The Time Traveller's Guide to Elizabethan England

by Mortimer, Ian

  When it comes to surgery you can expect more accurate knowledge. As injuries are so common, surgeons have many opportunities to practise – removing arrowheads and bullets, stitching up cuts, replacing sections of skull and mending organs damaged by sword wounds. They know that if they need to amputate a limb, they can take advantage of the painkilling qualities of the body’s endorphins if they are quick enough. If not, they have opiate-based painkillers and alcohol. Knowledge of anatomy is much better than it was, due to the availability of Vesalius’s De Humani Corporibus Fabrica (1543) and the possibility of dissection; the Barber-Surgeons Act of 1540 makes provision for the surgeons of London to be given the corpses of four executed criminals every year for examination. Hence a surgeon will be able to staunch blood flow, mend broken bones, reset dislocated limbs, cauterise wounds, treat sores and extricate objects just as well as his modern counterpart. As for amputation, you will need a strong stomach to be a surgeon. In his Certaine Workes of Chirurgerie, Thomas Gale explains that gunshot wounds sometimes lead to gangrene and the mortification of the flesh, in which case you have to amputate the limb in order to save the patient’s life. Having fed the patient to make him strong and having tightly applied a ‘defensive’ (tourniquet), the surgeon should proceed as follows:

  When you have all things prepared, with bolsters and rollers [bandages], and other things thereto pertaining, you shall go to the patient and comfort him as I have said before, covering his eyes and setting him in some place convenient, having certain persons meet for the same purpose to hold his body and his arms [in case] he let not your operation, and other apt persons to hold the member that you will take away. You shall then quickly with a sharp incision knife cut the flesh round about to the bone, within half an inch of the defensive that was before laid on. And one thing you must take heed of: there lieth a nerve between the two bones of the leg beneath the knee which you must cut asunder with your incision knife, lest in sawing the bones … it might be so plucked and torn with the saw provoking great accidents such as sincope, spasms, dolour, yes, and death also, which I myself have often times seen. Then when you have made your incision perfect with a fine saw you shall cut asunder the bones speedily and with as little shaking of the member as you may, then lay upon the ends of the bones a little lint dipped in oil of roses and so wrung out again, the oil being first made warm.71

  The great failing of Elizabethan surgeons is their inadequate knowledge of infection. They clean their instruments after using them, but the idea of sterilising them is a thing of the distant future, and so diseases are easily passed between patients. Blood poisoning is therefore common, and even the best surgery is often fatal. All in all, you might think that those who die suddenly or unexpectedly in their sleep, with no chance of receiving medical or surgical help, are the lucky ones.

  11

  Law and Disorder

  You might suspect that sixteenth-century England is something like the Wild West when it comes to law and order. Violence is endemic and you will not find a policeman if someone attacks you. But that is more or less where the similarities end, and the lack of policemen is in fact an entirely superficial impression. There is rather a lot of policing going on. It is conducted not by a national police force but by sheriffs, Deputy Lieutenants, constables, watchmen, bailiffs, bedels, reeves, churchwardens and even good old yeomen. On top of all this, there are other forms of social control – from heralds policing the right to bear arms to ale tasters and bread weighers who make sure that the beer sold in a town is fresh and the bread up to scratch. It is true that, when a crime is committed, forensic science doesn’t come into play; if a body is found and no one is prepared to give evidence, the murderer is likely to get away with it. Nevertheless, it will be the amount of policing that astonishes you, not the lack of it.

  In the cities and large towns, especially London, the exercise of the law is very visible. There are watchmen patrolling the streets at night. You will hear the cries of those in the high-walled gaols by the city gates, reaching out from behind the bars of their cells. You will witness prostitutes, pimps, beggars and other moral offenders being carted through the streets of the city to and from Bridewell. You will see the gaunt faces of men and women on their way to Tyburn to be hanged for theft or murder. In the taverns you will see men with holes gouged in their ears for vagrancy. In Cheapside you might notice men and women locked in the pillories. You will see men being brought in by constables from the neighbouring districts to be interrogated in London. And from time to time you will witness mob justice, such as in March 1561 when a thief steals a child’s silver necklace in Tower Street and is pursued by onlookers. They catch him in Mark Lane and beat him to death. Regardless of whether there is an official police force, wherever there are people you will find law and its enforcement.1

  The Heart of Justice

  On 17 July 1579 a young man named Thomas Appletree is fooling about with some friends in a boat on the Thames near Greenwich. He has a loaded gun, which to the great amusement of the party he fires three or four times at random. Unknown to him, the glass-sided royal barge is slowly floating towards them. The queen is aboard, discussing with the French ambassador the possibility of her marrying the duke of Anjou, when one of Thomas Appletree’s bullets strikes the helmsman six feet from her and leaves him lying on the deck, bleeding profusely. The queen tosses the injured man her scarf and tells him to be of good cheer: the bullet was surely meant for her and the fact that it struck him is good news, for the assassin has failed. Later, there is a thorough investigation, and Appletree is soon found. He confesses and is duly condemned to death for endangering the queen’s life. A gallows is set up on the bank of the river so that he may be hanged close to the scene of his crime. Before his execution, Appletree makes a speech to the assembled crowds. He is no traitor, he says, but admits that through his carelessness he has endangered the life of the sovereign and therefore deserves to die. When he has said goodbye to his friends, the hangman places the noose over his head. Just then, when he is on the very brink of death, a man in the crowd steps forward with a pardon from the queen. She knows Appletree is just a silly young man, but he had to be taught a lesson.2

  This event illustrates a unique duality in English law: justice is enacted in the name of the monarch, but it is not of the monarch’s making. The common law of England – based on the presumption that it applies commonly to all subjects – is an ancient system that depends on the examination of past precedent. This is the fundamental difference between English law and the laws of Continental kingdoms, which depend on Roman law (which does not depend on past precedent but on the ruling of the monarch). Although parliament passes legislation for the queen to approve, it is not essentially a law-making body; rather its purpose is to clarify and explain how the courts should interpret the common law in specific contexts. Where it finds the existing law inadequate, parliament introduces new legislation; but that does not remove the requirement for the new law to respect past precedents. While this seems to suggest that the monarch has nothing to do with the administration of justice, quite the opposite is true. She can wilfully circumvent the laws codified by parliament, throw past precedents to the wind – and grant a man like Thomas Appletree a pardon.

  The privy council has a special role to play in the Tudor legal system. When it meets in a certain room in the Palace of Westminster it acts as a law court, formally described as ‘the lords of the council sitting in the Star Chamber’. Commonly known just as ‘Star Chamber’, it tries those who have failed to act on orders and proclamations sent out by the privy council. It also deals with serious breaches of the peace, duels, conspiracies, riots, libels, defamation of character, disputes over land ownership and assaults on persons of rank. Only Star Chamber has the power to authorise the use of torture. You should worry if you are summoned to one of its sessions: privy councillors will try you on the basis of written depositions from witnesses – you yourself will not always be allowed to say anything. The publi
c are permitted to watch this display of legal power, but you, the accused, might only be summoned to hear the judgement. The councillors do not have to abide by the legal system when sentencing you: they can give you any punishment they think fit, from imprisonment in the Tower, to whipping, branding or the pillory. They can punish you by cutting off your ears, slitting your nose or imposing a heavy fine. There is no jury: every single councillor present is a judge. You can see why Star Chamber is occasionally compared to a court martial.3

  The justification for this disregard for legal form is to stave off threats to the monarch and the state. Repeated assassination attempts mean that Elizabeth has little choice but to empower the privy council to take action. This leads to a growing network of spies, all reporting to Sir William Cecil and (after 1573) Francis Walsingham. It is a spy in the French embassy who reveals the Throgmorton Plot of 1583, the plan to encourage a Catholic uprising while Spanish forces invade England. In 1586 a trap carefully laid by spies working for Francis Walsingham delivers proof that the imprisoned Mary, queen of Scots, is party to a plot to kill Elizabeth. An enthusiastic young Catholic gentleman by the name of Anthony Babington is behind the scheme. Coded letters are smuggled in and out of Chartley, where the Scots queen is imprisoned, hidden in waterproof wallets inside ale barrels. When Babington writes to Mary asking for her blessing on his plan to make her queen of England, she replies giving him her approval. Walsingham’s secretary intercepts the letters and manages to break the code. There can be no doubting Mary’s treason; her trial and execution soon follow.

  This unofficial ‘secret service’ established by Sir William Cecil and Francis Walsingham deals with more than just attempts on Elizabeth’s life. Walsingham’s spies send him information from every part of England. He also maintains thirteen spies in France, ten in the Low Countries, five in Italy, five in Spain, nine in Germany and even three in Turkey.4 Cecil similarly has agents in the London prisons, listening out for any conversations that might prove useful. It is fair to say that, wherever you go, you can never be sure of escaping the long arm of Cecil and Walsingham. Consider the case of Dr John Story, a Catholic lawyer and MP, who is locked up in 1563 after speaking some poorly chosen words against the queen. Escaping by night and reaching the Spanish ambassador’s residence, he manages to slip the country and flee to the Netherlands. There the duke of Alba appoints him to search all vessels coming from England, and Story assiduously combs every English ship for Protestant letters, books and messages. The zeal with which he conducts his work leads to him becoming the leader of a group of émigré Catholic activists, and more than just a minor irritant to the English merchants trading with the Low Countries. Cecil therefore decides to take action. In 1570 he sends agents to Dr Story who win his trust. They join him in searching English boats, until one day they lead him on to a boat whose captain has been primed. Dr Story is seized, taken to England and handed over to the privy council for interrogation and trial. Found guilty of high treason, he is drawn, hanged and quartered. ‘Black operations’ such as this, in which government agents seize residents in a foreign country and subject them to rendition, torture and death, have a long pedigree.5

  The privy council controls England itself through liaison with the royal officers in each county. These are the sheriffs, Lords Lieutenant and Justices of the Peace. The sheriff presides over the county court, takes action against riots, and oversees visits by the queen and royal judges during the assize sessions. The Lord Lieutenant is in charge of civil defence in each county. It is his responsibility to muster the militia, and to make sure its equipment is satisfactory and the men suitably trained. He also has to ensure the coastal beacons are ready to be lit in case an enemy lands in force. As a rule of thumb, therefore, the sheriffs and JPs deal with home-grown disturbances and the Lords Lieutenant with foreign threats. In 1570, for example, when the Northern Rebellion is about to break out, the privy council writes to the JPs in the region, urging them to take precautions. Martial law is imposed, 129 prosperous men are arrested and held for trial, and 500 poor men are summarily executed as a lesson to others.6 In July 1586, with fears of an invasion from Spain, it is the Lords Lieutenant who receive orders to muster the militia in their counties, to be ready to light the beacons and to repel the invaders.

  The Criminal Underworld

  It goes without saying that there are criminals among all classes. The highest nobleman in the land, the duke of Norfolk, is executed for treason. Many Catholic conspirators are members of the aristocracy and gentry. Gentlemen are taken before the courts for murder, and upstanding householders find themselves indicted for assault after they have given an over-zealous tax-collector a bruised head. Some members of the gentry even turn to piracy and highway robbery. We have already met Gamaliel Ratsey, the most famous highwayman of the time. This son of a Lincolnshire gentleman is something of a Robin Hood figure in the East Midlands: cunning, witty, courageous, generous to the poor and possessed of a sense of natural justice. Having robbed two wealthy wool merchants near Stamford, he knights them as ‘Sir Walter Woolsack and Sir Samuel Sheepskin’.7 However, the upper echelons of society do not typically take part in illegal activities. Most criminals are to be found among the lower classes, and it is their number and variety of tricks that you most want to guard against. Indeed, on entering a city you need to be wary of the ‘coney-catchers’ – people who will regard you as a coney from the country just waiting to be caught.

  Various books are available which give details of the different types of criminal and their methods, the best-known being Thomas Harman’s A Caveat or Warning for Common Cursitors (1566).8 This gives lengthy descriptions of the low-life you will meet, many of whom you will recognise as vagabonds due to the large hole in their right ear, which is burned through with a hot iron in line with the law of 1572.

  An Abram-man or Abraham-man is a beggar who walks bare-armed and bare-legged and pretends to be mad, so called after the Abraham ward in Bedlam, where the insane are housed. Some will charm you with their madness and sing or dance. If they come to a farm they will demand food in strident tones, and frighten young women with their wanton looks, in order to be paid to go away.

  A ruffler carries a weapon of some sort and will tell you that he is a discharged soldier. He begs for his relief. If you do not satisfy him, he will use his weapon on you. A typical scene is that a man comes riding up beside you on the road. He will greet you and converse with you pleasantly until you approach a wood. Then he will reach forward, take the reins of your mount and, without explanation, lead you into the wood. The next thing you know he will have your purse, clothes and horse.

  An upright man is a ruffian and thief who travels the highways, carrying a staff, with authority over all the other criminals in ‘his’ area. He also commands the doxies (women) of other thieves and uses them to pilfer from those he distracts in conversation at a fair, or to receive stolen goods from a house where he has temporarily taken service.

  A doxy is the term for a woman who is the sexual partner of one or more thieves answering to an upright man. According to the Caveat for Common Cursitors ‘these doxies be broken and spoiled of their maidenhead by the upright men, and then they have their name of doxies, and not before’.

  A mort is a homeless woman. If she is married she is called an ‘autem mort’; if not, she is a ‘walking mort’. When she has fallen in with a group of thieves and been ‘broken in’ by the upright man, she becomes a doxy.

  A dell is an innocent, unmarried girl or young woman who is on the road. According to Harman, ‘these go abroad young, either by the death of their parents and nobody to look unto them, or else by some sharp mistress that they do serve, so they run away … Or she is naturally born one, and then she is a wild dell. These are broken very young. When they have been lain with by the upright man then they be doxies and no dells.’

  A rogue is not as authoritative or physically imposing as an upright man, but similarly a man who makes his living on the highways,
thieving at fairs and breaking into the houses of the wealthy.

  A wild rogue is a thief with no abode who does not answer to an upright man. Some beg, pretending to seek a long-lost kinsman or friend. Others intimidate their victims with their staff. If one begs a penny from you, he will take your readiness to give as a sign that you have disposable wealth in your purse. According to Harman, a wild rogue will often support several womenfolk accompanying him on his travels.

  A prigman is a man who takes clothes while they are drying in fields or on hedges, or steals chickens and sells them at the nearest alehouse.