December 21
Christmas at Sheen Palace 1497
Today we welcome Judith Arnopp to The Anne Boleyn Files with a fascinating tale of a Tudor Christmas, and an excerpt from her book.
In 1497, a few days before Christmas, fire raged through Sheen Palace where King Henry VII, Elizabeth of York, Margaret Beaufort and the young prince Henry, Princesses Margaret and Mary were in residence. The cooks were busy in the kitchen, the jesters and mummers practising for the big day when … “About nine of the clock quite suddenly … within the king’s lodging and so continued till midnight.
By violence whereof …(a) great part of the old building was burnt and much more harm done upon costrings (curtains) and hanging beds of cloth of gold and silk and much other rich apparel with plate and manifold jewels belonging to such a noble court.
How well loving therefore be to God (that) no living creature was there perished …” (Robert Hutchinson, Young Henry, P.44)
The royal household were hurried outside to safety. You can imagine the scene; the confused and crying children, hastily wrapped in blankets, clasped in their nurses’ arms. Men rushing back and forth to fight the blaze, women weeping, screaming perhaps as the windows exploded and the ceilings collapsed in a great ball of flame. King Henry, Elizabeth and Margaret looked on in cold shock as their sumptuous palace was consumed in flames.
For all his power and position the king was helpless in the face of fate and, after the costly matter of his recent war with Scotland, and his pursuit of the pretender Perkin Warbeck, was horribly aware of the financial implication of the disaster. The material losses were considerable. The Milanese Ambassador Raimondo Soncino estimated them at 60,000 ducats which is about £7.3 million in today’s money, amounting to one tenth of Henry’s annual income. He reported a “Great substance of richesse” destroyed, including tapestries, wall hangings, bed, clothes, plate and furniture. And that was not all; precious royal trinkets were also lost. In the following days the king paid servants £20 a day to sift through the ruin looking for jewels. (Wroe, Perkin: p.393).
This was not the first time Sheen Palace had suffered destruction. It was once the favourite home of Richard II and Anne of Bohemia and when she died of the plague in 1394, the king, in his grief, ordered the palace to be completely demolished.
Henry V began construction of a palace on the site but this was hampered by his death in 1422 and work did not resume until the infant king, Henry VI, was eight years old. As the wars of the roses wagged on the palace was given into the possession of Elizabeth Woodville on her marriage to Edward IV, and passed to Henry VII after Bosworth.
The fire in 1497 did not destroy the whole building but the privy lodgings were lost. Henry lavishly refurbished the whole palace afterwards and once the work was finished and the royal family ready to move back in, he renamed Sheen as ‘Richmond Palace.’
In the years that followed, Richmond witnessed some of the greatest events in Tudor history. In Henry VII’s reign alone it saw the wedding of Prince Arthur to Catherine of Aragon in 1501; the official betrothal of Princess Margaret to King James of Scotland in 1503. And in 1509, in his favourite palace, the palace he had built and named in his family’s honour, Henry VII, the first Tudor king, breathed his last, making way for his son King Henry VIII whose reign would shake the foundations of the holy church in England.
Below is an extract from The King’s Mother: Book Three of The Beaufort Chronicles which traces the life of Margaret Beaufort. In this book Margaret is growing elderly and preparing for the Christmas feast at Sheen Palace.
Excerpt from The King’s Mother
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The place between sleeping and waking is a curious one. I seem to float, half dreaming while the events of the day and the promise of tomorrow waft like a drift of dandelion seed in the darkness. At first, when the distant shout intrudes upon my slumber I do not stir. But then the voice comes again, closer this time; a loud and urgent cry that is full of fear and I realise it is not part of my dreaming. “FIRE! FIRE!”
Fire is a thing we all dread. We have all heard stories of flames ripping through homes, destroying possessions, taking lives and livelihood, burning all in its path; the personification of evil.
I sit up, swing my legs from the bed, and hobble on stiff ankles to the chamber door. Before I can grasp the handle it is wrenched open and my manservant cannons into me, almost knocking me from my feet.
“My Lady!” he yells, without apology. “There is a fire in the king’s apartment. It is out of control, and we are to evacuate the palace!”
The king’s chamber adjoins mine. I can smell the stench of scorching cloth. I turn my head to the open door where a flickering tongue of flame is already licking at the tapestries and smoke creeps serpentine along the floor, filling the corridor with choking fumes, bringing only death and disaster.
“The king is rescued? The children have been taken to safety?” I ascertain, calmly reaching for a heavy robe to cover my nightshift.
“Yes, My Lady; there is no time for that. You must come quickly.”
My women, still in their night rail, run before me like so many startled hens, I follow in their wake as calmly as I can, my young rescuer grasping the cuff of my gown to hasten my passage. As yet, I can see no further flames but I can smell the fire, thick and acrid in the air, and the boards are warm beneath my slippered feet.
As we approach the outer door, the frigid night hits me like a wall. We hurry though a crowd, where men’s voices ring loud in my ears and women are weeping, and servants rushing to and fro. A man runs past, his hair singed, his cheek smudged with soot. He roughly barges into my escort, water slopping from his leather bucket and drenching my gown below the knee, soaking my slipper.
Outside, huddled in my robe, my women form a protective ring around me. I tilt my head to look up at the flames leaping from the king’s chamber window, the belching smoke collecting in a thick cloud above the palace. It is like some dreadful nightmare from which I cannot wake. I cannot move, my mind is paralysed. In all my years, all the trials life has laid before me, this is my first experience with fire.
Close by a window shatters, glass explodes, showering to the ground and peppering the spectators below. Women scream and we leap back as one, amid cries of dismay, shouts of fear. Everyone, even the bravest of us, dreads fire. It has no respect for kings and princes.
The flames must have taken hold in the royal apartments, close to my son as he was sleeping. I scan the crowd for a sight of the king and almost miss him. Henry stands hunched and diminished within the ring of his protective guard. Someone has wrapped him in scorched brocade, his scalp is clearly visible, shining white through his uncovered hair. With a shiver of dread, I remember he is growing old, and his heir, Arthur is as yet, very young. Had God not watched over us and the king had perished this night, England would once more be in the hands of a youth. And we are all too aware of the inherent risks of juvenile rule.
Horror at what might have been swamps me, weakening me, robbing my knees of strength. I begin to pray, my lips moving but issuing no sound. I thank God for sparing us and, as I pray, the suspicion of attempted regicide germinates in my mind. Treason.
I push through the crowd who, on realising my identity, part to allow me passage to the king. Elizabeth is already at Henry’s side, the children nearby, clinging to the skirts of Nurse Cecily and Elizabeth Denton. I run my eye over them, assessing their health, noting their terror but thankful they are safe and uninjured. On seeing me, Margaret comes running and I allow her the comfort of my bosom before turning to the king. Cradling her close, I speak over her head, a hand to her ruffled hair.
“Are you well, Henry?” I ask, hearing my own fear. “Is the queen unharmed?”
He shuffles forward, wincing at each step and I realise he is barefoot. “We are all safe,” he says. “God be praised.”
“Amen,” I say.
“A…” Before he can echo my prayer, a deafening rumbling erupts from within the palace and our attention is drawn back to the fire. One wing, that a short time before had been a fine example of architecture is now a smoking pile of rubble, Henry’s elaborate apartments in ruin.
“What was that?”
“A wall collapsing, I suspect,” Henry replies looking bleakly up at the column of smoke, ash and debris that rises high in the sky. His hand slips into mine and relief washes over me. Having come so close to losing him, our recent disagreement now seems shallow. Pointless. We must never fall foul of one another again. I squeeze his fingers and without looking at him, I whisper. “Thank God you are safe, my son.”
Although the heat of the fire is intense, the frigid winter air nips at our ankles, our thinly clad bodies begin to shudder with the combination of shock and cold.
“We must get the children inside,” I say, regaining control of the situation. “Come along, let us take refuge in the old manor, the moat will hold back the fire and stop it from spreading.”
We are a sad, sorry troop as we hurry to the yawning safety of the neglected hall. It has been standing empty for some time and is unwelcoming and icy cold. The walls are bare of tapestries and the fire sulky in the hearth. But my family are made of stern stuff, while lacking the niceties of a royal palace, we will make do. Beset with draughts, we huddle about the meagre flames, glad when blankets are produced by the thoughtful wife of the steward. The children are exhausted and still snuffling with fear as they are shepherded off to sleep in strange beds.
While our household staff does their best to make us comfortable, Henry, the queen and I cradle cups of warm mead and regard one another with hollow eyes as we absorb and try to make sense of the events of the night.
“Do we know what happened to … Per … to the Pretender? Did he come out safely?”
Henry and I turn at Elizabeth’s question. The king tilts his head.
“I believe he is safe in custody, why do you ask?”
“Oh – I was just thinking, trying to establish everyone’s whereabouts. I would hate to think anyone had perished … even a traitor.”
I wonder at her concern. Has she seen Warbeck? Has she dared to defy Henry’s orders that she should keep away from him? Her face is pale, possibly due to the shock of the evening, possibly due to the awkwardness of the conversation, possibly due to a hidden truth. I purse my lips, narrow my eyes as I try and fail to recall seeing the Pretender during the upheaval of the disaster.
“We will know more in the morning,” I say, “when they bring us a full assessment of the damage.”
“We will have lost - priceless things – a small fortune in tapestries alone.” Henry’s face is dark, his brow lowered, his lips tight as if he blames someone, as if it is a judgement on us all. The queen draws in a short, sharp breath.
“Henry … surely you do not suspect villainy?”
“Well, we have to consider it. The fire started in my private chambers, in my wardrobe. There are plenty of men who would like to see us wiped out and we do not have to look far to find the prime suspect. What better time to torch the palace than when we’ve all gathered for the Christmas feasts?”
“But … surely, no one would … Henry! Not the Pretender … what about the children!”
Bad temperedly, he shrugs deeper into his blanket, his face wrinkling in disgust.
“Pah, everything reeks of smoke. I need a bath and fresh linen. I am going to bed.”
He rises and stalks out of the room, rudely forgoing to bid us goodnight. In the silence that follows I can hear Elizabeth’s distress, sense her restlessness. At last, she turns to me.
“What do you think, Lady Mother? Could it have been arson? Would anyone dare?”
Understanding the threat to the dynasty we have created, her eyes are wide with fear, for her children, her husband, for herself last of all. Although my own heart is beset with uncertainty, I cannot exacerbate her suffering. If she is to function properly in the days to come I must set her mind at rest.
“No, I doubt it very much. In all likelihood it was a careless servant, a neglected candle flame, a forgotten lanthorn. These things happen … even to people like us.”
© Juditharnopp2017
Judith Arnopp’s life-long passion for history eventually led her to the University of Wales where she gained a BA in English and Creative Writing, and a Masters in Medieval History.
Her first novel, Peaceweaver was published in 2009, quickly followed by The Forest Dwellers and The Song of Heledd but she remained largely unknown as an author until her first best-selling Tudor novel, The Winchester Goose. Since then she has continued to write in the Tudor era, producing five further novels covering the lives of Anne Boleyn, Katheryn Parr and Elizabeth of York.
Her latest novel, The King’s Mother, is the third book in The Beaufort Chronicles a trilogy following the fascinating life of Margaret Beaufort.
Judith’s non-fiction has also been published in various historical anthologies, the latest being Sexuality and Its Impact on History which will be published in March 2018 by Pen and Sword Books. You will also find her work on many on-line magazines and blogs. Judith is easily accessible on her webpage and blog or you can follow her on social media.
You can get the book The Kings Mother HERE
Visit Judith at her website www.judithmarnopp.com or find her on facebook and twitter.
