Journey Through Tudor England

by Suzannah Lipscomb

  The third remarkable room is the Long Gallery, which at 167 feet long, 26 feet high and 39 feet wide could practically fit within it a whole street of Victorian terraced houses. The Gideon Tapestries on display here are immensely valuable, and the largest set of tapestries you’ll ever see; Bess bought them from Sir Christopher Hatton’s heir [see KIRBY HALL] at a knockdown price in 1592. It is because of these tapestries that these rooms, which would have been flooded with light from the many windows, are now shaded. Sadly, the conservation imperative dictates that the eyes of the house are closed, as if in mourning for its lost patron.

  Bess died at Hardwick on the morning of 14 February 1608, a stone’s throw away from the place of her birth. The house has remained, Miss Havisham-style, effectively unchanged since.

  Other Tudor treasures not to miss at Hardwick: two portraits of Bess; portraits of Bess’s four husbands; two portraits of Arbella; and two portraits of Elizabeth, one of which is a remarkable full-length portrait from the studio of Nicholas Hilliard, 1599. Commissioned by Bess when Elizabeth was sixty-six, she shows no signs of age, and her skirt is embroidered with dragons, flowers, sea-serpents, fish and birds. There are also portraits of Lord Burghley; Stephen Gardiner; Edward Seymour; Robert Dudley; Reginald Pole; Robert Cecil; Philip II; James V; and Mary, Queen of Scots, with Lord Darnley. Also look out for the painted cloth wall hangings in the chapel and the embroidery worked by Bess and Mary, Queen of Scots. Finally, don’t forget to visit the Old Hall next door: it was extended by Bess between 1587 and 1596, and partly dismantled in the mid-eighteenth century.

  SOCIAL CLIMBING THE TUDOR WAY

  Tudor England was characterised by an inherent and profound sense of the importance of social hierarchy and its direct correlation to the maintenance of order in the cosmos. Yet it was possible to achieve a surprising degree of social mobility.

  For those seeking social advancement, there were three possible routes: the Church, the law and service. Cardinal Thomas Wolsey became Henry VIII’s closest and most trusted adviser through his position in the Church, though he was the lowly son of a butcher and cattle farmer from Ipswich. Thomas Cranmer, though ‘gentleman-born’, owed his post as Archbishop of Canterbury to the Church, and would later remind Bishop Stephen Gardiner, ‘I pray God that we, being called to the name of lords, have not forgotten our own baser estates, that once we were simple esquires.’

  For Sir Thomas More and Sir Christopher Hatton, their training as lawyers helped them rise to favour, while the lives of Sir John Thynne and Bess of Hardwick illustrate the importance of service in noble households as a means of bettering oneself. Sir John Thynne’s role as steward to the Duke of Somerset enabled him to enrich himself to the point of being able to build a great ‘prodigy’ house at Longleat, while Bess’s service in the households of the Zouches and the Greys brought her into marriages that led to her becoming a countess, one of the richest women in England and the builder of Hardwick Hall.

  While service could advance you, it was, paradoxically, a great social faux pas to attempt to do this by marriage. When the widowed Frances Brandon, Duchess of Suffolk (and niece to Henry VIII) married her Master of the Horse, Adrian Stokes, in 1555, the match was thought ignominious. Elizabeth I’s response on hearing the news was: ‘Has the woman so far forgotten herself as to marry a common groom?’

  Many of the Tudors who were knighted or ennobled were self-made. Thomas Cromwell, Earl of Essex and one of Henry VIII’s right-hand men was, famously, the son of a blacksmith. Sir Francis Drake was born into humble yeoman stock and his father was a lay preacher but, in time, through his intrepid skills as a sailor and his natural talent as a leader, he was knighted and was able to buy Buckland Abbey.

  Other families were raised to power by the Tudor dynasty, including the Dudleys, the Cecils and the Sidneys. William Cecil was born to a gentleman and a gentleman’s daughter, but became Elizabeth’s first minister, Lord Burghley, the builder of the palaces of Theobalds and Burghley House and was able to pass his position to his son, Robert. Penshurst Place had belonged to a duke, but was given to a mere knight, Sir William Sidney, in 1552.

  In fact, this was an age of frustration for many of the great nobles: men such as Edward Stafford, Duke of Buckingham or Thomas Howard, Duke of Norfolk who didn’t feel they were receiving the degree of honour and share of power that would have been accorded to their ancestors. Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey was executed by Henry VIII for the crime of adding the royal insignia to his own coat of arms, while it was Robert Devereux, Earl of Essex’s great desire for political power that almost certainly led to his foolish rebellion in 1601. He was declared a traitor and executed as a result. There were right ways and wrong ways to advance oneself in Tudor England.

  ‘More like a town than a house … the towers and pinnacles like so many distant country churches.’

  The first thing that strikes you about Burghley House is its extraordinary skyline of cupolas, turrets, chimneys and the one central obelisk. Daniel Defoe said it looked ‘more like a town than a house … the towers and pinnacles like so many distant country churches’. It is certainly an incredible and impressive spectacle: a palatial testament to one of the most accomplished and important men of the Elizabethan age.

  Sir William Cecil (pronounced ‘Sissil’), Lord Burghley dominated Elizabethan politics for forty years, first as Secretary of State (1558—72), then as Lord Treasurer (1572—98). He was not only Elizabeth I’s most trusted councillor; he was also arguably the greatest builder of her reign. He built three fabulous houses: Cecil House in Westminster; the grand Theobalds in Hertfordshire that he spent nearly £10,000 (today equivalent to £1.7million) transforming and which Elizabeth visited eight times; and the house he referred to as his ‘principal house’, Burghley, which is the only one of his properties still standing.

  Burghley (as William Cecil was known after he was made Baron Burghley in 1571) was born in 1520, and rose as a politician under Edward VI. Shrewd and diplomatic, he survived favouring Lady Jane Grey in the succession crisis of 1553, and was the first of Edward’s council to kiss Queen Mary’s hand. Crucially, however, he was also at Elizabeth’s side at Hatfield on the day Mary died, and was soon sworn in as a member of her Privy Council and Secretary of State.

  Before long, the confident, clever and controlled Burghley had become the pre-eminent statesman in Elizabeth’s England, a position he maintained until his death in 1598. As Secretary, he managed all of the Queen’s correspondence and chaired meetings of the Privy Council; he was at the centre of state business and commanded the machinery of power. In 1570, Elizabeth even gave him permission to stamp her signature on routine documents of state.

  Burghley believed ardently in England’s ‘true religion’. He may even have been one of the patrons of John Foxe, the author of Acts and Monuments, popularly known as ‘Foxe’s Book of Martyrs’, a collection of tales of the deaths of Protestant English martyrs first produced in 1563. The central objective in all Burghley’s work under Elizabeth was, therefore, to fight for the survival of Protestant England against the attacks of Catholic Europe. Believing that the only way to secure England against Catholic invasion was through a clear succession, Burghley constantly urged the Queen to marry.

  His other great preoccupation was the elimination of Mary, Queen of Scots whom he saw as a deadly threat to Elizabeth’s throne. Following the Babington Plot [see TUTBURY CASTLE], it was Burghley who convinced Elizabeth to sign the death warrant that he had conveniently prepared earlier, although his subsequent decision to dispatch the warrant and have Mary executed without Elizabeth’s express command so infuriated the Queen that Burghley was banished from her presence for four months.

  Burghley worked tirelessly until his death at seventy-seven years of age. His last surviving letter to his son, Robert, instructed him to ‘serve God by serving of the Queen, for all other service is indeed bondage to the Devil’. Burghley had dedicated his all to Queen and country, working exceptionally long hours and
frequently suffering from ill health. He once said to his brother-in-law, Sir Nicholas Bacon, that he had ‘forborne wife [Lady Mildred Cecil], children, friends, house, yea all mine own to serve, which I know not that any other hath done in this time’. In return, he had been elevated to the peerage, created a Knight of the Garter in 1572 and made enormously wealthy.

  In Tudor times, wealth needed to be displayed through magnificence. And what could be more magnificent than Burghley’s flamboyant ‘prodigy house’ near Stamford? Altering an existing house that had been built by his father, Richard Cecil, in the 1540s, Burghley had begun rebuilding Burghley House in 1555 and continued until 1587. He acted as his own architect, as at Theobalds, but employed master mason John Symonds to oversee the work, as the demands of court life meant his visits to Lincolnshire were rare. He spent a fortune to create a spectacular and imposing classical house that corresponded to, and evoked, his noble, privileged status.

  The grand exterior remains substantially as Burghley intended it. The only changes are that in the 1760s, the north-west wing was demolished at the suggestion of Capability Brown to improve views of the parkland, and the south front roof line was raised.

  Internally, much has been altered since Burghley’s day, and very little remains inside of the Elizabethan house. The interiors are stunning baroque, created in the late seventeenth century by John Cecil, the fifth Earl of Exeter. This means that Burghley’s original Elizabethan Long Gallery (124 feet) is now five separate rooms, and what would have been Burghley’s Great Chamber is now the Heaven and Hell Chambers, named after their incredible ceilings, painted by Antonio Verrio (who also worked on the baroque palace at Hampton Court).

  Still, some traces of the original Tudor interiors survive for those who are willing to search for them. The Old Kitchen with its elaborate rib-vaulted ceiling and lantern is unchanged, as is the Roman staircase — a wonderful example of Tudor classicism — which is ornately carved with the arms and badges of Tudor families. In the alcoves of the Pagoda Room, there are the remains of Elizabethan linenfold panelling, while you can see Tudor plasterwork high up near the last window on the right before entering the Great Hall. The Great Hall itself also has an original and magnificent hammer-beam ceiling and Tudor fireplace (everything else is nineteenth century). If you ask the room guides, they might also be able to show you pictures of the Elizabethan fresco recently found behind the panelling in the Third and Fourth George Rooms.

  In particular, there is a stunning view of the inner courtyard from the windows of the antechapel. Here, Burghley, who loved heraldry, featured roundels of the Emperor Charles V and Suleiman the Magnificent of the Ottoman Empire, and others of Paris and Aeneas (whom Tudor genealogy thought to be the ancestors of both Elizabeth and Burghley). The obelisk clock tower dates from 1585 and still has one of its original hands.

  The other great sixteenth-century treasures are in the immense portrait collection. There are two portraits of Burghley; one by Marcus Gheeraerts of Elizabeth at an advanced age; another of one of Elizabeth’s favourites, Robert Devereux, Earl of Essex; and an idealised portrait of Henry VIII from 1535 by Joos van Cleve.

  Eighteen generations of Burghley’s descendants have lived at Burghley House since his death. With time, there will always be change, but this building remains a monument to its indefatigable and talented creator, Elizabeth I’s right-hand man: even if he is only one of the characters in the house’s long history.

  ‘To lack you is more than hell’s torment … Would God I were with you but for one hour.’

  Elizabeth I’s reign was an age of great brinkmanship in architecture, as nobles hoping to entice their monarch into a royal visit competed with each other to produce some of the finest houses ever seen. Kirby Hall was one of the best. It was built by Sir Humphrey Stafford in 1570, but was lavishly completed by Sir Christopher Hatton in the hopes of receiving a visit from the Queen.

  Hatton belonged to a circle of men who were Elizabeth’s ‘favourites’, and rivalled Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester; Edward de Vere, Earl of Oxford; and Sir Walter Ralegh for her affections. He was also a man of many talents and over his lifetime held many positions of power, such as Captain of the Queen’s Guard, Gentleman of the Privy Chamber, Knight of the Garter, Privy Councillor and Lord High Chancellor of England.

  Kirby was only one of his houses: his large house at Holdenby was built in 1570—83 (some of it survives), while London’s diamond and jewellery district, Hatton Garden, was named after him as Elizabeth granted him the Bishop of Ely’s residence here in 1581. Kirby, however, gives a much greater sense of the exceptional grandeur and innovative beauty for which Hatton’s homes became famous.

  Hatton, who was born in 1540, was probably first spotted by Elizabeth in 1562 acting in a play at Inner Temple, where he was Master of the Games. He was young, attractive and, by all accounts, a fabulous dancer. Sir John Perrot remarked cynically that Hatton had come to court ‘by the galliard’ (a popular Elizabethan dance in which the men leap and strut), and the antiquarian William Camden ascribed Hatton’s favour to the fact he was ‘young and of a comely tallness of body and amiable countenance’.

  By 1565, Hatton was regularly appearing in court jousts, wearing Elizabeth’s Tudor rose engraved on his armour. He entered Parliament in 1571 and, through his proximity to the Queen, soon became her spokesman. He also represented her in Scotland at the baptism of the future James VI and then at the trial of the Duke of Norfolk in 1572. In 1574 he was given a title to match his status, succeeding Sir Francis Knollys as Captain of the Queen’s Guard. He was knighted in 1577 and soon after made Vice Chamberlain of the Royal Household and a member of the Privy Council. As Vice Chamberlain, it was Hatton who made the arrangements for Elizabeth’s yearly progresses. In a great many ways, Hatton had become indispensable to Elizabeth well before he was given his highest accolade of Lord Chancellor of England in April 1587.

  There was, however, more between Hatton and Elizabeth than merely a professional relationship. Nearly all of Elizabeth I’s courtiers considered themselves possible suitors, but Hatton seems to have genuinely been in love. His letters to her are extraordinarily ardent, filled with melodramatic, almost ineloquent, passion. In June 1573, he wrote to her:

  to lack you is more than hell’s torment … My heart is full of woe … Would God I were with you but for one hour … Passion overcometh me. I can write no more. Love me; for I love you.… Ten thousand thousand farewells …

  They had been separated for two days.

  He was also a jealous lover, and was upset by the Queen’s attentions to other men. In 1572, he wrote to his friend Edward Dyer for advice on how to manage the Queen’s fickle attachments. Dyer sensibly instructed him to refrain from chastisement, and instead ‘joyfully to commend such things as should be in her, as though they were in her indeed’, and wait and see ‘whether the Queen will make an apple or a crab of you’.

  Tudor courtship, Hatton’s bold letters notwithstanding, could also be highly cryptic and was governed by the complex laws of courtly love. Elizabeth affectionately dubbed Hatton ‘Lidds’, perhaps because of his sultry, hooded eyes, so he sometimes signed his letters with two dotted triangles. Her other name for him was ‘Sheep’, while Oxford was known by his crest of a boar and Ralegh by a corrupted version of his first name. These sobriquets explain both Hatton’s letter to Elizabeth urging her to reserve her favour ‘to the Sheep, he hath no tooth to bite; where[as] the Boar’s tusk may both rase and tear’, and Elizabeth’s message to him in 1582 to remember ‘she was a Shepherd, and then you might think how dear her sheep was unto her’. Once, she sent him a dove, a symbol of the receding floodwaters in Genesis, as an indication that ‘Water’ was no threat to him either. Theirs was a tender relationship, and Elizabeth was right to prefer him: unlike Oxford or Ralegh, Hatton never married and stayed loyal to Elizabeth until his death.

  It was in the hope of playing host to Elizabeth that Hatton bought Kirby, and later built Holdenby. He chose well
. Kirby embodied cutting-edge Renaissance architectural ideas of symmetry and balance, and classical features including a loggia and giant pilasters (flattened columns) across the north façade of the inner courtyard. It is also ornately decorated and designed to impress.

  Kirby is a grand affair, with an outer forecourt, graced by two flamboyant gateways added by Hatton, and a large inner courtyard that housed the Great Hall, the courtiers’ lodgings and the Long Gallery. As you enter the gatehouse and walk through the loggia, you’ll see ahead of you the south wing with the Great Hall to the right, and the buttery and service rooms to the left. Notice that the two sides are intended to look identical, even though the long window on the left is entirely superfluous. At the centre is the porch, which is elaborately carved, with nine small columns across the gable. Built by Stafford, it bears the date 1572, and his knot and motto, ‘Je seray loyal’, ‘I will be loyal’: it could have been Hatton’s own. Inside, the plaster ceiling displays Hatton’s crest: the hind. Other doorframes around the court are carved with foliage and other emblems of the Staffords.