Renaissance English History Podcast: A Show About the Tudors

In the late 1400s, two women were doing something radical: generating knowledge and insisting it counted. Margery Kempe was building an evidence base for her divine visions. Caterina Sforza was annotating her alchemical recipes with "proven and certain." They never met, but they were solving the same problem. One manuscript was found in a ping-pong cupboard in 1934. The other is still missing.
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What did a Tudor lady in waiting actually do all day? We're spending 24 hours with Anne Basset at Greenwich Palace in 1538, hour by hour from 5am to midnight. Anne served five queens across two decades and survived all of it, which was not guaranteed. We know the details of her life because her mother wrote constantly from Calais asking whether the smocks fit, reminding her to practice her lute instead of gambling, and scheming about how to keep her in the king's good graces. The Lisle Letters are essentially a Tudor-era helicopter parenting archive, and they are extraordinary.

In this episode: the sleeping arrangements that would genuinely shock you, the pearl girdle rule that got women turned away at the queen's door, why French fashion was politically dangerous in 1538, what they actually ate and when, the May Day beauty ritual involving hawthorn dew that was completely real, and how Anne managed the very complicated situation of catching Henry VIII's eye at sixteen.

She came to court asking for thicker smocks and a little money for her devotions. She left with land grants and a royal wedding Mary I organized personally. One ordinary Tuesday at a time.
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It's April 1st, and I'm not going to trick you. Instead, let's ask a genuine question: did the Tudors even DO April Fools' Day?

The answer is no, not really. But what they did instead is so much more interesting. We dig into the murky origins of April Fools' Day (the most popular origin story is probably itself a myth, which is perfect), the Tudor tradition of licensed misrule, and the story of Will Sommers, Henry VIII's court jester, the only person in England allowed to call the king "Harry" to his face and tell him he was being robbed by his own advisors.

He also occasionally had to flee the palace for his own safety. It was a complicated job.

No tricks. Just Tudor history.
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History has a word for queens who had opinions and refused to be managed. Today we're looking at three of them across three centuries - Eleanor of Aquitaine, Empress Matilda, and Isabella of France - and asking whether "scandalous" means what history wants us to think it means.

Eleanor governed, went on crusade, backed her sons against her husband, and got locked in a tower for sixteen years. Henry II never divorced her because Aquitaine went with her. That one fact tells you everything.

Matilda had a legitimate claim to the English throne, backed by three sworn oaths from the English nobility. She fought a civil war for six years, won the decisive battle, and came within weeks of her coronation before London rioted and drove her out. History called her arrogant. The chronicles used language for her they would never use for a king doing the same things.

Isabella spent twenty years being publicly humiliated by Edward II, had her lands confiscated, watched her children taken from her household -- then went to France on a diplomatic mission and simply didn't come back. She raised an army, removed a failing king, and installed her son on the throne. History called her the She-Wolf of France. That label was borrowed from Shakespeare, applied originally to a completely different queen, and stuck on Isabella by a single poem written four hundred years after her death.

Three queens. Three centuries. One verdict: too much.
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In the 1550s, Tudor England created exiles going both ways. When Mary I came to the throne, Protestants fled. When Elizabeth came to the throne, Catholics fled. Today we're looking at two women caught on opposite sides of that chaos: Katherine Willoughby, Duchess of Suffolk, who endured poverty and Lithuania rather than pretend to be Catholic for one single day, and Jane Dormer, Mary I's closest friend, who left England in 1559 and never came back.

Both women refused to compromise. Both held onto who they were no matter what it cost them. But one always knew she was going home, and one quietly stopped thinking of England as home at all.

This is part of an ongoing series on Tudor women who did things their own way despite what authority was telling them.
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