Recently it was reported that a secret staircase some 600 years old was unearthed at Tutbury Castle in Staffordshire. Immediately the reporter leapt on the idea that ‘Maybe Henry VIII walked down these stairs?!’ as if that ultimately was the most exciting thing about the new discovery. (Why, why, why, are there so many newspapers articles that exclaim ‘Henry slept here’, ‘Henry stood here’, ‘Henry stuffed his face here’ as if he is the only pre-modern royal worth mentioning. ) The stairs were not even built in his lifetime but probably a hundred years earlier, and LOTS of famous historical figures must surely have walked on them–Mary Queen of Scots for one, and of course Richard III whose visit in October 1484 has only fairly recently been ‘rediscovered.’ Richard was at Tutbury to look into a large building project that was in progress–possibly this even included these new-found stairs that seem to only be considered exciting to the press if Henry VIII’s bulk was crushing them!
(Apparently the castle normally holds a Richard III buffet dinner once a year, so they do celebrate the connections with Richard.)
Tutbury has a very interesting history, anyway, being a royal castle. Richard’s brother George of Clarence held it for a while and during his tenure there were some scandalous goings-one to do with members of the garrison and some prostitutes!
At an earlier time, John of Gaunt also did much rebuilding of the castle, and gave it to his wife Constance as her main residence, where she had a flourishing court dedicated to various arts.
All of these are, to my mind, a lot more interesting than ‘Henry VIII may have walked down the stairs!”
Hmm, I don’t think there’s a single Tudor monarch whose sex life secrets would set the world on fire. Well, there’s Henry VIII of course, but he was just an obsessed, unprincipled monster. And his story is now tired. In my opinion anyway. He was a dreadful man.
There is a pub in Bridgnorth, near where I live. Well, let’s be honest, there’s about a hundred. If you have ever been to Bridgnorth, aside from the Severn Valley Railway, the funicular railway from Low Town to High Town and the remains of the slighted castle, which lean at a greater angle than the Tower of Pisa, the sheer number of pubs will strike you. The one I was referring to is The Bell and Talbot on Salop Street in High Town. The hanging sign shows a dog lying beneath a bell while the one on the wall looks a bit more like a coat of arms, with two hounds rearing up either side of a bell.
The Bell and Talbot, Bridgnorth
The symbol of the Talbot Hound is easy to miss but is significant in Shropshire. Talbot dogs were small white hunting hounds, extinct now, but understood to be an ancestor of the beagle and the bloodhound. The origin of the breed, its emergence in England and the reason for the name are all lost in the mists of time, but they have an enduring connection to the most prominent Shropshire family of the last five centuries.
Henry VI is believed to have referred to John Talbot in 1449 as ‘Talbott, oure good dogge’: I’m sure he meant it as a compliment, but I wouldn’t appreciate such a label! Did the name of the hound emerge from this quip? Or was it a reference to the already-established Talbot breed, coincidentally sharing a name with Henry’s premier general in France? John Talbot became Earl of Shrewsbury and his family inextricably linked with the title and surrounding county for generations. The 1445 Shrewsbury Book, commissioned by Talbot, has an image of the earl presenting his book to Margaret of Anjou, Henry’s queen, with a little white Talbot hound standing behind him.
The Shrewsbury Book, presented by John Talbot, Earl of Shrewsbury
In 1569, George Talbot, 6th Earl of Shrewsbury was one of the few English noblemen wealthy and trusted enough to house Mary, Queen of Scots during her period under house arrest at Elizabeth I’s instruction. Shrewsbury was a prominent Protestant and Elizabeth made him a Privy Counsellor as part of the arrangement because of ‘his approved loyalty and faithfulness, and the ancient state of blood from which he is descended’. Mary was initially held at Tutbury Castle and although Elizabeth would not meet the costs of her prisoner’s keeping, Mary’s French incomes covered her hosts expenses for a while. She was moved two months later to Wingfield Manor, a more suitable, well-kept lodging than the dilapidated Tutbury with its inadequate drains. Although he would discharge his duty diligently, Shrewsbury was censured any time he left Mary’s company for his own business and despite his wealth, he and his wife, Bess of Hardwick found themselves financially embarrassed by the cost and Elizabeth’s refusal to help meet them. Mary was eventually removed from Shrewsbury’s care before her eventual entrapment and execution at Fotheringhay Castle.
Alton Towers lies just north of Shropshire, across the border into Staffordshire, and even as a theme park, it retains a link to the Talbot family who made it their ancestral home. The buildings that lie ruined today were built by Charles Talbot, 15th Earl of Shrewsbury in the early nineteenth century. The ride Hex is contained within the ruins and tells the story of that earl’s battle with the supernatural to lift a curse placed in him and his family.
For anyone interested in the fifteenth century, John Talbot, 1st Earl of Shrewsbury, remembered as Old Talbot, is a towering figure sadly eclipsed by later events. He was one of the few Englishmen Joan of Arc is reputed to have known by name. His fearless, often reckless leadership made him the most successful English general in France over many years. He was probably in his mid-sixties when he was eventually killed at the Battle of Castillon in 1453. His loss was such a blow that Castillon is considered the last battle of the Hundred Years War and there is a memorial in France to him, set up where he fell in recognition of a foe worthy of respect.
The Talbot Monument at the site of the Battle of Castillon
For those with an interest more precisely focussed on Richard III and the events of 1483, the Talbot family have a vitally important role to play. Unfortunately, there is little solid fact on which to hang any opinion of the controversy of Edward IV’s marital status. Where hard, written evidence is lacking – and we should expect it to be lacking, given the systematic destruction of Titulus Regius after Bosworth – I tend to fall back on the actions of people affected by events. In their reaction, or even inaction, we can often glean an idea of what must have been going on and what people thought of it.
The Talbot family come into sharp focus because the basis of Richard’s charge that Edward IV’s children were illegitimate is a claim that Edward was a bigamist. It was alleged that prior to his marriage to Elizabeth Woodville, he had already contracted a marriage to Eleanor Talbot, daughter of the 1st Earl of Shrewsbury. We have no solid evidence that this is the case, but as I said, we probably shouldn’t expect to. Look at what people in London in June 1483 did, though. They accepted the evidence we are told they were shown. We cannot examine it and for the most part, historians dismiss it as fantasy. Yet those who could read it accepted it so completely that they deposed a king and offered the crown to his uncle. Why would they do that? Fear of Richard? Hardly. He had no army in London or anywhere nearby. He was mustering a few hundred men at Pontefract, but they had not left by then and London was well versed in resisting thousands, never mind a few hundred. Fear of a minority? Maybe, but Richard had shown himself willing to act as regent for his nephew, and he was the senior royal male of the House of York, an experienced governor and successful general (within his limited opportunities). Could it be that, just maybe, the allegations looked true?
Edward IV’s reputation, deserved or otherwise, surely made it seem plausible. None would doubt that he was capable of contracting a secret marriage to a relatively unsuitable older lady. That was, after all, how he ended up married to Elizabeth Woodville. By 1483, George Talbot was 4th Earl of Shrewsbury, the first earl’s great-grandson. He was probably too young to fight at Bosworth, but definitely supported Henry VII during the Lambert Simnel Affair. The Talbot family were Lancastrian in their sympathies; after all, their patriarch had built his reputation and title on defending that House. They are often considered hostile to Richard III, probably because of his accusation against one of their number, but I’m not sure that was the case. By the time of the Lambert Simnel Affair, supporting Henry VII was the natural position for the 4th Earl. Besides, if, as I strongly suspect, the Affair was an uprising in favour of Edward V rather than Edward, Earl of Warwick, then the Talbot family perhaps opposed it because they were perfectly well aware of Edward V’s illegitimacy.
Back in 1483, the Talbot family made no move against Richard or his accusation about Eleanor Talbot and Edward IV. When Simon Stallworth wrote his newsletter to Sir William Stonor as late as 21 June 1483, the day before Dr Shaa’s sermon at St Paul’s Cross, he knew nothing of the impending bombshell. He did, however, note that Lord Lisle ‘is come to my Lorde Protectour and awates apone hym’. This is more significant that it is often deemed to be.
Lord Lisle was Edward Grey. He was not only the younger brother of Sir John Grey of Groby, the first husband of Elizabeth Woodville and therefore uncle to her two oldest sons, but he was also married to Elizabeth Talbot, a niece of Eleanor Talbot. If Richard was looking for evidence to substantiate or refute the charge he had been made aware of, Lord Lisle was a sensible person to consult. He might know whether there was any family tradition that Eleanor had married Edward and whether any evidence remained in Talbot hands.
Lord Lisle was from a Lancastrian family and Richard was about to offend the family of his wife, yet Lord Lisle remained with Richard and offered no opposition. Indeed, Lord Lisle attended Richard’s coronation, as did the Duchess of Norfolk, Elizabeth. Elizabeth had married John Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk and was the mother of Anne Mowbray, the ill-fated bride of Edward IV’s younger son. She had been born Elizabeth Talbot, though, the youngest daughter of John Talbot, 1st Earl of Shrewsbury and a sister of Eleanor Talbot. She was not so outraged by Richard’s accusations that she boycotted his coronation. Was this because Richard was, in actual fact, righting a wrong that the Talbot family perceived had been inflicted on one of their number by a deceitful young king?
There are many other elements to the precontract story. The timing is always cited as too convenient, but I would counter that George, Duke of Clarence seems to have been on the verge of revealing it in 1477 and it cost him his life. Who else would have been brave enough to trumpet the allegation during Edward IV’s lifetime? It would have been tantamount to signing your own death warrant. This piece of the puzzle is interesting though. We cannot be certain of the truth of the allegation of bigamy. We can, however, be entirely certain that the charge was made, that evidence was gathered (or fabricated), that what evidence existed was unanimously accepted by those able to examine it, that this evidence has subsequently been lost or destroyed and that there was no backlash from the Talbot family in 1483 (accepting that in 1485 Sir Gilbert Talbot, younger son of the 2nd Earl, joined Henry Tudor’s army).
It amazes me that such certainty in the fraud of the bigamy allegation is espoused today. There is no hard evidence for it, but there is also none against it. Expanding our consideration to more circumstantial elements, it is probable that the story nearly emerged in 1477, costing George his life, and it is certain that those who were exposed to the evidence in support of it entirely accepted it. It may have been a well-constructed lie, but it is at least as likely, if not more so, that it was true.
Tutbury Castle is being investigated by a team of young people from the Prince’s Trust, who have exposed a 17th-century floor. But Tutbury’s earlier history is mentioned, including Richard III’s 3-day visit from 22nd-26th October 1484. It is believed he went there to inspect building work, upon which £919 had been spent. I hope they’d spent it wisely!
Had they read Rhoda Edwards’ The Itinerary of King Richard III 1483-85, they might have learned of this connection decades ago when it was published in 1983! In any case, it is gratifying to see the enthusiasm with which the staff have embraced the castle’s Ricardian ties.
Tutbury Castle has a link not only to Richard III but also to his brother, George, Duke of Clarence. And in some historians’ minds, it played a critical role in influencing the actions of “false, fleeting, perjur’d Clarence” in his 1471-74 dispute with Richard over the Warwick Inheritance.
Just short of his seventeenth birthday, Clarence attained the age of majority, set off for his lordship of Tutbury, and was “at once immersed in administrative reform and litigation”. (M.A. Hicks, False, Fleeting, Perjur’d Clarence, pp. 26-7) Tutbury was part of the Duchy of Lancaster and thus owned by the crown since the accession of Henry IV in 1399. Clarence came to possess it by a grant from his brother Edward IV in the early 1460s, and it, along with Warwick Castle (Warwickshire) and Tiverton (Devon), became one of his principal residences. (Hicks, pp. 183-4)
Like many Duchy estates, it was managed by a steward, reeves, bailiffs and parkers – all generally from the local gentry and appointed by the king. When Clarence set off for Tutbury in 1466, he encountered a common fiscal dilemma in local Duchy administration. Many of the castle’s officers withheld the revenue they had collected; others misappropriated property or abused their power. “At Tutbury, where they had been accustomed to treating the estate as their own, Clarence had to resort to the courts not only to secure his revenue, but also to curb large scale poaching of his game.” (Hicks, 184) Every autumn thereafter, Clarence’s ministers would assemble for the purpose of auditing their accounts. (Hicks, 184)
Tutbury, however, would be on the bargaining table when Clarence defected to the Kingmaker’s campaign to put Henry VI back on the throne. Henry VI, his queen and his son, as well as the Lancastrians who were attainted and fled England after the Battle of Towton in 1461, demanded the return of confiscated estates to them once Lancastrian rule was restored in 1470. Tutbury had been used to dower Queen Margaret of Anjou, so what would happen to it once Henry VI re-occupied the throne? According to the Treaty of Angers, which was confirmed by Henry VI and presumably executed by Parliament, Clarence agreed to give up the honor of Tutbury, in exchange for the Duchy of York and full compensation for the loss of his other Duchy holdings. (Hicks, 88-97)
Following the restoration of Edward IV in 1471, Clarence came to re-possess Tutbury by a grant from his brother. However, he would lose it again in the dispute over the Warwick Inheritance with his brother Richard, then Duke of Gloucester. In 1473, Parliament passed an Act of Resumption which had the effect of nullifying all grants the king had made to Clarence. A year later, in 1474, Parliament passed a statute dividing the Warwick Inheritance between the two brothers. Clarence received other properties from the king to soften the blow of losing Tutbury.
Michael Hicks asserts that Clarence’s loyalties to Edward IV were weakened when he lost Tutbury during the division of the Warwick Inheritance in 1473. Yet, puzzlingly, Clarence had agreed to lose Tutbury without compensation in the Treaty of Angers of 1470, when he was negotiating with Henry VI and the Lancastrians. Tutbury had been a significant source of revenue for Clarence. It yielded forty per cent of his income. Its loss reduced his revenues to the levels received by Henry V’s brothers and made him dependent on the Warwick Inheritance. (Hicks, 193) While George still remained one of the wealthiest nobles in the realm, the loss of Tutbury injured his status and underscored the erosion of his “pride of place” in the Yorkist hierarchy. Thereafter, he was observed to have withdrawn from the royal court and later became so estranged from Edward IV’s favor that he was executed for treason in 1478, at the age of 28.
In 1484, Richard III stayed at Tutbury Castle for five days in October, where he issued a warrant to the auditors to perform an accounting of how funds had been used in a significant construction project there. One wonders if he thought about his brother Clarence, who had been executed six years earlier and who had so valued Tutbury as a principal residence and source of income, albeit for only a few fleeting years.