son. Fred explained that the idea specifically of a ‘serpent of discord’ was popular in both mid-fifteenth and sixteenth-century literature and Richard duke of York would chronologically make more sense as an adult at the court of Henry VI and Margaret of Anjou. Polydore Vergil, most likely writing as the tapestry was being designed, was clear that ‘this general disturbance [the Wars of the Roses] took its origin from Duke Richard of York’. The smaller object in the figure’s hand, Fred suggested, was actually a gambling die, emblematic of York’s risk taking. Under Henry VIII, who was rather more proud of his Yorkist lineage, it might have seemed politic to remove the serpent.

Fred was among the speakers again at Coventry this autumn, along with Jonathan Foyle discussing the iconography of the window above the tapestry (which definitely does depict Henry VI but in an unusually military fashion), Kate Giles explaining the context of guildhalls more widely, Maria Hayward investigating the making of the tapestry, Mika Takami reporting on it from a conservationist point of view and myself talking about Margaret of Anjou and Henry VI’s time in Coventry. The talks began with Mark Webb from Historic Coventry Trust giving the local historic context and David Starkey introducing the political context of the period in which the tapestry was made. It was an excellent opportunity for sharing ideas and has set up considerable further discussion.

It has long been recognised that the top central figure in the tapestry – justice enthroned - was a late addition, presumably replacing an earlier image of the Trinity, but few of us had noticed until Maria’s talk that a rosary seems to have been embroidered out on one of the women’s dresses. Yet the saints and the Virgin Mary were allowed to survive, unlike in so many churches. It really is a wonderful relic from the last years when such art could be made before the Reformation. Maria also pointed to banderoles in each corner of the tapestry (which I’ve never been able to make out in the poor light there) which appear to have the initials H and M on them, presumably for Henry VI and Margaret of Anjou.

Much debate centred on the dogs at the feet of some of the courtiers and the question of whether they might be talbots, which was the emblem of the earls of Shrewsbury, or, as a questioner from the floor proposed, Tudor/Richmond greyhounds, or merely domestic dogs. The male figure beside the dog has an ample purse which might have made him a candidate for identification as John Talbot, earl of Shrewsbury and Treasurer of England, if we could find a logical reason for him being so very prominent in the tapestry (Fred Hepburn suggested). If instead it is a Tudor emblem then it might depict Henry VII’s father, Edmund Tudor (as Jonathan Foyle was the first to point out). If so, might we start identifying the elderly man touching ‘Edmund’s’ shoulder as Owen Tudor? Then we might consider some of the possible parallel women as ancestresses of Henry VII and Elizabeth of York too: the very small figure near a white dog as Margaret Beaufort, more prominent women as the queen’s grandmothers. Or is it over ambitious to imagine sixteenth-century guildsmen wanting to weave so much specific history into their design? The debate will continue!

It is fair to say that not everyone was persuaded that the figure with the ‘serpent’ was Richard duke of York. One query was whether it was really a serpent at all or perhaps another rosary? Another was why put such a discordant figure in the tapestry in the beginning? Moreover, serpents could also be symbols of wisdom, something that might have seemed less obvious at a later date and so prompted the over-embroidery (an image of Elizabeth I currently hanging in Kenilworth castle clearly once held a serpent which has been painted over with a posy of flowers). What was clear in the final discussion is that none of the speakers thought it plausible that Richard III was depicted on the tapestry.

J L Laynesmith

Images provided by Mark Webb

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[1] https://www.cambridge.org/core/journals/urban-history/article/urban-politics-and-material-culture-at-the-end-of-the-middle-ages-the-coventry-tapestry-in-st-marys-hall/48E2C69A0A5D3E8ECE3C566D6981D964

[2] https://www.stmarysguildhall.co.uk/downloads/file/28/king_richard_iii_and_the_coventry_tapestry

Elizabeth Woodville as Plague Victim

Queens' College Cambridge Portrait 88 

There were several newspaper headlines last week along the lines of ‘White Queen died of plague, claims letter found in National Archives’. Their authors are drawing on an article in this month’s issue of Social History of Medicine by Euan Roger, who is a historian at The National Archives.[1] The newspaper articles online seem to have caused some confusion and scepticism on social media. So, having read Roger’s fascinating article, here’s what I think it might mean for understanding Elizabeth’s death and much-debated funeral.

The focus of Roger’s research was an early-sixteenth century codex from St George’s College, Windsor, containing regulations about quarantine for plague (really interesting stuff – but you’ll have to read the article if you want to know more!). In the course of this, he investigated Henry VIII’s exceptional anxiety about the plague. He picked up on an intriguing letter written by the Venetian ambassador, Andrea Badoer, in July 1511. The ambassador observed ‘the Queen-Widow, mother of the late King Edward, had died of plague, and the King was troubled’.[2]

No one who might answer the description of ‘queen-widow’ had died in 1511, or even remotely near that date. Hitherto, scholars who came across the curious reference seem not to have been interested in trying to unravel its mystery, until now. Euan Roger persuasively concluded that the ambassador’s remark was meant as an explanation for Henry VIII’s particular fear of the plague – the king knew (or, at least, believed) that a close relative had died of it. (Do check out the sources and logic for this in his article).

Elizabeth Woodville was not the only mother of a king Edward to have died within living memory. The most recent was Edward IV’s mother, Cecily duchess of York, whom some on Twitter have suggested might have been the subject of the ambassador’s remark. Cecily was indeed the woman most commonly referred to as the ‘mother of King Edward’. She died when Henry VIII was four, so he is unlikely to have remembered her in person. However, she must have been part of his sense of his family because she bequeathed him three Arras tapestries and many of her lands had passed into his possession as duke of York (which was his title before his elder brother’s death). At first sight Cecily seems a possible candidate, except that she was never a queen.

Cecily’s status was contentious. Her husband, Richard duke of York, had claimed that his right to the throne was superior to Henry VI’s. During the reigns of her sons Edward IV and Richard III, Cecily called herself ‘king’s mother and wife of the rightful heir to the thrones of England and France and lord of Ireland’. In Henry VII’s reign, however, it appears that she tactfully dropped much of this claim. She usually described her husband only as ‘the right noble prince Richard duke of York’. In so far as Henry VII had any blood right to the throne, it came from his relationship to Henry VI. Consequently, suggesting that Henry VI’s claim was false would not have played well with the Tudor family. So, it would make no sense for anyone at Henry VIII’s court to call Cecily ‘queen-widow’.

Moreover, what we know of Cecily’s death does not suggest that she was a plague victim. She was living in rural Berkhamsted which was a much less likely site for plague to strike than the congested capital. She was already 80 years old and the long preparation for her death reveals that it was not a hurried affair. On 1^st April 1495 she began making her last testament. She did not finish it until 31^st May, the very day of her death. On that day she sealed and signed the document. After her death, a papal indulgence was tied around her neck with a silk ribbon and her body was transported 60 miles for burial at Fotheringhay College.[3] This would have caused a serious contagion risk if she had died of plague.

The only other relevant mother of a king Edward was Elizabeth Woodville, mother of Edward V and wife of Edward IV. She had very definitely been a queen-widow. We might have expected the ambassador to call her the king (Henry VIII)’s grandmother, rather than the mother of his uncle. Nonetheless, the description was entirely accurate for Elizabeth Woodville. Elizabeth had died three years before Cecily. She was only in her early fifties and lived at Bermondsey Abbey, near the Thames in Southwark. This was a much more vulnerable location for the plague. Crucially, as Roger argues, her exceptionally low-key funeral has long been a matter of speculation.  If her hasty burial was a consequence of fears about plague infection, this would offer a new perspective on the event.

Elizabeth Woodville had composed her last testament on 10 April 1492, exactly nine years and one day after her husband, Edward IV’s, sudden death, ‘seeing the world so transitory and no creature certain when they shall depart from hence’ (TNA PROB 11/9). It seems from this line that she had no specific reason to expect that two months later she would be dead. In this testament, she requested that she be buried with Edward IV at Windsor, ‘without pomp entering or costly expenses done thereabout’.

A description of Elizabeth Woodville’s funeral has been preserved in a sixteenth-century herald’s book that is now in the British Library.[4] The author drew attention to the use of ‘old torches and torch ends’, tapers ‘of no great weight’, and a ‘low hearse, such as they use for the common people’. He also noted that several of the traditional solemn services were omitted and that the poor men holding torches had not been provided with black mourning wear. It is impossible to be sure whether the author’s emphasis on the minimal ceremony was meant as a criticism of her executors, a lament on her poverty or praise for her austere piety. However, his opening explanation suggests that it was the last. He had recorded that the queen wished to be taken by river to be buried at Windsor ‘in all goodly haste, without any worldly pomp’. Euan Roger’s investigation suggests that some elements of this simplicity were actually a result of anxious, rather than ‘goodly’, haste.

One of the most surprising aspects of the funeral is the fact that the body did not lie on the hearse throughout the ceremonies but was buried immediately on arrival at the castle ‘privily about 11 of the clock in the night’. Only one priest and one clerk had greeted the tiny party accompanying the body ‘privily through the little park’. This would entirely fit with a desire to avoid contagion from the plague. Intriguingly, however, there is no hint that the author of the description was himself aware of the cause of death which may suggest that, if she did die of plague, it was not entirely public knowledge at the time.

It is also worth noting that we do not seem to have any records of plague in London in 1492. Nonetheless, plague was endemic by this period to the extent that many sources seem not have considered it worth noting every small outbreak. Records for Oxford University indicate that the students would be evacuated each time plague struck, but sometimes only a couple of students were affected. Such evacuations occurred in both 1491 and 1493.[5] It is not improbable that a small outbreak occurred in London between these years.

Last week’s newspaper reports implied that the letter at the heart of the revelations had only just been discovered. The truth is actually more impressive – records that have been publicly available for decades can still yield surprising new information when examined by a historian who is asking new questions in the context of the appropriate background knowledge. An investigation into why a sixteenth-century king was so concerned about plague has indicated that Elizabeth Woodville’s family believed that she had died of that disease in 1492.

J L Laynesmith

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[1] Euan C Roger , “‘To Be Shut Up’: New Evidence for the Development of Quarantine Regulations in Early-Tudor England”, Social History of Medicine, https://doi.org/10.1093/shm/hkz031

Published: 11 April 2019

[2] Item come la Raina Vedova, fò madre dil Re Edoardo, erra morta da peste, et il Re era fastidiato. See https://www.british-history.ac.uk/cal-state-papers/venice/vol2/pp46-49

[3] Her will stated a preference for burial at Fotheringhay but acknowledged that this would be an expensive undertaking and allowed that the king might recommend she be buried elsewhere. Her relationship with her local church in Berkhamsted was close – in her will she left gifts to three incumbents as well as to the church itself – so it would have been the sensible alternative if she had actually died of plague. J. L. Laynesmith, Cecily duchess of York (Bloomsbury, 2017).

[4] Transcribed and discussed in Anne F. Sutton and Livia Visser-Fuchs with R. A. Griffiths, The Royal Funerals of the House of York at Windsor (Richard III Society, 2005).

[5] Charles Creighton, A History of Epidemics in Britain (CUP, 1891), I:283.

Image from Wikmedia Commons,

Archaeology at Collyweston Palace

In February this year exciting news emerged about archaeology on the site of Lady Margaret Beaufort’s home at Collyweston in Northamptonshire. I recently found out that the Collyweston Historical and Preservation Society are looking for support in this project: see here. The preliminary geophysical services have been completed to guide the digs this summer. They plan to reveal their findings at a celebratory weekend on 7^th and 8^th September.

What makes this so exciting? Collyweston was one of the first brick manor houses in the region and its early grandeur was the work of the Yorkist Ralph Lord Cromwell, who was a major political figure through the fifteenth century. He fought at Agincourt and was Treasurer of England for a decade during which time he amassed considerable wealth. He stepped down because he opposed the policies of William de la Pole, duke of Suffolk. He was a member of Richard duke of York’s affinity from 1441, which was not always good for his political career. However, it has been speculated that his late arrival for the First Battle of St Albans was a consequence of misgivings at York’s violent approach. Unlike Collyweston, his great building projects at South Wingfield and Tattershall are still testament to his power and influence. He died at South Wingfield in January 1456.

Lady Margaret Beaufort acquired the palace in 1499, fourteen years into her son's reign. She made extensive improvements both to the gardens and buildings in 1502-3 including bay windows decorated with the Beaufort arms. It was during this time that Margaret offered refuge at Collyweston to Edward IV’s daughter, Cecily, who had been banished from court by an enraged Henry VII for secretly marrying a mere esquire, Thomas Kyme. But in 1503 the court came to Collyweston for three weeks of midsummer festivities. These were to mark Princess Margaret’s final days with her family before she departed for Scotland and marriage with James IV. It was probably the most spectacular period in Collyweston’s history and it marked what was to prove a turning point in British history. It will be wonderful to be able to reimagine the space in which these celebrations occurred.

Tudor Chamber Books

A fantastic new resource for research into the late fifteenth and early sixteenth centuries has just been launched: Tudor Chamber Books. It is an opportunity to browse or search the detailed records of weekly expenditure and income for the royal chamber in surviving receipt and expenditure books for 1485-1521. It also includes the privy purse expenses of Elizabeth of York, re-transcribed with additional material not included in the previously published version. The website is not yet finished – the project organisers describe the current site as a ‘draft’ – it will eventually be more searchable, and the formatting needs work, especially for the modern English version. Nonetheless, what we can now access from the comfort of our homes are over 4,000 pages from The National Archives and the British Library that will provide an invaluable resource for historical research, especially into statecraft, court life and material culture.

Two members of the research committee attended the launch of the database at a fascinating conference at the University of Winchester, where the project has been based. Papers were delivered both by members of the research project and external scholars. Many of these will eventually be published in a special edition of the journal History. Delegates learned that although no accounts survive for the Yorkist kings, it was Edward IV who was the first to use it extensively. Henry VII initially reverted to the Lancastrian reliance on the exchequer but found that system inefficiently slow. The chamber books reveal the intricacies of the accounting system, the king’s regular oversight and his sometimes clumsy penmanship. The breadth of topics that will benefit from this resource was indicated in papers that ranged from the queen’s household and her ladies or the crown’s relationship with Londoners or major nobles, to the Field of the Cloth of Gold, iconography in royal palaces, literary culture at court and the royal librarian, Quentyn Poulet.

In the course of the final roundtable, we were encouraged not just to search for the people or objects that intrigue us, but to spend time browsing through the pages, getting a sense of the rhythms of court life and coming by chance upon intriguing details that searches would never have brought us to. It is slightly addictive, drifting through the payments, wondering who those monks were spying on or what sort of 'dragon' Lord Grey of Wilton gave the king on the anniversary of Bosworth 1507. I feel it will be a wonderful resource not only for academics, students and enthusiastic amateur historians but novelists too.

The DNA of the Missing Princes

A recent newspaper report announced that newly discovered DNA could prove whether Richard III murdered the princes in the Tower. What is the real significance of this discovery?

The research was undertaken by Society member, Glen Moran, after hearing a talk by John Ashdown-Hill. He revealed that, contrary to previous assumptions, an all female line had survived on the princes' mother's side. This means that mitochondrial DNA that would match the princes could be identified.

If it were possible to examine the DNA of any of the various bones speculatively identified as those of the ‘Princes in the Tower’, this new discovery would help to establish for certain whether they really are those of the missing princes. The DNA already obtained from Richard III would also be key.

If the bones did include Richard III’s male line DNA, then it would be certain that they were closely related. However, technically, they might still be another relative, such as otherwise unknown royal bastards. This is, of course, highly unlikely, but only with the female line DNA as well could scientists be absolutely certain.

The other scenario in which the female line DNA could prove significant is if either Cecily duchess of York (the princes’ grandmother), or Elizabeth Woodville (their mother) had been unfaithful so that their offspring did not actually share the male line DNA of Richard III. Again, this is highly unlikely, although some historians and writers have argued that we should believe contemporary rumours that Edward IV was illegitimate. (For a recent refutation of ‘evidence’ for this, see Livia Visser-Fuchs’ article in the most recent edition of The Ricardian).

Could this impact on our understanding of whether Richard III killed the princes? This would depend on finding bones that could positively be identified as those of the princes. If the evidence of the bones indicated that the boys were clearly too old to have died in Richard III’s reign, then we would know that he could not have ordered their deaths. There are of course various sites rumoured to hold the remains of one or other of the princes, but whether the right body can be found and access granted for testing is of course another challenge. Unfortunately, if the boys merely fell sick or were killed by someone else during Richard’s reign, or shortly afterwards, the mystery would remain even if the bones could be found.

Duchy of Cornwall accounts sold at auction

On 21 March this year an important and interesting manuscript was sold in Exeter for £20,000, well over the original estimate of £4000 - £6000. This is a Compotus or Receiver's Rolls for Cornwall and Devon drawn up under the aegis of Richard III, comprising the account of one year's receipts from the manors, burghs and stannaries (tin mining districts) of the Duchy of Cornwall; together with receipts for Devon. It covers from Michaelmas, 22nd year of Edward IV to Michaelmas 1st year Richard III (29 September 1482 to 29 September 1483). It thus covers the end of the reign of Edward IV, the brief reign of Edward V and the first few months of that of Richard III. The Dukedom of Cornwall had been created by Edward III for the maintenance of his eldest son, and can only be held by the oldest living son of the monarch. The period of this account therefore covers the rule as Duke of Edward IV’s eldest son Edward and Richard III’ only son Edward of Middleham who became Duke as soon as his father became King.

By the end of fifteenth century, profits from the Duchy amounted to some £500 per annum and its administration was sophisticated and efficient, the annual receiver's rolls, of which this is a fine example, being the summation of a host of preliminary local records and accounts. The present rolls record the final accounts of annual receipts from many of the Duchy manors in Cornwall as well as some in Devon. The profits from the Duchy came to about £500 per year.

The roll is divided into sub-accounts, totals for rents, sales and court receipts are given and the bailiff's name provided. In most cases the receipts are noted as delivered into the hands of Sir Robert Willoughby and Sir Thomas Arundell. Though abbreviated in this final account, the entries for each manor usually contain several personal names (the bailiff or reeve, in particular) and other local placenames, which makes it useful for local historians. The final receipt for the manorial income is usually between about £12 to £30.. Both the hundred court and stannary receipts are given in the same way. The receipts from the stannary courts of the tin mines were especially valuable components of Duchy income.

Two main series of manorial records from the Duchy of Cornwall exist, one in the National Archives and the other in the Duchy of Cornwall Office. This roll is a rare survivor outside these archives.

Peter Hammond

Image courtesy of Bonhams

The Canterbury Roll

An article in The Times on Monday 29 January 2018 gave details of a medieval scroll known as the Canterbury Roll. While this is not a new discovery, what is new is that it has been digitised and is available for everyone to see at the Canterbury University, NZ website. Originally called ‘The Maude Roll’ after its nineteenth century owners, it was purchased by Canterbury College - now Canterbury University - Christchurch, New Zealand early in 1918. Arnold Wall, a professor at the college published a transcription of the roll in 1919 and this too has been made available on the website and can be downloaded as a pdf.

When the Maude family moved to New Zealand in the nineteenth century they took the roll with them, the story was that it had always been in the family, and Wall attempted to trace the family back to the fifteenth century, when the roll was first written. Subsequent research suggests that ownership by the Maude family may not go back any further than the nineteenth century. Who commissioned the roll in the fifteenth century therefore remains something of a mystery.

With its digitisation it is possible to explore the roll in detail. It is a genealogy of the kings of England, created early in the fifteenth century. Beginning with the founding myth of English kings, from the Trojan refugee Brutus travelling to Albion and renaming the island Britannia, through the mythical kings of Britain including Arthur, to the Saxon kings, in continuous succession to Henry VI when the roll was created. Since 1429-33, when it was first written, the roll has undergone a number of amendments. 

It is thought that it was originally drawn up to demonstrate the Lancastrians’ legitimate claim to the throne. Richard II’s deposition is passed over, as is the claim of the Mortimers. Legitimate descent is shown in a straight line from Edward III. It does not reflect Henry IV’s early dalliance with the idea that Edmund Crouchback was the eldest son of Henry III; that was a notion too far, it was much easier to simply overlook a claim through a woman.

With the accession of Edward IV the roll then undergoes an amendment. The new scribe has made notes to ensure there is no mistake about who is the true king. He adds a note to show that Richard II was deposed and Henry IV usurped the throne. Red lines are then added to show the true line of descent from Edward III that is, via Lionel of Clarence and his daughter Philippa. Added to the descent through Edmund Duke of York, the legitimacy of the house of York is undisputed. ‘Edward, son and heir of the above named Richard, recently duke of York, true heir of the kingdoms of England and France, ... on the fourth day of March, through the greater and more sensible [part] of the people, was elected as king of England by the grace of God and the voice of those [people], rising and receiving the kingdom of England in London for himself, by law so much as by inheritance, in the year of the Lord 1460.’

As well as Edward IV, the new scribe includes his brothers, Edmund, George and Richard and his sisters Anne, Elizabeth and Margaret. Margaret is named as duchess of Burgundy so this amendment must have been made after her marriage in 1468. Sadly no further amendments were made to the roll.

The roll is seen as a piece of propaganda, originally for Henry VI and then Edward IV. Who commissioned the roll is a mystery. Did it remain in the same hands throughout the fifteenth century?  Was the owner someone who changed sides and wished to demonstrate his new allegiance to the house York, or was it someone who was simply reflecting the ‘reality’ of the day.

It is a pity that it ends with Edward IV, it would have been interesting to see how the owner reflected the changes of 1483 and 1485. Was it too dangerous or too uncertain? Or had the owner died or lost interest?

What the role does show is that genealogy was important, and that something seemingly so straight forward could be disputed. Genealogy as propaganda was not limited to this roll, a number exist. A splendid example should already be known to members, it can be partially viewed here  (a digital copy is available on CDRom, entitled Leaves of Gold, through the society shop). Held by the Free Library of Philadelphia, this is a beautifully illustrated roll. Edward IV appears at the top in full military glory, there is no mistaking that ‘this sun of York’ was responsible for its production. The Canterbury Roll looks more like a working copy beside it, having little in the way of illustration. It is easy to imagine Edward’s roll on display, but it is hard to imagine that many people actually saw the Canterbury Roll. The value of either as propaganda is therefore hard to see. Those seeing Edward’s roll may have been visitors to his court, in many ways it was therefore preaching to the converted or the already loyal.

The Canterbury Roll perhaps lay amongst other records and chronicles, but someone thought it worth updating, just as Chronicles were continually added to and updated. For the modern reader it adds another mystery to the fifteenth century; who owned the roll and what was it they did or did not want to say about the occupier of the throne and any potential claimants?

Lynda Pidgeon



Medieval genealogies could take many forms - this tree from British Library MS Harley 7353 takes a much more image-based approach than the Canterbury Roll. It shows Henry IV literally cutting through the branch on which Richard II sat and has Henry VI and Edward IV facing each other at the top, swords at the ready.