Tudor London 1540: Each night, after dark, men flock to Bankside seeking girls of easy virtue; prostitutes known as The Winchester Geese.
Whether you like it or not, Christmas is impossible to avoid and that also applies when writing historical Fiction. I have about eighteen books in my catalogue now and the season is featured in most of them. There is only so much information to be had on Christmas traditions in the different eras and I have just about covered them all in my novels. Sometimes I get jaded and skip the season and move on with the story.
I often think it would be nice to do so in reality, my purse and waistline would certainly benefit.
In Tudor times the whole concept of Christmas was very different to ours. Although many aspects of past traditions are still detectable in our own, they really are worlds apart.
Christmas was a time of prayer and feast; the spinning wheel which occupied a corner of most homes, sat idle until the first Monday after epiphany (Plough Monday) when work would be resumed. While we adorn a tree, they decorated the spinning wheel with evergreen boughs, holly and ivy, a remnant of a ritual from pagan times.
The yule log, a huge trunk or bundle of faggots (depending on the size of one’s hearth) was brought in from the forest. It was burned for the entire twelve days of the Christmas celebration, and it was considered lucky to keep charred remnants to start off next year’s yule fire. Aspects of this tradition are still in use today, although our log tends to consist of cake and chocolate icing.
In royal houses, as part of the festivities, a boy or a fool would be ‘crowned’ the Lord of Misrule. Under his command normal order was overturned and the fool became king, and vice versa.
The Lord of Misrule could command anybody to do anything. It was a time of total chaos and one that baffles me. I’ve a fertile imagination but I cannot imagine Henry VIII allowing anyone to make a public mockery of him, let alone a fool … but apparently, he did. And if their behaviour seems weird, it was nothing compared to the festive diet.
Poorer folk feasted on umble pie – pastry filled with the chopped and minced heart, liver, lungs and kidneys of a deer, but the affluent gorged on much richer fare. Along with the traditional Christmas dishes of swan, peacock and dolphin (yes, I know!) Henry VIII was the first monarch to introduce turkey to the royal table, but there were other … stranger things.
Christmas pie – sounds yummy – was rather like a Russian doll but with poultry, and consisted of a turkey stuffed with a goose, stuffed with a chicken, stuffed with a partridge, stuffed with a pigeon. This pie was served in a pastry case, surrounded by joints of hare, small game and wild fowl. May not be as yummy as it sounds then – I think I will be sticking with my vegetable wellington this year.
And if that sounds weird, Cockenthrice was weirder still. Most of us have seen the grotesques in the margins of medieval manuscripts, strange half-beasts comprised of different animals – a rabbit with a man’s head or a lion with a dragon’s head, or a snail with the head of a cat.
Well, it didn’t remain in the margins. The Tudor table benefitted from dishes that were constructed in a similar manner. Cockenthrice was comprised of a sucking pig, sewn to the back end of a goose (or something similar) – there are some gruesome pictures on-line - google it, you will be amazed!
Mince (or minst) pies might sound familiar but these were not made by Mr Kipling (other pies are available) and consisted largely of prunes, raisins, dates, powdered beef, butter, egg yolk, flour, suet or marrow, and minced mutton and seasoned with salt, pepper and saffron – these thirteen ingredients represented Christ and the apostles, all baked in a pie crust shaped like a manger to symbolise the holy birth.
For the rich it was time of excess but things didn’t always go according to plan.
As a historical novelist I sometimes get jaded writing about jolly, warm high jinks in fancy palaces and choose to venture into darker times, like Christmas eve 1497 when a fire at Sheen Palace where King Henry VII, Elizabeth of York, Margaret Beaufort and the young prince Henry, princesses Margaret and Mary were in residence. The cooks were busy in the kitchen, the jesters and mummers practicing for the big day when …
“About nine of the clock quite suddenly … within the king’s lodging and so continued till midnight. By violence whereof …(a) great part of the old building was burnt and much more harm done upon costrings (curtains) and hanging beds of cloth of gold and silk and much other rich apparel with plate and manifold jewels belonging to such a noble court. How well loving therefore be to God (that) no living creature was there perished…” (Robert Hutchinson, Young Henry, P.44)
The royal household was hurried outside to safety. You can imagine the scene; the confused and crying children, hastily wrapped in blankets, clasped in their nurses’ arms. Men rushing to fight the blaze, women weeping, screaming perhaps as the windows exploded and the ceilings collapsed in a great ball of flame. Henry and Elizabeth, and the king’s mother looked on in cold shock as their sumptuous palace was consumed.
I have no doubt they took refuge elsewhere and went on to enjoy some sort of joyful celebration but humbler folk enjoyed a poorer feast. They might kill the goose they’d been saving and throw an extra log on the fire but the truly destitute would barely be aware of the date. How hard it must have been to see and hear the preparations, to smell the aroma of roasting meat, peer through windows to see the flickering flame of roaring fires from which you were excluded by circumstance.
The Winchester Goose is narrated by Joanie Toogood who, along with her sisters, Sybil and Betsy, are prostitutes living and working in the stews of Southwark in Tudor London. Life is hard but they make the best of it. During an unexpected encounter with a lady of the court, Evelyn Bourn, the lady falls down the stairs outside Joanie’s chambers and suffers a severe injury.
Not knowing where she comes from and afraid of retribution for her part in the accident, Joanie keeps her with them, offering her rough but well-meaning care. In the following excerpt they are celebrating a meagre but hearty Christmas. Please excuse Joanie’s grammar, she hasn’t benefitted from any sort of education:
It will be a meagre Christmas this year and that’s for sure. It’s hard for me to work now, what with Sybil afraid of her own shadow and M’lady tied to the foot of my bed. I turn a few tricks about town but earn barely enough to fill our bellies. And to top it all, my little sister Betsy is set on wedding a farmer’s boy from way up river, some far flung place I’ve never been to. Good luck to her, I say, but since Betsy is our best earner, it means we are deeper in the mire than anyone’d wish to be. It don’t seem to worry her none, she flounces about as gaily as you please, as if I haven’t had the care of her since she learned to walk.
Since early November the rain has fallen without easement, the wind blowing it in beneath the shingle, the damp chill filling the air and settling in my bones. Now that December is here, the cold increases, casting a layer of hoar frost upon the heads of the Queen’s lovers that the King has pinned to the bridge by way of warning. We’ve heard no word of the faithless little Queen herself, but I imagine her fate will not be one to envy. I’d sooner be me, hungry as I am.
But I’ve no time to worry for her overmuch for I’ve mouths to feed and a gently born lady to keep warm. I’ve pinned my Ma’s thick shawl across her narrow shoulders, it’s a plain home spun thing against the tattered silk of her gown but it warms her a little. I still don’t know what to do with her and she shows no sign of improving or remembering who she is or what happened.
Sometimes now, she shouts. Loud, crude words that I’d never have thought to hear from the likes of her. Other times she hollers words that we can’t understand and when these times are upon her she fidgets and strains at her bonds and nothing will soothe her but a cuddle from me. But most of the time she is quiet, as if placidly waiting for something to change.
But nothing does.
Every day I wash her face and hands, make sure her petticoats are clean before I set out to make a penny or two along the Bankside. I do not tarry if I can help it for my absence makes her fractious.
The smell of roasting meat from the cook-houses sets my mouth alive; I can all but feel how the juice would run down my chin if I could only bite into it. At home, all that awaits me is a week-old pot of pease-pudding, but at least I’ve earned enough this morning to buy some bread to sop it up with.
When my customer has had enough, I drop my skirts, and he lets a couple of pennies fall into my hand. “I’m grateful, Ned,” I say, and leave him to go his own ways. I see a baker’s boy with a tray of wares and relieve him of a couple of loaves, reluctantly hand over the pennies before scurrying off homeward.
The steps to my chamber are slick with ice so I climb them with care before throwing open the door and unravelling my shawl. “I’m back,” I call, although in the one room we share they won’t have missed the blast of colder air that heralds my arrival.
M’lady is straining at her leash, wanting to give me welcome, so I dump the loaves on the table and go and take her hand. The strange, animal sounds she makes when she’s happy scare Sybil silly, but I just smooth back her hair and stroke her cheek and she calms down, retreating into silence.
Before I fill my belly I clean myself, using the bowl of rainwater that has filtered through the shingles. It is cold enough to shrivel my nethers and a curious shade of yellow, but it cleans me well enough. Meanwhile Sybil doles out pease-pudding into three bowls and rips the bread into chunks, saving one loaf for supper. Then, tucking a cloth beneath her chin, I begin to spoon the food into M’lady’s mouth. When it has near all gone, I soak the bread in the remaining gravy and put it into her hand.
“Stoke up the fire a bit, Sybil,” I say, putting my feet up and folding my hands across my belly. Outside the wind still howls and night is falling early, making me wish for thick curtains to draw against the cold. Such is the delight of December, short days and long nights. I think of the frigid days still to come, the relentless cruelty of January and February. I long for the springtime when the very air makes it good to be alive.
“Tell us a story, Joanie,” says Sybil, settling herself close to the hearth and poking at the glowing embers. M’lady, hearing her words, sits up on the bed, crosses her legs and appears to listen too. As I launch into a tale of brave King Arthur and his lusty knights, her eyes do not leave my face but seem to drink the story up. It is just as I am reaching the part where the boy hauls the great sword of England from its stone that we hear heavy footsteps on the stair and the door is thrown wide. We all turn in surprise.
“Peter! By all that’s holy. Where have you been, boy?”
He blushes, pleased that I’ve missed him, and holds a jug of ale aloft. “I had to go to Kennington. My uncle was ailing and I helped out for a while. I am back now and hope to stay.”
The glance he casts in my direction leaves me in no doubt as to which way his mind is wandering. But I can hardly throw Sybil out in the cold and M’lady is taking up the only bed. He passes the jug to me and I tip it to my lips to let the rich, cool liquid flow down my throat. Then I pass it to Sybil and after she has had her fill, she hands it back to Peter. When my turn comes round again, I see M’lady watching and I go to her and hold the jug to her lips. A trickle of ale runs down her chin and along her throat, disappearing beneath her bodice, making her laugh.
The jug is soon empty and when Peter gets up to fetch another from the Cock’s Inn on the corner, I follow him outside and wait on the balcony for his return. When he reaches the top stair, he puts down the jug and I slide my arms about his neck, wanting to feel the touch of a friend. I turn my face from his kisses but welcome his fondling hands, and before we go back in we couple quickly and efficiently, my bottom slapping against the roughness of the wall. The moon looks down unabashed while Peter smiles sheepishly, as red as a cock’s comb to the roots of his hair as he refastens his piece. I pull down my skirts and open the door to stumble inside.
It is not long before we are all as drunk as lords. While Sybil sings a bawdy song about a priest and a gander, Peter begins to dance an unsteady jig and I scramble up to join him. I lift my skirts to my knees and circle the room, my boots making a din on the wooden floorboards, my dugs doing a separate jig all of their own.
When Peter and me fall laughing and panting to the floor, M’lady kneels up on the bed, clapping her hands, her mouth gaping in delight.
“She wants to dance too,” cries Sybil, with the spirit of Christmas upon her. I go merrily toward M’lady to untie the ribbon that holds her fast. She is still giggling when she grabs my hands and begins to dance, forcing my feet to move in steps I do not know.
After a while, I pull away and she dances alone, her movements more graceful than anything any of us have ever seen before. We watch her in silence, the coarseness of the celebration suddenly seeming out of place.
Her arms are arched like a pair of swans’ necks and she tilts her head, a dainty foot appearin’ and disappearin’ beneath her skirts in time to music only she can hear. She is a ragged Queen in the company of whores. A winsome smile plays upon her face and there are tears upon her cheeks, as if she is remembering another dance in some other place.
If you’d like to spend more time with Joanie and her sisters and follow the adventures of Evelyn The Winchester Goose is available on Kindle, Kindle Unlimited, Paperback and is narrated by Alex Lee on Audible.
Judith Arnopp
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About the Author
A Matter of Conscience: Henry VIII: the Aragon YearsA Matter of Faith: Henry VIII: The days of the PhoenixA Matter of Time: Henry VIII: The dying of the LightThe Heretic Wind: the life of Mary Tudor, Queen of EnglandSisters of Arden: on the Pilgrimage of GraceThe Beaufort Bride: Book one of The Beaufort ChronicleThe Beaufort Woman: Book two of The Beaufort ChronicleThe King’s Mother: Book three of The Beaufort ChronicleThe Winchester Goose: at the Court of Henry VIIIA Song of Sixpence: the story of Elizabeth of YorkIntractable Heart: the story of Katheryn ParrThe Kiss of the Concubine: a story of Anne BoleynA Daughter of Warwick: the story of Anne NevilleThe Book of ThornholdThe Song of HeleddThe Forest DwellersPeaceweaver
Judith is also a founder member of a re-enactment group called The Fyne Companye of Cambria and makes historical garments both for the group and others. She is not professionally trained but through trial, error and determination has learned how to make authentic looking, if not strictly HA, clothing. Her non-fiction book How to Dress like a Tudor is published by Pen&Sword books. Her work is also available in many anthologies. Find out more at Judith's website www.judithmarnopp.com/ and find her on Facebook, Bluesky, Threads and Twitter @JudithArnopp
