This concerns Dartford Manor (and then priory) in Kent (above), of which you can read more at https://www.kentarchaeology.org.uk/Research/02/DDAG/08/20.htm and http://www.akentishceremony.com/kcc-register-offices/the-manor-gatehouse/ My interest lies in the history of the manor, i.e. pre-Henry VIII.
The following, which is taken from http://www.british-history.ac.uk/survey-kent/vol2/pp2-22, seems at first not to concern Dartford Manor, but its pattern of ownership is the same, I am assured, and the next link after this, to Dartford itself, does not relate this earlier ownership in full. It is of interest to Ricardians and all Yorkists, although the former had best grit their teeth for some of what it says. Poor old Richard is maligned again. Anyway, here goes with the ownership of Dartford, albeit from the BHO Chesilhurst pages.
“…[On the death of John, Earl of Somerset, then Duke of Somerset in the reign of Henry VI] his brother Edmund, marquis of Dorset, was found to be his next heir male, and as such possessed this estate [Chesilhurst – and also Dartford]. He was afterwards advanced to the title of Duke of Somerset, and taking part with Henry VI. was slain in the first battle of St. Alban’s … the manor of Dartford, with Chesilhurst, was … granted to Richard Nevill, earl of Warwick, commonly called the King Maker, who, after many changes from one side to the other, was slain, endeavouring to replace king Henry on the throne, at the battle of Barnet, in the year 1471. By his wife, Anne, daughter of Richard Beauchamp, earl of Warwick, who survived him, he left only two daughters, who both married into the royal family; Isabel to George duke of Clarence. brother to king Edward IV. and Anne, first to Edward prince of Wales, son of king Henry VI. and, secondly, to Richard duke of Gloucester, afterwards king Richard III.
“After the earl’s death, though his estates were seized by the authority of parliament, yet great part of them were afterwards given to his two daughters, and among others the manor of Dartford, with the rents of assize in Chesilhurst, was given to Isabel, whose husband, George duke of Clarence, in her right, became possessed of them. After which the duke falling under the suspicion of the king, his brother, was in parliament, anno 1477, attainted, being then a prisoner in the tower, and was soon afterwards, with the king’s consent, drowned in a butt of malmsey, the duke of Gloucester assisting with his own hands By Isabel his wife, who died of poison sometime before him, he had issue Edward earl of Warwick, then an infant, who never enjoyed any part of his patrimony.
“Soon after the duke’s death, this manor being in the king’s hands, by reason of his son’s nonage, was granted to Thomas lord Stanley for life, and although king Henry VII. in his third year, being desirous of securing to himself the possessions which the great earl of Warwick died possessed of, recalled the old countess of Warwick from her retirement in the north, where she lived in a distressed and mean condition, both her daughters being dead, and by a new act, annulling the former, restored to her all her late husband’s possessions, with power for her to alien any part of them, not with the intent that she should enjoy them, but merely that she might transfer them to the king, which she did that year, by a special seossment and a fine, by which she granted the whole, consisting of one hundred and fourteen manors, among which was that of Dartford, with the rents of assize in Chesilhurst, to the king and his heirs male, with remainder to herself and her heirs for ever. Yet this estate continued in possession of the lord Stanley. . .”
Right, did you get all that? Now let us go to http://www.british-history.ac.uk/survey-kent/vol2/pp286-328, to find that Dartford may not quite have followed the same line as Chesilhurst.
“….manor [of Dartford] went in the same succession of ownership as that of Chesilhurst, which was a member of it, as has been already fully described before, and to which the reader is referred (excepting that king Richard III. in his first year, granted the reversion of it, being then in the possession of the lord Stanley, to John Brooke, lord Cobham, to hold by knights service; (Harleian MSS. No. 433–764. Dugd. Bar. vol. ii. p. 282.) but he [Cobham] never came to the possession of it, for king Henry VII. on his obtaining the crown, secured this reversion of it to himself….”
Aha! Henry strikes again, keeping this reversion for himself instead of returning it to his father-in-law, Stanley. Wouldn’t you think he’d undo Richard’s work by rendering unto Stanley the things that were Stanley’s? And Stanley’s heirs?. But oh, no, we know Henry too well, do we not? If he could claw something close unto to his bony Tudor chest, he would! And, in this case, did. Look after the pennies, and the pounds look after themselves, right, Henry? Not that I care if Stanley was deprived of anything, you understand.
Artist’s impression of Henry VIII’s manor
Read more about the manor at https://www.kentarchaeology.org.uk/Research/02/DDAG/08/20.htm and http://www.akentishceremony.com/kcc-register-offices/the-manor-gatehouse/ Unfortunately, the illustrations are of the buildings from the Henry VIII period, and do not show anything of what would have been there in Richard’s time.
The Travels of Leo of Rozmital in the 15th century are fascinating, and if you register (free) for a virtual library card here you can read about them for 14 days. You can access up to five books all told.
Between 1465 and 1467 Leo (a Bohemian nobleman and celebrated jouster who died this day in 1486) undertook diplomatic missions for his brother-in-law, the King of Bohemia. He and his companions kept meticulous records of their travels. You can find out more about him here
Anyway, my reason for dipping into his travelling records was to glean all the information I could about travelling in Europe in the medieval period. My year of interest at present is 1394, but nothing much changed between then and the reign of Edward IV. This is how I happened upon the following passage:-
“. . .Edward IV was known for his lavish hospitality, and when the travellers had been luxuriously lodged in an inn, and had been kissed by the hostess and maids, they were formally welcomed by a herald and certain Privy Councillors. They were then given audience of the King and invited to a mighty banquet with sixty dishes, after which the King bestowed collars or badges (symbola) on his guests and knighted certain of them. He would have knighted others, but the honour was declined, perhaps on account of the fees. Later, at court, they saw Elizabeth Woodville churched in great state after the birth of the Princess Elizabeth. Another banquet was prepared, at which Warwick, the King-maker, acted as host, and after this they were conducted to an alcove, which which they watched the Queen at dinner. So strict was court etiquette that even the Queen’s mother and the King’s sisters had to kneel before the Queen while she was at table, and not a word was spoken during the whole meal, which lasted for three hours. Afterwards there was a state ball, at which Margaret of York (soon to be married to Charles the Bold of Burgundy) and other ladies danced. Then music was provided by the King’s choristers, and Tetzel tells us that here, and later at mass he had never heard such fine singing. . .”
I’m sure I can hear some medieval teeth-grinding! Warwick must have had a very fixed smile when it came to Elizabeth Woodville, and while I can imagine her mother, Jacquetta of Luxemburg, kneeling willingly enough to her, I think the King’s sisters would not have been so eager. More fixed smiles and grinding of teeth. Did they have to kneel there at her feet for three long hours? For their knees’ sake, I hope not.
There is a much more detailed description of this occasion between pages 44-49, including a mention of the queen being escorted by “two dukes”. Might these have been Richard and George? It seems the kneeling ladies were spared, being allowed to take their own seats as soon as the first course had been served to the queen. Thank goodness for that. But I’ll bet those of Edward IV’s blood were still not amused.
There is a lot more in this fascinating book—including many anecdotes, naughty and polite—and I recommend registering for a virtual library card. It is also available at Amazon.
I’ve been thinking a lot recently about Richard III’s brother, George of Clarence. You know the one–typical ‘middle child’, ‘false fleeting Clarence’, the one drowned in Malmsey who was also a drunk and quite possibly insane, hanging, as he did, old ladies on the vaguest of suspicions.
And I began considering–is George, like Richard, maligned, doomed forever to be hidden in an obscuring web of myth and invention?
Certainly he was disloyal, joining Warwick against his own brother, Edward IV. He created a fuss when Richard wanted to marry Anne Neville, his protests lasting several years. He did indeed accuse Ankaret Twynho, and others, of poisoning his wife and baby son–and hanged the old lady after a brief and decidedly unfair trial.
But mad? A drunk? And in regards to his wife and child…what if he were right?
Like Richard’s supposed hump, limp, withered arm and other defects, George’s ‘insanity’ and ‘drunkenness’ appear to have been exaggerated if not completely invented, mainly in fiction. (And yes, I admit I am guilty of adding to this stereotype myself.) There is no mention in primary sources of George drinking or being dissolute; that idea seems to have come solely from his supposed death in a vat of malmsey, and the questions it raised (ie. Did Edward have him drowned in booze because he liked a tipple and maybe even requested such an end as a macabre final joke?) Fickleness aplenty went on, certainly, and his last acts with the Twynyho affair were erratic, but he wasn’t spouting gibberish, having hallucinations, or lying catatonic like poor old Henry VI. He defended himself in regards to the charges laid against him by the King, and apparently one of Elizabeth Woodville’s main fears was that people would follow him and her children would never inherit the throne. The people of England were hardly likely to follow another mad king. This implies to me that George was not generally seen as a loony, treacherous lush, but someone who might have had some decent enough qualities, or at very least some kind of strong charisma.
So that brings us back to the whole mystery surrounding the death of George’s wife, Isabel Neville, and his infant son Richard of York. Many have claimed Isabel died of childbirth-related illness…but she actually succumbed two and a half months after the birth. Childbed fever, the biggest killer of women in her day, normally took its victims far sooner. TB has also been suggested, and it is certainly not impossible, for in some victims TB symptoms can appear with frightening suddenness and ‘gallop’ on to their bitter end, but there is no written evidence of her having such symptoms. In the interim between childbed and her death, she travelled from Tewkesbury to Warwick, which implies she was not grievously ill at that point. The baby too was alive and outlived its mother by about 10 days. So both mother and child lived more than two months after the birth and made a moderately long journey without incident before their deaths.
Ankaret Twynyho (nee Hawkeston) herself is also the subject of some myth-making. In fiction she is often portrayed as a simple ordinary local woman, perhaps the midwife who delivered Isabel’s baby. However, she was not a peasant woman, nor is their any evidence she was Isabel’s midwife. It is merely known the she ‘served’ in the Clarence household. She did leave George’s service rather quickly after Isabel’s demise however, going to her home in Keyford, Somerset in the days before George accused her of murder.
Of John Thursby, who was hanged alongside her, little is known, save that he was from Warwick and said to be her accomplice. The third person who was accused, managed (somehow and rather oddly) to escape any consequences, and is, interestingly, the one who George claimed to be the ‘mastermind’ behind the supposed poisoning. Strangely he is seldom mentioned in regards to the incident–and my feeling is his possible involvement needs to be re-assessed.
This suspect was Sir Roger Tocotes of Bromham, long time associate of George of Clarence. (Michael Hicks went so far as to suggest George might even have called him ‘friend.’) He had supported the House of York and fought at Towton, Barnet and Tewkesbury (where he may have been knighted). He even accompanied George on Edward IV’s ill-fated ‘invasion’ of France.
Why would George think this seemingly loyal supporter masterminded his wife and child’s death? What would be Tocote’s reason? What evidence existed at the time that made George believe him involved? Some writers say Tocotes ‘escaped’ George’s vengeance, others that he received an aquittal (from the king?) despite being the prime accused in Isabel’s ‘murder.’
Later, long after George’s death, Roger Tocotes would go on to be one of the Duke of Buckingham’s supporters in the October rebellion of 1483. (Richard pardoned him.) He then fought for Henry Tudor at Bosworth and did rather well for himself under the Tudor regime, becoming Sheriff of Wiltshire for a second time and also a Knight of the Body. He is buried in a very lavish chantry chapel in the parish church in Bromham, Wiltshire.
Could Roger Tocotes have indeed been a turncoat who went from friend to traitor and tried to bring Clarence and his family down? If so, who was behind it, what was the reason? After Isabel’s death, George was apparently afraid of being poisoned himself and blamed the King, his brother. He claimed Edward meant to ‘consume him in likewise as a candle is consumed by burning’. George’s seemingly wild claims have led over the years to a probably false view of him as being paranoid and mentally unstable. There is always a chance that he may have been genuinely afraid, not crazy–and that he may have truly had something to fear.
Maybe Roger Tocotes, lying in his graffiti-covered tomb in Bromham church, took a dark and unhappy secret to the grave.
Well, we all know the story (and that’s just what it was, a story) about the demise of the boys’ uncle, George, Duke of Clarence, in a butt of Malmsey, but this is the first I’ve heard of the boys themselves suffering a similar fate.
“The manner of their death triggered debate among contemporaries, many of whom believed they were strangled in bed, drowned in Malmsey wine, or poisoned.”
This is taken from Martyrs in the Making: Political Martyrdom in Late Medieval England, by Danna Piroyansky, and she gives many sources:-
The Great Chronicle of London, A.H. Thomas and I.D. Thornley (eds) (London, 1938), pp 236-7. For an overview of the various speculations see, for example, P.W. Hammond and W.J. White, ‘The Sons of Edward IV: A Re-examination of the Evidence on Their Deaths and on the Bones in Westminster Abbey’, in Loyalty, Lordship and Law, P.W. Hammond (ed) (London, 1986), pp. 104-47; A. Weir, The Princes in the Tower (NY, 1992), chapter 13; A.J. Pollard, Richard III and the Princes in the Tower (NY, 1991), chapter 5. Many articles on the subject of the princes’ fate have been published in The Ricardian (the publication of the Richard III Society) along the years.
Whether any of these actually say the boys perished in Malmsey I don’t know, I only know I hadn’t heard the theory before. However, I do know that the book from which I have taken this information adopts an unashamedly Lancastrian viewpoint, and Richard is damned outright. For example:-
“Many suspected the usurper Richard III of instigating the princes’ murder. True or false, Richard III had no interest in promoting a cult around them, one which could only have drawn attention to their rightful claims to the throne. Henry VII may have been interested in them, but was too preoccupied with other challenges to his reign to rake over past events.”
Um. . . Where shall I start? The usurper Richard III? No, he was the true king. The boys’ rightful claims to the throne? Rubbish. Henry VII too preoccupied to rake over past events? Good grief. No mention of Edward IV’s bigamy. And of course Henry kept quiet – the last thing he wanted was for the boys to still be alive! He’d reversed Titulus Regius in order to marry the boys’ big sister! If they’d turned up alive, they’d have a much, much better claim to the throne than he did.
If anyone murdered the boys (and we don’t know what happened to them, let alone whether they died naturally, were murdered or even lived into old age), it was Henry Tudor and his Beaufort mother. Or the Duke of Buckingham. As for Henry not having time to rake over the past, for Pete’s sake, he did it all the time! He was both hounded and haunted by it. As well he might have been, given his usurpation and guilty conscience. Oh, yes, there was a usurper at Bosworth, and it wasn’t Richard!
I will not go on. The book has nothing good to say about the House of York, and I wish I’d never bought it. My reason wasn’t even anything to do with York, but because there is a section that deals with the 1397 trial and execution of Richard Fitzalan, Earl of Arundel, in whom I am very interested. Another man who generally gets a bad press, of course. Trust me to find a great deal to like and admire about him! (For more information about Arundel’s death and the “miracles” that gave rise to a cult, try here)
On Richard III’s birthday (October 2), Dr Gareth Williams, curator of the British Museum, is going to deliver a monologue on Richard at Lichfield Cathedral. Dr Williams also is a director of research at Tutbury Castle, which has connections to both George of Clarence and Richard.
Obviously I don’t know what kind of Richard will be presented here, good, bad or indifferent…but if you don’t like the content of the monologue, the cathedral is well-worth a visit in itself. It is one of England’s oldest religious foundations but it is also the cathedral that suffered the most during the Civil War, which required much rebuilding.
The history of Lichfield Cathedral, with its three spires–the three Ladies of the Vale:
The late Clarissa Dickson Wright is known to the English-speaking countries of the world as one of The Two Fat Ladies – the middle-aged motorcycling cooks who zipped around the English, Welsh and Irish countryside, one at the wheel of a Triumph Thunderbird, the other stuffed into the sidecar wearing what appeared to be a Biggles pilot helmet. Jennifer Paterson, the elder, learned to cook in Benghazi and London as a saucy au pair for the upper classes. After she tired of minding the kiddies, she appeared as a regular on the British Candid Camera and as the cook for the Spectator Magazine’s weekly lunches. She was fired from the Spectator when she chucked all the kitchen crockery out of an upper floor window because the accountants left dirty tea cups in the sink. Her culinary talents must have been formidable because she was retained long after she had tickled Enoch Powell’s bald spot during one lunch while girlishly cooing “koochie koo!” at the thunderstruck MP. Hospitalized in 1999 and told she had a month or so to live, she was asked if she wanted to speak with a social worker. “No,” she boomed, “I’m watching a Fred Astaire film.”
Clarissa Dickson Wright, although as insouciant as her other half, was a different kettle of medieval fish. Born to an Australian heiress and the Queen’s surgeon, Arthur Dickson Wright, she grew up in London amid the upper classes of Scotland, Ireland, England and Oz. Both her parents were connoisseurs of fine food and drink and during a time of strict food rationing her father was importing pigeon from the Middle East and caviar from Iran. In this lavish environment, Clarissa learned to appreciate beautifully prepared food and drink but choose the law as her profession. At 21, she became the youngest person called to the bar, working as a barrister at the Inns of Court. Those who have read her hilarious and chagrined autobiographies “Spilling the Beans” and “Riffling Through My Drawers,” know that upon her beloved mother’s death, she collapsed into a sybaritic existence that decimated the family fortune and landed her penniless and drunk in a London jail with only Saki’s short stories as company. Once sober, she rebuilt her life around food and its preparation, employed as a cook in private homes and as manageress of the well-known shop in Portobello Road called “Books for Cooks.” In 1996, she and Jennifer came under the eagle eye of a sharp-witted BBC producer who decided to pair the women in a television program centered around their many talents. These included Paterson’s basso profundo singing style, cocktail-shaking and motorcycling skills. Dickson Wright brought her sharp wit and extensive knowledge of the history of English food. “Two Fat Ladies” became an instant hit that was sadly cut short after its fourth season when Jennifer was struck down by cancer.
Dickson Wright, happily, went on to a solo television career bringing her knowledge of not only food but of country life to the British Isles. Unfortunately, the programs were not available to Americans until fans of Clarissa uploaded them onto You Tube. Two wonderful shows – 2008’s “Clarissa Dickson Wright and the King’s Cookbook” and 2014’s “Breakfast, Lunch and Dinner” – are there for the viewing. Both explore the long history of cooking in England and push back against notions of bland food prepared by a garlic-phobic nation. She makes a grand case that English food during the 14th Century achieved an artistic level that could rival France.
“The King’s Cookbook” takes us into the world of Richard II (1367-1400) and his lavish lifestyle at table. Deep within the British Library, we are shown the original Forme of Cury (translation: Method of Cooking), Richard’s compilation of 196 recipes complete with food stains and marginalia. We are shown directions for making blancmange (originally made with capon), salad (with nary a piece of lettuce in sight) and blubbery roasted porpoise. We learn that he employed over 300 kitchen staff. These included saucers, milkers, boners, choppers, spit boy, roasters and scribes who sat in a vestibule writing down “receipts.” All of them (with the exception of the scribes) were half naked because of the intense heat. They struggled mightily under the aegis of the Master Chef who sat upon a throne in the kitchen overseeing the work. They were expected to maintain rigid sanitary conditions. In an extension of these rules – which would benefit most Waffle Houses in the USA – he demanded his guests be provided with spoons and napkins and prohibited them from eating with fingers or belching, farting and fighting. In an interesting aside, Clarissa notes that while medieval cooking compilations do not include vegetable recipes, they were always included in meals and feasts. Herbs and vegetables were foraged in the wild and/or grown in private kitchen gardens. They were simply picked daily without much thought to recording how they were used. In the program “Lunch,” we see a lamb pottage (“in a pot”) being cooked over an open fire by docents and volunteers in medieval dress. As they peer into the bubbling pot, Clarissa laments today’s lack of available mutton which was once so popular and has lost favor among modern people because of its gaminess.* We are also disabused of that most pernicious notion of the medieval era that expensive and rare imported spices were used to cover up the smell and taste of rotten meat. Nothing could be further from the truth as several historians interviewed note with vehemence. Medieval cooks, like our modern chefs, knew how to use ingredients economically and intelligently. As they point out, only chilies would have disguised the taste of bad meat and they had not yet been imported from the Americas.
The louche King Richard continued his wanton ways, taxing and spending his country into anarchy all to please his exquisite palate and discriminating taste. “I will not dismiss one scallion from my kitchen on the grounds that Parliament asked me to, ” he famously sneered, much like a medieval Richard Olney faced with a shipment of bad wine. Of course, as is usually the case with tyrants and run-away budgets, the citizenry was soon fed up and hankering for a change. In 1399, he was brought to heel by the usual aggressive and ambitious upstarts that tended to gather around the edges of powerful Yorkists. In this case, it was Henry Bolingbroke, who after a false promise of freedom confined Richard to Pontefract Castle with neither a napkin nor spoon in sight. He then proceeded to starve the king to death in an ironic execution that mirrored the death several decades later of alcoholic George, Duke of Clarence, who was supposedly drowned in a butt of Malmsey. Mordant Lancastrian wit!
So ended the life of the first foodie king who, at least, never burned a cake unlike a certain predecessor. Instead, he left us with one of the earliest English-language cookbooks in western history which is offered free-of-charge on Kindle.
Two recipes are mentioned in “The King’s Cookbook” from The Forme of Cury. One is Goose Madame or Goose in Sauce Madame. The other is the simple and delicious:
Pears in Red Wine
2 Pears, 2 cups of good red wine, 1/2-1 cup of sugar depending on taste, orange zest, 1 cinnamon stick, star anise (optional).
Cut the bottoms off of peeled pears so that they stand up. Place in a deep saucepan and pour in the red wine. Add all other ingredients and simmer until pears are a deep jewel-like red and easily pierced with a knife. Cool and serve on a white plate with vanilla ice cream, whipped cream or sweetened ricotta.
The website Coquinaria, devoted to medieval cuisine, has a recipe for Goose Madame in which it is advised that it be served at Christmastime. We are now in the midst of high summer but perhaps it can be tucked away for later in the year or read for pure amazement at the list of ingredients that would delight Yotam Ottolenghi:
Stuff Goose Sauce Madame
1 large goose
For the stuffing: 2-4 tart apples, 2 pears, 2 Tbs. chopped parsley and 1 tsp. of sage and savory, 2 garlic cloves, chopped, 20-30 grapes, skinned.
For the sauce: 1 Tbsp of goose fat, 1 small onion, chopped, 1/2 liter (2 cups) of dark stock, 1/4 cup red wine, 1 Tbsp red wine vinegar, white breadcrumbs, galingale (or ginger), cinnamon mace, cloves, cubebs (a type of peppercorn), salt to taste, giblets.
Salt to taste
the neck and giblets of the goose
Stuffing prep: Boil the unpeeled apples for an hour in water. Drain and cool. Peel pears, decore them. Cut them in small pieces. Mix in the chopped herbs, garlic and peeled grapes.
Put the stock in a boiling pan, add the giblets. Bring to a boil, let simmer a couple of hours. Strain through a fine sieve.
Sauce: Heat some of the goose fat and fry the onion in it. Add the strained stock and red wine and the bread crumbs. Let this simmer a short while until thickened. Now add the stuffing from the goose, spices and wine vinegar. Bring to the boil once more.
Set the temperature at 180C or 350F. Stuff the goose, secure the filling and place goose on a rack. Baste regularly and after about two to three hours, take it out and let it rest for 10-15 minutes for the juices to redistribute. This can be served whole or sliced with stuffing and sauce.
*One of New York City’s oldest chop houses, Keen’s Steakhouse, no longer serves mutton although it is still advertised. What you smell the minute you enter this wood-paneled old restaurant are giant lamb chops sizzling on the platter.
Both “Breakfast, Lunch, Dinner” and “Clarissa and The King’s Cookbook” are available in sections on You Tube.
Recommended reading: all are available on Amazon:
A History of English Food by Clarissa Dickson Wright
Clarissa’s England: A Gamely Gallop through the English Counties
Feast Days: Recipes from “The Spectator” by Jennifer Paterson. Miss Paterson follows the Catholic liturgical calendar with recipes and amusing comments on the more eccentric saints of the Church.
This is an aside really. But although this above picture of George of Clarence isn’t contemporary, I can’t help noticing that the general shape of the face, especially the jaw, is very like Richard as we now know him from the discovery in Leicester. Were these York brothers known for their strong jaws?
George’s last resting place is Tewkesbury Abbey (he held Tewkesbury at the time of his death). There are bones there, said to be George and his wife, Isabel Neville. They are in a subterranean chamber that is sometimes open to the public, and are displayed in what resembles a glass fish tank suspended on the wall.
Unfortunately, there is a strong likelihood that they are actually the remains of an older man and his wife, possibly a merchant. George and Isabel’s bones are said to have been disturbed during the time of Henry VIII. However, if the contents of this tank were to be closely examined for DNA, is there any chance that some of George still exists? If so, his DNA would surely match his brother Richard’s.
I’m not saying this would prove my observation about strong jawlines, so please don’t think it. But DNA might point to similarities between the brothers? No? Well, there’s only one way to find out if some of George (or Isabel) is still there in Tewkesbury Abbey, and that is to be allowed to open, examine and test what’s in that tank. There would be religious objections and claims of lack of respect, of course, but to be honest, I don’t see what’s respectful about a fish tank that can be gawped at by the public, as I once gawped!
There’s more about the bones in Tewkesbury at https://meanderingthroughtime.weebly.com/history-blog/-george-duke-of-clarence-a-sad-end-to-a-sorry-tale
The fifth book in Toni Mount’s Foxley series about medieval murders.
“She told us: ‘It is called The Colour of Murder and deals with even more medieval murders, including the mysterious death of The Duke of Clarence, one of the future Richard III’s brothers, who, tradition tells us was drowned in a wine barrel.'”
Can only be good news from a staunch Ricardian author!
Well, my opinion only, of course, but where are John of Gaunt and Katherine Swynford/de Roët? I don’t believe his first wife, Blanche, was his greatest love. That honour went to Katherine, for love of whom he went to extraordinary lengths, enduring scandal and opprobrium, but eventually making her his third duchess. And managing to legitimize his Beaufort children by her.
As for Edward II and Piers Gaveston. No, they don’t warrant inclusion, I’m afraid. Not because it was gay, but because it became dangerously spiteful, petty, posturing and not a little ridiculous. It ultimately destroyed all concerned. Then Edward II showed even less judgement by moving on to the dreadful Despensers. There was nothing great or romantic about his conduct in allowing his favourites such enormous power. I find his reign fascinating, but always want to shake him until his royal teeth rattle.
Henry VIII and Anne Boleyn? Hmm. That gross man always thought with his codpiece, not his heart. The same goes for his maternal grandfather, Edward IV, the contents of whose codpiece appear to be overactive in the extreme.
Katherine of Valois and Owen Tudor? I have grave misgivings about this one. I believe she was more interested in Edmund Beaufort, 4th Earl of Somerset, and that when she became pregnant and he wouldn’t/couldn’t marry her, lowly Owen Tudor was hastily drummed up to “do the honours” of claiming to be the unborn child’s father. Maybe Owen already had a good and understanding relationship with Katherine? This might have made him acceptable to her in her hour of need. I may be wildly wrong about this, of course, but (once again) it’s my opinion.
Edward III and Philippa of Hainault? Yes. The Black Prince and Joan of Kent? Yes. Richard, Duke of York, and Cecily Neville? Yes. Mary Tudor and Charles Brandon? Yes. Edward I and Eleanor of Castile? Yes.
Who else is missing, apart from Katherine Swynford? Well, Richard II and Anne of Bohemia. Theirs was another political royal match, but they fell deeply in love. He was utterly distraught when she died suddenly.
Richard III and Anne Neville? George of Clarence and Isabel Neville? I think both couples are strong contenders. Whatever else may be said, about the brothers only wanting the Warwick inheritance, and so on, it seems to be an irrefutable fact that the Neville sisters won their York husbands’ hearts. Maybe it can be argued that their father’s inheritance was a great big carrot to both men, but the fondness/love that eventually came into being was real enough. Both men were heartbroken by their wives’ deaths, and George could not cope with Isabel’s loss. Richard, perhaps stronger emotionally, was equally as broken, but did not fall apart as George had done. Am I misjudging these marriages as well? No. I stick to my opinion!
No doubt, you will stick to yours too!