Marsden – canals, packhorses and revolutionaries

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Today is a bit different. This is probably a longer read than usual, and one that I found while I was having a spring clean of my laptop but I hope that you enjoy it.

Marsden, situated at the top of the Colne Valley, nestles into the millstone grit of the Pennine hills.  It’s a gateway to open spaces and beautiful moorland scenery, home to curlews and rare twites.  It is also the last town in the West Riding before crossing into Lancashire. The Romans passed this way building a road between York and Chester in AD 79. From medieval times onwards, Marsden was the natural crossing point for travellers, merchants and goods as they travelled from east to west.  It became the home for mill masters and revolutionaries.   Just eight miles from Huddersfield along the A62, Marsden boasts ancient tracks and pathways, turnpike roads, and the Huddersfield Narrow Canal. 

I park in the National Trust car park at the top of the town. This vast space used to be the old goods yard. I head towards the National Trust Estate Office and exhibition centre where I discover a small but informative display about Marsden’s past, the richness of its moors and the diversity of its wildlife, its role as a transport hub, textile town and the fact that it has, on average, forty inches of rain each year.  

I pause on the brow of the hill opposite the Railway Inn to take in the hills on the far side of the valley, the tall chimneys – relics of Marsden’s industrial heritage, the church and the snug looking folds of houses.  Then I turn right onto the tranquil towpath alongside the canal towards Tunnel End.  The canal arrived here in 1804 but then the navvies faced the task of crossing the Pennines.  The canal tunnel I’m heading for is the highest, longest at 3.2 miles and deepest in the country.  Thomas Telford engineered it.  Since 2001 the Huddersfield Canal Society have lovingly restored the waterway and turned it into a haven for wildlife, fishermen and for visitors.  The first canals hugged the contours of the land whereas the Huddersfield Narrow Canal climbs to Marsden and then cuts straight through the hills to Diggle in Lancashire.  No wonder it is an example of a heroic canal- built during the second phase of canal building when nature was seen as an obstacle to be overcome.  The Industrial Revolution was in full swing.  Anything was possible – so long as it involved picks, shovels and the odd keg of gunpowder. 

When it was complete men legged their boats through the long deep dark tunnel because there was no towpath at this point. A towpath would have added enormous construction costs to the tunnel that took seventeen years to complete.  The horses that usually towed the barges were led over the top of the hill giving them a well-earned rest from their loads while the crew ‘walked’ their vessel through the tunnel by laying on their backs and walking along the top of the tunnel.  

I follow the canal back in the direction of Marsden before taking a wooded path through the picnic area. It brings me down the hill and across Mellor Bridge.  There are no packhorses wending their way or clattering over the narrow stone bridge this morning.   There’s just me and the sound the River Colne singing as it laps and splashes on its way.  Marsden boasts not one but two packhorse bridges built specifically to allow winding caravans of merchandise and supplies across the river.  Packhorses and weary folk trudged along centuries old trails that radiated out from Marsden until 1759 or 1760 when Blind Jack Metcalfe of Knaresburgh built a turnpike road that followed a more direct route. 

Bundles of heather were laid on the boggy ground to stabilise it for the road builders. The road was built on top of this. The turnpike was the name for a gate lowered across the road to ensure that travellers using it paid their toll. Part of Blind Jack’s road survives today as Old Mount Road.  Unsurprisingly, given its strategic location, Marsden had not one but three turnpikes.  Each one was designed to improve on the one that came before.  The A62 follows the line of the last turnpike road though I’m beginning to be very grateful to the Highways Agency.  Travelling across the Pennines in times past sounds rather a hazardous, not to mention gruelling, business.

From the bridge, which looks like it might be the ideal residence for a troll, it is a few short steps to the shadow dappled and very substantial looking church of St Bartholomew built in 1899.   It’s sometimes called the ‘Cathedral of the Colne Valley’.  I’m looking for something rather smaller today though.  I cross the road.  Although the original church was demolished, its memory lingers still. Old tombstones form the path into a green space delineating the former site for worship.  Here I discover a soot and lichen darkened memorial to Enoch and James Taylor.  

The Taylor brothers are closely associated with the Luddites. Skilled workers called croppers worked finished woollen cloth using enormous hand-held shears.  During the opening decade of the Eighteenth Century croppers were being put out of work by a new technology- the cropping frame- that did the work more quickly and which did not require the numbers of men.  The workers, fearing for their jobs, their homes and the lives of their families petitioned the government of the time for help.  Finally, seeing no alternative croppers banded together and smashed the machines that were destroying their livelihoods.  They worked under the leadership of the mysterious General Ludd. The term Luddite was born.  

And the Taylors? The Taylor brothers were blacksmiths.  Their forges made both the machines and the huge iron hammers that the Luddites used to break them in and around the Huddersfield area.  A popular joke at the time was ‘Enoch made them, Enoch breaks them’.  Strangely, the Luddites never targeted the Taylor brothers- possibly because they were republican sympathisers.  Instead, the Luddites focused their anger on the masters who put them out of work.  William Horsfall of Marsden owned Ottiwells Mill employing some four hundred men, women and children.  He had no sympathy for the Luddites or for the plight of his workers.  He was deeply unpopular because of his outspoken desire to put down the Luddite unrest with whatever force necessary.  Perhaps it is not surprising that the authorities stationed both infantry and cavalry in Marsden to deal with any trouble.  It did not save Horsfall.  He was killed on his way home from Huddersfield one market day in April 1812.  Today his mill is gone as are the forges where the Taylor brothers made the machines that did the work of five men.  Their foundry has been replaced by a primary school. Basking in the sun it is hard to believe that Marsden was once a hotbed of discontent.

I continue across the green encountering an old set of stocks before cutting between a block of new flats and over a footbridge that brings me into the Market Place where I’m delighted by a three dimensional model sculpted by Mick Kirkby-Gedded entitled Marsden’s Canal offering a bird’s eye view of the town and its surroundings.  I pause to look at the river as it gushes over the weir.  A row of ducks slumber on the edge of the water.  Today they have the river to themselves but on sunny weekends the banks ring to the sound of laughing children paddling in the Colne.  An elderly gentleman in a flat cap nods and tells me that ‘It’s a grand day for it.”  It is too.

Peel Street is a bustling place with the post office, a grocer’s, cafes, restaurants, assorted craft shops and even a pub with its own microbrewery. The red and cream clock tower of the Mechanics Institute is a natural focus.  It was opened in 1861 by public description and today houses the local library.    The Information Point is across the road.  Its helpful and friendly staff advises me on walks and other places of interest that I might like to visit in the afternoon.  They also point out where to find some very famous locations indeed. Auntie Wainwright’s shop from Last of the Summer Wine lurks around the corner in Oliver Street.  

My visit is all but ended now.  There’s just the climb back up Station Hill to the car park with a backwards glance in the direction of the buttery sandstone shell of a mill that once employed hundreds of people. Then I’m surprised to hear the clip-clop of hooves.  Am I dreaming? For a moment I wonder if it’s the ghost of a pack horse beginning its journey across the moors towards Manchester.  My dreams are interrupted by the chunter of the Trans-Pennine train service drawing to a halt and by the sound of a dog barking.  “Grand day for it,” says its owner.  And for the second time today I agree.        

Reading the past: squirrels

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This handsome little squirrel can be found in Christ Church Cathedral, Oxford.

Squirrels could represent friendship or diligence, thrift and caution – they could also be symbolic of greed and worse (medieval monks liked jokes of their own and the association of squirrels and nuts produced some rather rude ones and the occasional eyebrow raising illustration in a psalter). The jest remained so popular that there are many 14th and 15th century seals in existence featuring a squirrel and the words ‘I crack nuts’ which, put politely, has a bawdy overtone. 

In some medieval bestiaries squirrels were described as small angry creatures who died from rage. The Lost Language of Symbolism suggests the reason why the squirrel features in the cathedral window. Medieval belief suggested that squirrels kept to the tops of trees so that they could not be hunted. For humanity to be safe from the wiles of treacherous devils they should be like squirrels staying on the high ground – i.e. keeping our eyes and thoughts on heaven.

I now think I know why there was a squirrel on the unstitched coif – a Catholic would have to be cautious in the 17th century and of course, they were keeping their mind on their beliefs while all around them various officers of the state sought them out.

Bayley, Harold, The Lost Language of Symbolism (2013)

Power and the People – the beginnings

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Part of the GCSE syllabus is a module focusing on power and the people. We tend to think of Magna Carta as our starting point but nothing happens in a vacuum, so without getting too carried away we need to head back to 2 August 1100. William Rufus, the king of England is hunting in the New Forest. After a rather rocky relationship with his elder brother, Robert Curthose, Duke of Normandy, the two brothers have come to an agreement. If one dies the other will inherit his throne. Unfortunately for Curthose, when Rufus has a hunting accident on the 2 August, it’s their younger brother Henry who is on the scene.

Henry dashes off to Winchester, leaving William’s body where it lays, in order to secure the royal treasury. Three days later he is crowned King of England. Curthose is still on his way back from the crusades, having stopped en route to marry Sybilla of Conversano, a wealthy heiress whose dowry will go some way to paying his debts. (Curthose was eventually beaten by Henry at the Battle of Tinchbray in 1106 and spent the rest of his life in captivity. He’s buried in Gloucester Cathedral.)

Henry has claimed the throne but now he needs to keep it.

King Henry I’s hold on the throne relies on the support of the Church and his barons. In order to bind them to him he issues a coronation charter, sometimes called the Charter of Liberties, that promises the church and individuals certain rights. Henry was an admirer of Edward the Confessor, he sought to make Edward’s law the common law of England (with a Norman firm hand) and to tell his new subjects that he was returning to the ways of his own father – ie he would be a strong king and there would be peace in the realm…or else. But that also the corruption of William Rufus were at an end. Henry was promising a return to the good old days.

Of course, Henry ignored his own coronation charter but the point had been made and the promises it contained would be the precedent for Magna Carta. King’s after Henry issued similar coronation charters to Henry I. His successor, King Stephen issued a similar ‘deal’ between king, people and Church. A copy can be found at Exeter Cathedral.

Key words: coronation charter, Charter of Liberties

Key people: King Henry I

Key date: 5 August 1100

Picture short: The millstones of Derbyshire

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There are some 1,500 or so discarded millstones left where they were hewn from the rock. This one can be found at Padley Gorge. The millstone grit from which Derbyshire’s famous edges were formed were used to make mill stones. Hathersage once boasted five mills sharpening pins and needles, and of course, Sheffield, used the millstones for sharpening blades. There were all millstones to crush ores. And then the introduction of different kinds of rollers ended the industry almost overnight.

Francis II, Duke of Brittany (23 June, 1433-9 September 1488)

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Monday afternoon and I miss my Zoom class – it’s my own fault of course as I should have organised advertising and plotted where the block of classes would fit. Easter’s early this year so I’m working out the dates and thinking how best to fit things in.

Today’s post is slightly left field but the duke did have his part to play in the education of Henry Tudor while he was in exile. Francis was Duke of Brittany from 1458 to his death.  His policies were aimed at maintaining independence from France which was ruled by Louis XI of France and, from 1483, King Charles VIII. Despite his best efforts to play the French and the English off against one another, he was forced, in 1488, to sign a treaty becoming a vassal of the French and after his death his heiress, Anne, married King Charles VIII.

The duke became the protector of Henry and Jasper Tudor from 1471 to 1485 despite attempts by both Edward IV and Richard III to negotiate their return to England.  Francis treated his guests well but in reality, they were hostages used as a diplomatic tool by the duke to hold out for better terms against Louis, who was Jasper’s cousin and wanted control of the Tudors himself.  In 1484, when the duke was unwell, his treasurer Pierre Landais came to an agreement with Richard III. Fortunately for the Tudors, Jasper and Henry were able to make a daring escape.  When he recovered from his illness, Francis paid the expenses of the Lancastrian supporters of Henry Tudor who remained in Brittany to travel to France where Henry and Jasper had fled before Landais could send them back to Richard. 

William Buckley

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(c.1519-c.1552)

Buckley was from Lilleshall in Shropshire.  He was probably a pupil at the abbey there before being sent to Eton College. At about the age of 18-years he was admitted to King’s College, Cambridge where he took up a scholarship for talented pupils.  In 1541 he received his degree and four years later became a Master. His studies resulted in the publication of mathematical textbooks which led to him being employed to teach the subject to King Edward VI and his companions for three years from 1544 to 1548. 

            Buckley wrote Arithmetica Memorativa, in rhyme, to help pupils remember the laws of mathematics. In addition, he created a short introduction to mathematics which contained an explanation of Euclid’s De Arte Geometria. While he taught at King’s he also distributed copies of Euclid to his students at his own expense.  His interests were not limited to mathematics; he produced a treatise of astronomical ring dials, in 1546, which he dedicated to Elizabeth who was 11-years-old at the time.  He also worked with Thomas Gemini, the Flemish instrument maker who settled in London.  The instruments were etched with scales representing hours, dates and points on the zodiac.  He is associated with an astronomical quadrant made for the king and another which he bequeathed to John Cheke.  Ownership of scientific instruments, his use of practical guides and his desire for accuracy marked him as a Renaissance scholar.

            In 1548, by which time Cheke was provost of King’s College, Buckley returned to Cambridge to teach arithmetic and geometry.  On 4 January, 1549 King Edward appointed him to the prebendary of Lichfield but Buckley resigned the post soon afterwards.  In 1550, the king, who admired the mathematician, gave him the post of tutor at Greenwich to the royal henchmen, or pages, with an annual pension of £40.  Buckley made his will in July 1551 and is thought to have died the following year, a relatively young man. His will reflected that he was a reformer. He left no money or property to the church and left no requests that prayers might be said for the benefit of his soul.[i]

[i] Salter, p.132

John Skelton – poet and royal tutor

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  In 1490 Skelton, who was Cambridge educated,  dedicated a translation of Virgil’s Aeneid to Prince Arthur and in 1494 wrote a poem on the subject of Henry’s creation as Duke if York.  In 1495 his patron’s second son, Thomas Howard, married Elizabeth of York’s sister, Anne, and Skelton entered the royal household soon afterwards.[i]   As Henry moved from the infancy into child hood, this usually happened at around the age of 5 or 6 years, he was removed from the care of women and his education began in earnest.  Unlike Prince Arthur, Henry did not have a separate household.  He grew up at Eltham with his sisters and where his mother frequently resided.  During 1499, Sir Thomas More took Rasmus to visit the royal house at Eltham. Erasmus wrote to the king praising Skelton’s work. At some point after November 1499 the poet left his employment with the prince and took up a post as a parish priest in Diss, Norfolk by 1504. He probably received the rectorship of the parish, which was in the gift of Lady Margaret Beaufort, in around 1502.[ii]

In 1512-1513 Skelton, who returned to court after Henry VIII succeeded to the throne began to style himself as a ‘poet laureat’. A new priest was appointed to the living at Diss even though Skelton was still the rector there.  Both Erasmus and Caxton had a good opinion of him but Skelton made enemies at court because of his satirical attacks on the authority of the state and the Church. When he fell afoul of Cardinal Wolsey the poet was removed from his post and briefly imprisoned. He would later claim sanctuary in Westminster where he could be found living in 1518.

[i] Pollnitz, p.43[ii] Sobecki, p.396

Sir Hugh ap John (also Johnys, Johns or Jones) (b.circa 1415)

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Where did January go? In my case, it was spent typing manically to hit my deadline -I did it – just. So, where next? Opus Anglicanum – or the English embroidered tradition is where Zoom classes will be heading. Hopefully by the end of next week I shall have sorted some dates out. And do not fear, this will not be a class focusing on stitching techniques. It will be about luxury, commerce, power and politics. There will be wool merchants, the Silk Road, popes, kings and a mermaid.

For now though, I’d like you to meet Sir Hugh Jonys or Jones. This chap needs a book! I found out about him because Johnys tutored Henry Tudor, in the art of warfare while he was under the guardianship of the Herberts. Unfortunately I couldn’t include everything I found out about him in the ext – so here he is now.  Sir Hugh’s career began as a soldier of fortune before he eventually served in the army against the French. He rose to the rank of deputy marshal in the service of John Mowbray, Duke of York.  He was also well versed in the rules of chivalry. In 1453, he even took part in a trial held by the Court of Chivalry, in a case of treason.  The court, a military tribunal, was not part of England’s system of common law. Its judges were the constable of England and the earl Marshal and its remit was to judge cases relating to deeds of war including disputes about ransoms and the use of coats of arms. Robert Norris was accused of treason. It’s unclear exactly what Robert Norris said or did to be accused of treason on 11 May by John Lyalton. However, it was decided that Norris would answer the charge on 25 June at Smithfield in a trial by combat. Johnys was one of the seven-man panel assigned to advise the defendant. He was described as ‘an established martial reputation’[1] and was undoubtedly an excellent choice to be William Herbert’s weapon’s master.  His kinship to Herbert through the Vaughan family[2] may have been another reason he was selected for the task of training Herbert’s sons and wards.

The splendid memorial brass of Johnys and his second wife, Maud, at St Mary’s Church, Swansea depicts him in a cuirass and mail skirt reaching to his knees. It records that Sir Hugh went on pilgrimage to Jerusalem where he became a member of the confraternity, or lay guild, of the Knights of the Holy Sepulchre and that he fought against the Turks for five years following the date that he entered the knighthood on 14 August 1441. Arrangements for admission into the knighthood lay in the hands of the Holy Sepulchre’s Franciscan friars who were entrusted with Christian custody of the Holy Land and the tomb of Christ following the fall of the Kingdom of Jerusalem in 1291 to the Mameluk Sultanate.  On his arrival in Jerusalem, Johnys was deemed worthy of the honour of knighthood by the friars, or at least made them a generous donation. 

Prior to travelling to the Holy Land, Johnys served John VIII, Emperor of Constantinople, joining his forces, possibly as a mercenary, in 1436.  An additional incentive for men who wished to defend Christian Constantinople was the issuing of papal indulgences, which pardoned earlier sins, which in turn would mean that men like Johnys believed that they would spend less time in purgatory, before gaining entry to heaven, after they died. Johnys service is known to have taken him to Troy, Greece and Turkey where he fought at sea as well as on land, although it is impossible to pinpoint exactly which battles he took part in. 

When he returned to Europe, Johns served under, Lady Margaret Beaufort’s father, John Beaufort, Duke of Somerset in France as the duke’s knight marshal. From 1446, he transferred his service to Richard of York.  On his return to England, he served as a deputy to the Duke of Norfolk who was the Marshal of England.  It served Norfolk’s purposes to have someone he could trust in the Gower region of South Wales with oversight of his lands there.  Johnys proved to be as capable an administrator as he was a soldier.  In 1452, he was appointed steward to the manors of Redwick and Magor in Monmouthshire by Henry VI.  The king made the grant because of Johns’ military service in France and his career as a Knight of the Holy Sepulchre. The Byzantine emperor wrote personally to Henry commending Sir Hugh to him. By the time that the duke died in 1461, Johnys was part of the regional gentry fulfilling essential administrative roles on behalf of his patron. 

            Johns first wife, Mary, died at some time during the early 1450s. He sought a second wife with the aid of his patrons Richard Duke of York and Richard Neville, 3rd Earl of Warwick.  During his first protectorate, the duke wrote in support of his knight’s desire to marry, commenting on Johny’s ‘gentillesse’.[3] Despite the recommendation, the woman Johnys wanted to marry declined his proposal.  The letters held by the British Museum are undated but gave rise, due to a small transcription error, to the belief that Johnys sought Elizabeth Woodville’s hand in marriage whereas, in reality, he wished to wed a twice-widowed, and consequentially, wealthy woman named Elizabeth Woodhill.  In about 1455, the knight married Maud Cradock, the daughter of another landowning family in the Gower.

            On 15 1468, Sir Hugh became one of poor knights of Windsor, who were part of the college of St George’s Chapel.  It is likely that Maud, who was co-incidentally a cousin of Matthew Cradock who served in the household of Prince Arthur at Ludlow, was dead by that time.  The poor knights were a group of men in receipt of alms, totalling 40s each year and care during their old age.  In return, Windsor’s ordinances stipulated that they were expected to attend chapel three times a day for which they received a daily payment of 12d.  Knights who did not attend services forfeited their 12d which was shared among the knights who were present. By the time Hugh became a poor knight the college had arrived at a situation that rather than the twenty-six military men envisioned by Edward III there were never more than three knights in residence at any one time.  This arose from the necessity of ensuring that there were sufficient funds to go around. There was also a rule that stipulated that no poor knight should have an income of more than £20 per annum.  Johnys was anything but poor since he was still in receipt of the incomes granted to him by the Duke of Norfolk and King Henry VI.  He certainly had sufficient funds to purchase a tenement on Fisher Street in Swansea on 19 March 1460.  Hugh’s affluence was ignored. He took the place of Thomas Grey who died in Spetember 1468[4] and is listed as being residence from 1 January 1469 to September 1480.[5]

Records show that Johnys did not attend all of the required services. It may reasonably be assumed that his absences reflect trips to the Gower supervising his lands during the summer months, at harvest and when rents fell due at Michaelmas, as well as fulfilling his other commitments[6] in Wales. He spent the winter months at Windsor fulfilling his obligations to the chapel.  In 1483 parliament absolved the dean and chapter of the need to support the knights.  It gave occasion to Henry VII remembering his old weapons master at Raglan.  On 15 October 14 155 Johnys was compensated with a grant of £10 for the loss of his position as a poor knight ‘in consideration of the good service that Sir Hugh John, knyght, did unto us in our tender age’ [7] Johns did not have long left to enjoy life. His name does not appear after the end of 1485. 

Of Johnys seven children, two daughters are known to have married into the Gower’s gentry while a son, Robert Jones, became constable of Llantrisant Castle, keeper of Clun Park and of Barry Island from December 1485 until his death in 1532.  He served in the household of King Henry VII as a groom of the king’s chamber and was one of the ushers at Henry’s funeral in 1509. He went on to serve King Henry VIII and present at the marriage of Mary Tudor to King Louis XII.[8]

https://churchmonumentssociety.org/monument-of-the-month/the-brass-of-sir-hugh-johnys-and-his-wife-maud-in-st-marys-swansea

Sir Hugh John: an ideal 15th century knight?

[1] Compton-Reeves p.75

[2] Robinson, p.15

[3] Bliss, p.5

[4] Roger, p.199

[5] Ibid p.175

[6] Ibid, p.201

[7] Robinson, ‘Sir Hugh Johnys: A Fifteenth-Century Welsh Knight’, p. 31.
Ibid., pp.25-6; Materials for a History of the Reign of Henry VII, I, p. 581.

[8] . (p32-33 ft89 Robinson)

Guest Post Monday: The Babington Plot, Espionage, and Execution

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Yes – I know it’s Tuesday! let’s just say that the wifi and I agreed to disagree.

I am delighted to welcome Helene Harrison, the TudorBlogger, to the History jar to talk about her book. If you’re a fan of the Tudors in both fiction and non-fiction and haven’t yet found her blog, I urge your to take a digital stroll in her direction! I did wonder which conspiracy Helene would post about and was very pleasantly surprised when I opened up her email to discover the Babington Plot – I’d never thought about having a favourite rebellion but I’d have to say, now she’s said it – Babington is right up there, mainly I think because of childhood memories of a BBC serialisation of A Traveller in Time by Alison Uttley. I would have to say I have a sneaking regard for the Northern Rebellion of 1569 mainly because quite a lot of the action takes place on the borders between England and Scotland – and as those of you who know me are aware, anything hinting of border reivers makes me very happy.

And now over to Helene.

When I was invited to write something for The History Jar, it took me a while to decide what to write about – my first book is entitled ‘Elizabethan Rebellions: Conspiracy, Intrigue and Treason’ and I wondered whether to write about a popular rebellion, or a lesser known one, but in the end, I’ve decided to write about my favourite of the Elizabethan rebellions: the Babington Plot of 1586. There is so much to it, and I discovered a lot in the research.

The Babington Plot of 1586 was a key plot in Elizabeth I’s reign, as it resulted in the execution of Mary Queen of Scots the following year. But it also demonstrated many of the things that our secret services traditionally are believed to have used and valued, including espionage, double agents, and codes and ciphers. Elizabeth’s spymaster, Sir Francis Walsingham, and Secretary of State, William Cecil, Baron Burghley, were critical figures who effectively highjacked a plot in its very early stages and turned it to their own advantage – to condemn Mary for treason and stop her being a threat to Elizabeth.

Mary Queen of Scots had been in England since she had fled from Scotland in 1568 after her forced abdication in 1567. She had been shunted between various residences in England, never allowing to meet her cousin, Elizabeth I. She had hoped that Elizabeth would provide her with an army to retake the Scottish throne from her son, James VI, who was governed by a Regency in his infancy. Mary became desperate when it was obvious that she wasn’t going to get any help from Elizabeth and that the queen just intended to keep her in captivity, not really knowing quite what to do with her.

The plot gets its name from Anthony Babington, who was raised in a Catholic family, and had previously worked for Gilbert Talbot, Earl of Shrewsbury, who was Mary Queen of Scots’s gaoler. There were even rumours that Shrewsbury was having an affair with Mary; his wife, Bess of Hardwick, is certainly said to have believed it. It is probably while working for Shrewsbury that Babington first encountered Mary and became her supporter. Many of these young Catholic gentlemen that Babington gathered around him saw Mary almost as a damsel in distress who needed to be rescued. It was this which drew them together in their decision to assassinate Elizabeth I and replace her on the throne with Mary Queen of Scots.

Mary’s communications were cut off when she was moved to Chartley in the charge of the much stricter Amyas Paulet. When Mary was approached by Gilbert Gifford, who told her he could reopen her lines of communications securely, she jumped at the chance! Walsingham had planned well, hoping that cutting Mary’s lines of communication completely and then reintroducing some hope for word from the outside world, would force her into making a mistake. It worked. The plan was for any letter Mary wrote to be put in a waterproof pouch and inserted into a cask used to delivered ale to the house. The brewer would then remove the letter and give it to Gifford who would take the letter to the plotters in London. It would also work in reverse for Mary to receive letters. 

However, what Mary didn’t know was that Gilbert Gifford was a double agent working for Francis Walsingham. The brewer was also in Walsingham’s pay as well as Mary’s. Any letters that Gifford couriered would go via Walsingham and his codebreaker, Thomas Phelippes. Walsingham was aware of the Babington Plot almost from the beginning, using it to attempt to implicate Mary Queen of Scots in treasonous activity. The letters would all be written in cipher, but Phelippes cracked the cipher, it seems fairly easily, and so could read all of the letters going between Mary and the plotters. Neither the plotters nor Mary realised that their cipher had been broken and their plans revealed. The plot never had a chance of succeeding. 

Babington wrote to Mary at Chartley asking her to consent to the killing of Elizabeth I, her own rescue, and her replacing Elizabeth on the English throne. Mary made a fatal mistake and wrote back, consenting to Elizabeth’s assassination, and asking the six men to go about their work. When the codebreaker, Phelippes, received Mary’s letter he drew a small gallows on the bottom of the deciphered letter before sending it to Walsingham. Mary had condemned herself, even though the plan never really got off the ground. Phelippes also added a postscript to the original letter before sending it on to its destination, asking for the names of the men who would carry out the regicide. 

Mary was arrested when out riding at Chartley, and her rooms were searched. Anthony Babington was discovered hiding in a tree in St John’s Wood. Legend says that the plotters commissioned a painting of them together and that is how they were identified and captured. The plotters were executed in two batches, having been found guilty of treason. The first batch, including Babington himself, were hung, drawn, and quartered. Elizabeth wouldn’t allow any mercy. However, there was a public outcry, so the second batch were allowed to hang until dead before being disembowelled and quartered. 

Mary Queen of Scots was tried in the great hall at Fotheringhay Castle in October 1586, where statements from her own secretaries were read out, and Walsingham presented the evidence of the letters and the cipher. Babington had signed a copy of the cipher to confirm that this was in fact the cipher used. Mary was found guilty of treason at a council session at Westminster and condemned to death. Elizabeth I initially refused to sign the death warrant, but signed it several times and destroyed it, before finally signing it and entrusting it to her secretary, William Davison. Davison took it straight to the privy council who sealed it and sent it to Fotheringhay Castle without further consultation with the queen.

Mary Queen of Scots was executed in the great hall at Fotheringhay Castle on 8 February 1587. She died wearing red, the colour of martyrdom. The executioner, Bull, missed the neck with the first stroke and hit the back of the head. The second stroke hit the neck leaving only a few sinews attached which were quickly severed. The executioner held up the head, but it fell, leaving Bull holding only a wig. Mary’s dog was found hiding in her skirts, covered in his mistress’s blood. The dog was cleaned up but pined away shortly after Mary’s death.

Peterborough Cathedral was Mary’s initial place of burial, before her removal from there to be buried at Westminster Abbey when her son, James VI of Scotland, became James I of England. Mary Queen of Scots and Elizabeth I are now closer in death than they ever were in life.

Author Bio

Helene Harrison MA MSc BA (Hons) studied at the University of Northumbria in Newcastle, achieving both a BA and an MA in History before going on to complete an MSc in Library Management. Her passion for Tudor history started when studying for A Levels and completing a module on Tudor rebellions. Her Masters dissertation focused on portrayals of Anne Boleyn through the centuries, from contemporary letters to modern TV and film adaptations. Now she writes two blogs, one Tudor history and one book-related, and loves visiting royal palaces and snuggling up with a book or embroidery project.

Book Blurb & Links

Elizabeth I. Tudor, Queen, Protestant.

Throughout her reign, Elizabeth I had to deal with many rebellions which aimed to undermine her rule and overthrow her. Led in the main by those who wanted religious freedom and to reap the rewards of power, each one was thwarted but left an indelible mark on Queen Elizabeth and her governance of England. Learning from earlier Tudor rebellions under Elizabeth’s grandfather, father, and siblings, they were dealt with mercilessly by spymaster Francis Walsingham who pushed for the execution of Mary Queen of Scots due to her involvement, and who created one of the first government spy networks in England. 

Espionage, spying, and hidden ciphers would demonstrate the lengths Mary was willing to go to gain her freedom and how far Elizabeth’s advisors would go to stop her and protect their Virgin Queen. Elizabeth I and Mary Queen of Scots were rival queens on the same island, pushed together due to religious intolerance and political instability, which created the perfect conditions for revolt, where power struggles would continue even after Mary’s death. The Elizabethan period is most often described as a Golden Age; Elizabeth I had the knowledge and insight to deal with cases of conspiracy, intrigue, and treason, and perpetuate her own myth of Gloriana.

Pen & Sword – https://www.pen-and-sword.co.uk/Elizabethan-Rebellions-Hardback/p/22351

Amazon UK – https://www.amazon.co.uk/Elizabethan-Rebellions-Conspiracy-Intrigue-Treason/dp/1399081993

Waterstones – https://www.waterstones.com/book/elizabethan-rebellions/helene-harrison/9781399081993

Barnes and Noble – https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/elizabethan-rebellions-helene-harrison/1142446644?ean=9781399081993

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Reading the past? Passionflowers

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One of the things I really enjoyed about last year was finding out more about the flowers on the #unstitched coif and, in the process, learning a bit more about the woman who intended to sew it. I also enjoyed the topic I covered during lockdown on the history of plants – et voila – another new ‘spot’ for the blog – reading the past – I’m no good with the emoticons and emoji’s of modern technology. This is much more my thing.

The image of a carved passionflower, or passiflora, is taken from a Victorian headstone in a local churchyard and just happens to be the firth thing I found when I started scrolling through my photos.

Welcome to the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. It’s the age of exploration and some Jesuits are wandering around modern Paraguay and Peru. The conquistador, Pedro Cieza de Leon mentions the plant in writing for the first time in 1553 in the context of its fruit. The Christian symbolism associated with the five wounds of Christ that could be identified within the flower was described soon after: 10 petals for the number of disciples who were still loyal at the time of the crucifixion; filaments representing the crown of throne; five anthers for the wounds of Christ; the stamen looking a bit like the hammer that drove the nails; even the tendrils were described as being like the whips with which Christ was beaten. And bingo! A valuable teaching aid and a flowery justification for invading and Christianising the Americas. The plant was there, so obviously God wanted a bunch of conquistadors terrorising the locals in his or her name.

The story spread and in 1609, Giacomo Bosia, one of the knights of Malta, included the passionflower in a book about legends and miracles associated with the cross. Three years later passionflowers were being cultivated in Paris and England. It was originally called the Virginian Climber in Britain as no one wanted to mention the Catholic connection. However, after Charles I had his head removed in 1649, the late monarch was sometimes described by his supporters as ‘the passionflower’ because they believed he had been martyred. The Tradescants who were royal gardeners and plant collectors made it very popular -for a price- after the Restoration.

By the Victorian period it was a popular adornment for gravestones representing as it did Christ’s crucifixion, redemption and mankind’s salvation. The jesuit element of the equation and even Charles I had been discarded, or never even had the chance to get going. To be honest I don’t recall seeing it on Stuart or later embroideries, no point looking at the Elizabethans – and of course the expansion of trade changed English attitudes to embroidery and ornament as indeed did the Commonwealth. England had a rich embroidered tradition prior to the English Civil War. By 1661 the royalists who’d spent their exiles in the Low Countries and France thought that European art was much more sophisticated than anything home grown. And, by the eighteenth century beautiful fabrics were arriving from China and the Indias – no more sitting around embroidering your bed curtains and night hats!

I think I’ve seen a passionflower on an alta-frontal but that was Victorian as well. In fact, I’m not sure I’ve ever seen a seventeenth century version in embroidered form. Stumpwork and crewel work were popular during that century. Please let me know if you spot any old needlework productions of the passionflower on your travels! A photograph (assuming its permitted would be even nicer).

Bleichmar, Daniela, Visual Voyages: Images of Latin American Nature from Columbus to Darwin (Yale: Yale University Press, 2017) pp.82-89