Childbirth with Jane Seymour

It’s September 1537, and England’s queen is eight months pregnant. She’s just bid farewell to the court and is entering into her confinement. For the next month, at least, she will see no one but her ladies, the midwives, and - God forbid, if things go wrong - a male doctor. She watches from bed as her ladies’ maids move quietly about her chamber, draping large tapestries over her windows and pulling heavy velvet curtains shut to block out light. She will wait in this womb-like space for the arrival of her baby. The room is quiet, but her own anxious thoughts must be loud. 

 After all, both of the king’s first two wives suffered miscarriages and still births. They fell from grace because they couldn’t give Henry VIII a male heir. And now it’s Jane Seymour’s turn, and she knows how much is riding on the contents of her very pregnant belly. She rests a hand on the rounded swell and sends up a prayer to God to protect her on this perilous journey. Jane’s queenship, her marriage, and her life are all at stake.

 Most Tudor women were pregnant several times during their lifetimes. That was the goal, and considered perhaps her most important duty, both in the eyes of God and her society at large. So much rode on her ability to have children - especially boys - but it’s a dangerous proposition. Especially for one of England’s queens. In this episode, we’ll follow Jane as she tries to get pregnant, through her nine months of pregnancy and into the birthing room. She’ll be our tour guide through all things pregnancy related for a woman in the Tudor age. We have a special guest traveling with us, too: historian Elizabeth Norton, author of many books about the Tudor age.

 Grab your pregnancy manual, your holy girdle, and call the midwife: let’s go traveling. 

This dynastic portrait of Henry VIII and his family shows the king in the center flanked by his third wife, Jane Seymour and their son, Edward VI. On the left is Princess Mary, and on the right Princess Elizabeth. Jane had been deceased for quite a while when he had this painted. A little weird? I mean…maybe. Credit: “The Family of Henry VIII,” British School 16th Century Artist, oil on canvas, 1545, Hampton Court Palace, Royal Collection Trust.

MY RESOURCES

Books & Scholarly Articles

Podcasts

  • Natalie Grueninger and Adrienne Dillard, “All Things Jane Seymour with Adrienne Dillard,” Talking Tudors Podcast, episode 83, August 13, 2020.

  • Natalie Grueninger and Julia Martins, “Reproduction and the Female Body with Julia Martins,” Talking Tudors Podcast, episode 106, June 20, 2022.

  • Dana Schwartz, “Died,” Noble Blood (presented by Grim & Mild), episode 21, April 14, 2020.

Online Sources

Videos

Interviews

  • Elizabeth Norton, interview by Kate Armstrong, August 24, 2021, transcript and recording, The Exploress Podcast.

Jane Seymour rocking that gable hood. Hair covered equals modesty intact.

“Portrait of Jane Seymour,” Hans Holbein the Younger, oil on panel, 1540, Mauritshuis.

EPISODE TRANSCRIPT

ENTER JANE SEYMOUR

Before we dive headfirst into all things Tudor childbearing, let’s meet our queen. Jane Seymour has a reputation for being one of Henry VIII’s most boring wives, but the story of how she comes into his orbit is anything but. She had been a fixture at court for years before Henry started sending her heart eyes. She served as lady in waiting for both Catherine of Aragon AND Anne Boleyn. Jane, a staunch Catholic, greatly respected Catherine, and she LOVED her daughter Mary. In fact, they were only a few years apart in age. It saddened her to see those two women fall from grace, cast out by the man who was supposed to protect them. We don’t know what she might have thought about her replacement, Anne Boleyn: she wisely did her duty and kept her thoughts to herself. But we can assume she was skeptical: wary, even. And what about Henry, the tempestuous king of England? What did she think of him? Now that’s a complicated question.

 Jane was born the seventh of eight children, to a courtier who served Henry VIII. With three older and rather dashing brothers, Jane was often overlooked by the rest of her family. Her education was indifferent: she wasn’t a great reader, and wasn’t fluent in a multitude of languages. But she was good at domestic duties, and sweet: she’d make some man a perfectly good wife. They managed to get her sent to court as a lady in waiting, where they hoped she would meet someone suitable, but they weren’t fretting over it. Her dad wasn’t hustling to find her a husband; the family didn’t have a juicy dowry on offer for her, and no one, Jane included, dreamed that she would wed a king. Also, her dad caused a bit of a salacious scandal by sleeping, allegedly, with his son Edward's wife. That scandal certainly didn’t enhance her marriage prospects. But we think that MAY have inspired the Seymours to start pushing their daughter in Henry’s direction. After all, he’d already left ONE wife for a lady in waiting. Why not encourage him to do it for another?

 It definitely wasn’t love at first sight, no matter what Henry might tell you. Jane was blonde, fair, and perfectly nice looking, but she wasn’t considered particularly stunning. Eustace Chapuys, the Spanish ambassador, described Jane as “of middle stature and no great beauty.” (Rude, Eustace.) But in many ways, Jane was Henry’s ideal woman: submissive, docile, devoted. Especially after the firestorm that was Anne Boleyn, whose passion, which he enjoyed so much during their courtship, turned out to be more than he bargained for in a wife. There was another issue on his mind in 1536: his succession.

Anne had just had a miscarriage: it’s said she lost a son. And every Tudor man knows that women are to blame for miscarriages. (God says so, probably!). Isn’t that why he married Anne: to grow his family and assure his legacy? If she can’t give him sons, then what is it all for? But Jane’s family was fertile. Her mother had eight children, all of them healthy. When Henry paid a visit to Wolf Hall, Jane’s home, he saw their bountiful domestic bliss for himself. Perhaps that’s when he started to turn his eye to that sweet blonde lady’s maid he’s seen by Anne’s side: Jane, wasn’t it? Quiet, sweet Jane, whose mother had given her husband so many sons.

 Anne had plenty of enemies both in court and outside of it, all of whom were more than happy to push Henry and Jane together. But she only truly captured his full attention when she took a page out of Anne’s How To Get A Man playbook. Jane played hard to get…and it worked. By early 1536, Henry was giving Jane a purse of gold, even though she was still serving as his current wife’s lady in waiting. But Jane wasn’t about to accept money from a married man. When a messenger brought her the gift, along with a letter from Henry, she kissed it, but left it unopened. She turned to the messenger and said: “I am a prudent gentlewoman of good and honorable family, a woman without reproach who has no greater treasure in this world than my honor, which I would not harm for a thousand deaths.” She returned the purse and asked that Henry save them until she made a good marriage to…well, someone. (Hint, hint.) It’s hard to know for sure what drives Jane here: is it her ambitious family, or Anne’s haters? Her head or her heart? Either way, there’s no doubt that Sweet Jane has iron at the core of her, because she must know how high the stakes are in the game she finds herself playing. Winning the heart of the King of England means nothing if you can’t give him what he wants.

And so, not so long after, Henry put her on trial for treason. Mouthy, troublesome Anne, who couldn’t give him a son. Anne’s fall is a lot more complex than that, of course: listen to our interview with Natalie G for more detail on how that all goes down. But regardless of why Henry decided to move on to his next baby mama, we know that he proposes to Jane just 24 hours after he has Anne put to death. (How romantic!). They are married 10 days after Anne’s execution, and for obvious reasons, the ceremony is kept very private. (Even Henry knew celebrating so soon after murdering your ex-wife could be seen as distasteful). Anne’s initials and personal badges are quickly erased, replaced with Jane’s rather haphazardly - so much so that you can still see the A’s underneath the J’s when you visit Hampton Court Palace. How’s that for an awkward transition.

When Jane, age 28, was formally presented as queen that June for the first time, she was getting a LOT of side-eye. Anne’s death was shocking - a queen of England had never been put to death before - and even though many people hadn’t liked Anne, they found it VERY suspicious that Henry had a backup wife ready and waiting. As our favorite gossip Chapuys wrote: “…you never saw a prince nor man who made greater show of his [cuckold’s] horns. Or bore them more pleasantly. I leave you to imagine the case.” Damn, Eustace!

Gossip was flying even before they got married. Henry wrote a letter to Jane during their courtship, in the week leading up to Anne Boleyn’s execution, informing her that: “there is a ballad made lately of great derision against us, which if it go much abroad and is seen by you, I pray you to pay no manner of regard to it. I am not at present informed who is the setter forth of this malignant writing, but if he is found out he shall be straitly punished for it.”

Henry’s latest actions had been causing a great deal of whispering. What with the divorce, the mistress, and the subsequent murdering of said mistress-turned-wife. But the rumor that angered him most was one that had begun during Anne’s treason trial. Anne’s brother, George, hit a nerve when he suggested that Henry “... was no good in bed with women, and that he had neither potency nor force.” What’s worse, he said he got this intel from ANNE. George was executed four days later, but the damage was done, and rumors of Henry’s impotency spread. Nevermind that he’s already fathered two daughters: Henry’s street cred was badly damaged by his struggle to provide a legitimate male heir: the kind of damage that no bejeweled, massive codpiece can make right again. The only way to shut up his naysayers is to get his new queen pregnant with a SON, posthaste. 

GETTING PREGNANT

Expectations for women to bear children are immense in Tudor England. Pregnancy is a big part of most Tudor women’s lives. Here’s Elizabeth.

ELIZABETH NORTON: …most Tudor women were expected to become Tudor mothers and multiple times - you know, we have sort of 8, 9, 10 pregnancies is really not unusual - because, you know, birth control is fairly rudimentary in the period. And also because children die. So actually, if you want to ensure that you're going to have children who carry on your line into later generations, you need quite a lot of children to do that. 

Bearing children is considered a womanly duty, especially for queens, as they’re responsible for producing future heirs to the throne. But all Tudor wives are told that bearing children is their sacred duty. Imagine, then, if you’re having trouble conceiving: a stressful and upsetting prospect in any era. There are books of advice, called “books of secrets,” that a woman can turn to in such situations, full of advice and recipes a lady might try to ensure she gets pregnant. Maybe Jane Seymour tried a few on the sly. The general consensus on the best time to conceive is just after a woman’s had her period; that’s when the womb will be at its cleanest and tidiest, a well-swept house ready to welcome the male seed. It’s actually menstruation that ensures our womb houses are as clean as they need to be, so these books offer us ladies lots of recipes for bringing on a period. Also, the humoral theory suggests that we ladies are cold and wet by nature, so the best way to ensure we conceive is to warm up our wombs. They recommend aphrodisiacs that not only get a lady’s engine running, but also heat our lady palace, making it more likely for conjugal visits to bear fruit. 

Those looking to get pregnant will also turn to God for assistance. There were specific patron saints associated with different aspects of reproduction. Pregnant women hoping for a healthy baby prayed to St. Margaret the Virgin, barren women hoping to conceive prayed to St. Anne, and all women hoping to become mothers prayed to the Virgin Mary. If prayers didn’t work, women could turn to religious guidebooks, like The Monument of Matrons, which offered advice on things like infertility. Unfortunately, many of these books weren’t super helpful, seeing as they were written mostly by male priests. One such book helpfully informed female readers that barrenness was a punishment for sinful behavior, and encouraged them to pray and examine themselves to figure out what they had done to deserve this. (Yikes.)

So…how do Tudor women like Jane know they’re pregnant? There aren’t any blood tests or plastic sticks to pee on. There are technically Tudor pregnancy tests - dipping a needle in your urine to see if it rusts, for example - but they’re not very reliable, and skipped periods aren’t necessarily a clear sign that you’re expecting. Skipped periods are common in Tudor times, the result of poor diet or illness. And then there’s the risk of a phantom pregnancy. A woman might experience a cessation of her period, abdominal bloating, fatigue, back pain, and every appearance of pregnancy, only to find out there’s nothing in there. Mary, Catherine of Aragon’s daughter, will have at least one of these. 

Perhaps that’s why, in the very early days of pregnancy, your average Tudor person doesn’t consider the life inside you a person. A baby doesn’t receive its soul until 46 days in for a boy, and 90 days in for a girl. How did someone stick such numbers on “ensoulment”? I have no idea, but it means that a girl baby spends nearly three months in utero before a Tudor considers her a whole being. 

Most Tudor women won’t know they’re carrying a child until around the five months mark. This is when they first feel their baby moving inside them, an experience referred to as “the quickening.” Before this point, Tudor don’t consider abortion a bad thing, because the pregnancy isn’t really official until you can actually feel something in there. Royal pregnancy announcements are only made after the quickening had taken place, because they have to be sure, given the huge national hopes pinned on the royal uterus. Hopes, and of course, much anxiety.

As Henry VIII’s third wife, Jane knows it’s her duty to deliver the country’s long-awaited future king: her queensip depends on it. But giving Henry a boy hasn’t historically been an easy thing to do. His first two wives experienced 10 pregnancies and 7 miscarriages and neonatal deaths between them; they tried their best, but neither gave Henry the heir he needs. Catherine DID give him a son, but devastatingly the infant died at just a couple of weeks old. Only one woman has given him a thriving boy child: Bessie Blount, his one-time mistress. Henry used her ability to bear his male child as a stick to beat Catherine with, a means of blaming her for not giving him boys. And then she was replaced - both she and Anne - and their childbirth struggles played a big part in their downfall. A fact that can’t ever be very far from Jane’s mind. She knows that, no matter how much Henry professes to love her, his fond feelings are attached to the hopes he has for their union. If her child isn’t a boy, she could be replaced too. 

 Thankfully, there’s some advice on conceiving boys in those books of secrets. Many are based on the humoral theory. Women are cold and wet, men are hot and dry, so a hot womb is key to the conception of boy babies. Those looking to ensure male heirs also shouldn’t have sex when the wind blows southwards, and a woman should make sure her complexion is clear. She should lie on her right side while trying to conceive, since everyone knows the uterus is segmented into two halves, and boys occupy the right side. I’m sure the Tudor lady finds these tips all VERY helpful. Some Tudors also believe that women can control the sex of their baby based upon the types of food they eat, or by drinking particular medicinal concoctions. They had no idea that sperm were responsible for the sex of the child. (You hear that, Henry? Why don’t you drink this nasty homemade potion, if you want a boy so badly?) At least the Tudors believe a woman’s pleasure is central to the business of heir making. If she doesn’t get her pleasure, releasing her OWN seed alongside her husband’s, there’s no way they’ll be conceiving. So there’s that.

 All this advice makes it clear that having a daughter is considered a woman’s failure - lady, you clearly weren’t trying hard enough. So the expectation, especially for royal women, is that a mother who gives birth to a daughter will have to start trying again right away for a son. After giving birth to her first child, a stillborn girl, Catherine of Aragon was pressured to get pregnant again as soon as possible. When at last she gave birth to Princess Mary, Henry celebrated the tender moment by remarking that, “by God’s grace, boys will follow.” (Bite me, Henry.) Boy babies aren’t desired just because of sexism: it’s also because Tudors believe that, “generally the birth of the man is easier than the birth of the female.” Daughters aren’t just failures: they are difficult failures. Try telling that to future queens Mary and Elizabeth.

 Of course, it isn’t only queens who hope to get speedily with child: whose lives depend on it. It’s also a fervent wish for women who find themselves in the Tudor prison system. If an incarcerated woman can prove she is with child, she can “plead the belly:” no one’s going to hang a woman with a child inside her. A pregnancy buys her time to receive, hopefully, a royal pardon. In 1579, a woman named Catherine Longley is brought into prison for supposedly stealing a woman’s cassock and hat, and shortly after pleads the belly. Three other women do, too. It’s four months before they’re all tested, giving them plenty of time to become pregnant if they aren’t already. In the mixed prisons of the day, trying for such a situation isn’t all that hard a thing to do. 

Tudor women weren’t encouraged to get around showing off a baby bump, but sometimes queens would go out of their way to do just that.

Cecily Heron, Sir Thomas More’s daughter, by Hans Holbein the Younger, 1527. This sketch shows Cecily in just have loosened bodice. She’s put her yellow stomacher underneath her laces to keep her modesty intact. Citation: Royal Collection Trust, RCIN 912269.

BEING PREGNANT

Think what you want about Jane’s actions: there’s no doubt she was in a fraught and difficult situation. Lucky for Henry, Jane is able to make good on the promises she’d made. As her motto, she took on the phrase “bound to obey and serve.” And she did serve: before long, she became pregnant. In May of 1537, an ecstatic Henry officially announced that his wife was expecting. His subjects were all too happy to join in Henry’s joy, and celebratory bonfires were lit around the country following the announcement. Henry even supplied the people of London with hogsheads of wine so that they could revel in the good news, and many people took to the streets to engage in public prayers and festivities. (A toast to the royal baby… and free drinks!). But for Jane, it also marks a period of deep anxiety. What if, like the queens who came before her, she has a miscarriage? What if the baby growing in her belly isn’t the boy the country so badly desires?

So once a Tudor lady becomes pregnant, what’s the prevailing wisdom on how to stay that way? 

ELIZABETH NORTON: But once you're certain that you're pregnant, you have to start looking after yourself. You know, we know from for example, the letters of Katherine Parr that she knew about eating healthily and taking exercise to ensure that she's healthy in pregnancy. A lot of women, poorer women, will just continue to work until they give birth. Royal women and upper class women that are a little bit more looked after.

 Tudor women are encouraged to, as one book from the era puts it, “take good heed to her diet to comfort and strengthen the body,” and “moderately exercise the body.” Many women’s manuals and obstetrics textbooks include recipes for vaginal incense, herbal baths, potions and pessaries: pills or preparations wrapped in wool, and inserted into one’s privy chamber. (Because being pregnant isn’t uncomfortable enough.) Another Tudor text assures us that: “It shall also be very profitable for her to perfume the nether places with musk, amber, or gallia muscata… all these fumes open the pores beneath and causeth nature to be freer in deliverance.” But our bodies aren’t just vessels: our thoughts and emotions can influence the kind of person our baby will be. It can affect their looks, too. One source from the era tells a cautionary tale about a woman who looked at too much stimulating art while pregnant, and her baby came out covered in hair. So we have to think about what kinds of sights and sounds we expose ourselves to. No gazing at any particularly violent art or staring too long at Henry’s giant codpiece. 

 As Jane’s belly grows and she comes closer to delivery, she’ll enter a period of isolation, of confinement, in a ritual referred to as“taking to her chamber.” This lying-in period is pretty much exactly what it sounds like: a period when the woman lies down to rest, a state in which she stays until delivery. Jane isn’t messing around- in the final month before her delivery, she stays confined to her chambers, surrounded by total secrecy. She isn’t taking any chances with the health and safety of her child, and Henry isn’t either. He actually declines to travel to York to preside over an annual Council meeting just so he can be near Jane in case she goes into labor early. The meeting is in September, and Jane won’t give birth until October, but it is hard to be precise about due dates since they don’t actually know how far along she is. 

 What can we expect to find in Jane’s birthing chamber? It’s actually all laid out in the official rulebook of the Royal Household, including exact specifications for the acceptable number and colors of any cushions. This is a serious business. Let’s turn this lavish bedroom into a fancy cell! 

ELIZABETH NORTON: And it's a very sort of cloistered, quiet space. So all the walls are covered in hangings, the windows are covered in hangings as well, because they don't want too much light or heat in. And there's one small window that is covered by a smaller hanging that you can take off if the Queen really wants some air and some light, but in general, it's not encouraged. 

 It’s dark, likely hot, and stuffy, and devoid of any wall hangings that include scary pictures. (To avoid frightening the future fetus, obviously.) Tapestries portrayed violent hunts might startle a lady, and we wouldn’t want such thoughts and emotions to pass on to the child. This period of confinement usually lasts about a month, though of course most Tudor women don’t have the luxury of lying around in such a manner. They will be working right up until contractions start. 

 All this elaborate preparation is meant to keep the expectant mother calm, rested, and healthy, but it doesn’t sound like a very stimulating staycation. Good thing she’s got her ladies with her. During confinement, men are not allowed to step foot in Jane’s rooms. The space is now considered the royal birthing chamber, and childbirth is strictly a woman’s domain. In very rare circumstances, a royal physician or a male surgeon might be permitted to enter the birthing chamber to save a mother’s life. But 9 times out of 10, men are simply not allowed. Jane’s ladies take on all the vital roles, including the ones a man would usually do: butler, server. This is one of the only spaces in Tudor England where women run the show - where women rule. Dr. Wertt, a male physician in Hamburg, learned this the hard way in 1552, when he posed as a woman in order to attend a patient in labor… and was burned at the stake as a result. (Dr. Wertt clearly forgot the old adage- what happens in the birthing chamber stays in the birthing chamber.)

 Tudor women are quite secretive about childbirth, and guard their knowledge about it zealously. Childbirth is private women’s business. Without many reliable medical texts, all the knowledge Tudors have about childbirth come from women’s past experiences, so women, and only women, are considered the experts. (There are no female physicians yet, because of course there aren’t.) Instead, female relatives or friends will often assist during labor, but the midwife is the one calling the shots. 

CALL THE MIDWIFE

Midwives have one of the most important jobs in all of Tudor England. The best of them are highly prized: women of every social class pass on recommendations for the have-to-have midwives, and securing them a top priority. A really good midwife can command almost any fee she likes. Though it isn’t uncommon for them to help out women of lesser means, waiving their fee in order to do right by them. This woman plays a vital, sought-after role.

ELIZABETH NORTON: Midwives are really, really important…And right down the social scale, you'll have a midwife at a birth, also female relatives, but the midwife is...they would have assisted in the birth of so many babies, that they're really more of an expert than the doctors. 

As we learned in our episodes on Catherine of Aragon, midwives also have a rare religious power for women. When it doesn’t look like a child will survive, they have a church dispensation to baptize babies, ensuring they will go to heaven. This is an incredibly weighty responsibility to bear.

Most midwives learn their trade through apprenticeships, practicing with women who have long been working in the field, but the Tudor period does see an increase in formal regulations and training for midwives. Before then, medical literature about childbirth was circulated solely within the female community. They shared it almost covertly, passing it down orally or through handwritten recipes or manuscripts. Thus texts on childbirth weren’t widely distributed or published because they existed only for a female readership. Up until the 16th century, the most widely used manuscripts about childbirth and female medicine were written by an 11th century Italian woman, Trota of Salerno, now considered the world’s first gynecologist. Her Trotula manuscripts placed a heavy emphasis on keeping this knowledge among women, and warned any male readers that they’d be punished by God should they reveal any of its secrets. Amazing. But this also means that women were getting medical knowledge about their bodies from a manuscript from the Middle Ages, which was actually based on outdated texts from Ancient Greece.

But that’s one of the reasons a good midwife is everything in Tudor-era childbirth. She’s seen it all and done it all, and has the hands-on knowledge and expertise that most medical men of this period sorely lack. But as the field of medicine grows, Tudor male physicians are starting to get suspicious. Do we like that obstetrics is the one area of medicine that lies outside the patriarchal purview of the medical establishment? (You know- the establishment that claims that a woman’s wandering uterus is the reason she’s inferior to men? I don’t think so.) They are alarmed by women’s medical literacy on childbirth- and more importantly, their lack of access to it. After all, such knowledge means more money for their burgeoning medical practices, and they resent how successfully midwives have been gatekeeping the field. Thus, we see these men elbowing their way in, publishing a flurry of manuals about obstetrics. Take The Birth of Mankind, a popular textbook published in English in 1545. It was written by men, for women. In a lot of ways, it looked similar to a contemporary medical textbook- it contained descriptions of the amniotic sac and the placenta, facts about newborn conditions and treatments, and had information about neonatal care like cutting the cord, bathing, and swaddling. The most mind blowing thing about The Birth of Mankind, though, is the inclusion of anatomical diagrams called Birth Figures, which depict the positions of the fetus in the womb. The writer got most of his intel from older sources that go all the way back to Soranus in Ancient Greece, but still, its publication gave midwives visual aids they could consult during delivery. But reading The Birth of Mankind also means stomaching the heavy condescension of author Thomas Raynald. It’s clear that he thinks his knowledge of a woman’s uterus makes him a greater authority than the midwives who actually deal with real ones daily.

The legendary “birth figures” featured in The Byrth of Mankind, showing various positions of the fetus in the womb to assist midwives during labor. 

Katie Birkwood, “The byrth of mankind, otherwyse named the womans booke, by Thomas Raynalde, published 1545,” Royal College of Physicians, February 5, 2016. The Birth of Mankind



Some male authors acknowledge that midwives are the real experts, but far more actually warn female readers about the dangers of employing them. The author of the German text, Rosegarden for Pregnant Women and Midwives, writes, “The midwives each and all Who know so little of their call That through neglect and oversight They destroy children far and wide And work such evil industry That they take life while doing their duty And earn from this a handsome fee.” He continues to insult the midwives and in the next breath implores them to read his book, which he promises will tell them how to do their job right. A job said author has never actually done before. (Gee, thanks buddy.)

Tudor doctors didn’t let complete ignorance of the female body stop them from trying to take over. They decide to respond to their lack of control over female medical knowledge by attempting to subvert it. They argue that female midwives aren’t educated enough to deliver babies, and that their formal medical training should be the preferable standard. Though, of course, such establishments don’t let women in, so…tough luck there. They also claim that the only way for women and midwives to understand childbirth is by buying their books. Doctors: mansplaining childbirth since…well, since forever. 

The takeaway is this: if you’re going into labor in the Tudor period, a female midwife is who you want behind you. Women are the ones most likely to get you through this trial.

GIVING BIRTH

What might the actual birth look like, other than zero natural light, lots of calming tapestries, and an obvious lack of Y chromosomes? It’s hard to say, as the whole thing is a very private affair. We have some ideas, though, at least when it comes to a royal woman, because queens don’t have the luxury of privacy at any time. So we know Jane will give birth on a small pallet bed brought in specifically for the birth, set up in her chamber at the foot of her fancy bed. After all, birth is a messy affair, and all beds-especially royal beds- are expensive. No sense in getting afterbirth on the feather mattress, ya feel me? 

 During labor, Jane will be cared for by several midwives. A royal physician will also be in attendance (Jane is the queen, after all), but he’s really only there if something goes wrong. Some of the rituals that enfold once birth begins are more about folklore and medicine. Her ladies will remove all of her rings, buckles, and other confining features. Her ladies won’t be crossing their legs, either: no one needs such symbols of constraint and strangulation at a time such as this. They also might rub creams onto her belly, infused with things like brandy and saffron, to help aid her contractions. There are likely to be other herbal remedies, too, including everything from meadowsweet and almonds to eel liver and ants’ eggs. Look, don’t knock it til you’ve tried it.

In the Tudor period, most women give birth in the groveling position, which is a position between kneeling and being down on all fours. Some women, such as Catherine of Aragon, favored the birthing stool, a newer invention from France and Germany. Regardless, most women are surrounded by their female family members and friends during labor. Jane is most likely surrounded by her ladies, who are there to assist the midwives and to offer comfort and moral support. If you’re a woman of lesser means, you can still hope to have such women around you, but really good midwives can be costly. If you’re a very poor woman, especially one who’s giving birth out of wedlock, you’ll be likely just to find a safe and clean place to lie down.

Religion also plays a big role in childbirth. This is one of the most dangerous moments in a Tudor woman’s life, and there are no real painkillers. After all, everyone believed that childbirth was so painful because of Eve’s questionable decision making in the Garden of Eden. (Thanks, Eve.) Thus most of the recipes and advice about a smooth delivery aren’t about how to make it less painful, but how to ensure it’s over with quickly. The quicker the labor, the less chance that something can go wrong. In the absence of heavy painkillers or pharmaceutical opiates, women resort to clutching holy relics and reciting prayers to manage their pain. (Although I have to imagine many women were straight up screaming their prayers as well.) 

Given the dangers, it’s no wonder Tudor women find comfort in religion. In Tudor times, more than one in three women die during their child-bearing years.

ELIZABETH NORTON: So I always think it's a really telling statistic, that of the five Tudor queens that actually give birth, three of them die in childbirth: Elizabeth of York, Jane Seymour, Katherine Parr, and they had the best medical care. So it's really, really dangerous. So women tried to protect themselves. 

It must be said that this stat isn’t as awful as it sounds, when you consider how many times the average Tudor woman gives birth and that not all of these deaths happen BECAUSE OF childbirth, but still: it’s sobering. Dying in childbirth is common enough that many women actually write their wills before they give birth, just in case. And we’re not just talking about less advantaged women here. Although noble women have richer diets and more adequate rest time, they are just as likely to experience complications during labor. Henry’s mother, Elizabeth of York, died from a postpartum infection days after losing a daughter. 

Sometimes religious charms are  tied around the mother’s toes or thighs, and amulets or amber might be placed upon her stomach to aid in the safe delivery of the child. Holy birthing girdles served a similar purpose. These “girdles” were usually prayer rolls thought to have been relics of the saints, and they’d be lent out by the church and wrapped around a mother’s belly during labor. They were essentially long strips of parchment with drawings of the cross and handwritten invocations scrawled on them, to be read aloud by the midwife to invoke the protection of the saints. One such prayer roll spelled out the following ritual for a safe birth: “Let that woman who cannot nourish her child walk to the grave of a departed person and then step three times over the burial, and then say these words three times: this as my remedy for the hateful late birth, this as my remedy for the oppressive heavy birth, this as my remedy for the hateful lame birth.” 

As we discovered in our episodes on religion with Catherine of Aragon, the religious rituals associated with childbirth looked a little different after the Reformation, as a result of Henry ordering the destruction of all holy relics. This meant that most Tudor women were no longer able to rely on religious talismans during birth, and they just had to hope that prayers alone were enough to ensure the safe delivery of the baby. All too often, though, babies did not survive, and when that happened, midwives would try to baptize the infant as quickly as possible. On very rare occasions, baptizing the child would require performing a cesarean section, but this was only permitted if the mother had already died. It was considered far too dangerous to use as a delivery method. In this instance, a priest would be called in to certify that the mother had passed before a surgeon could attempt a c-section. The first documented attempt to perform a cesarean section on a living woman was completed by an English doctor some 30 years after Queen Jane delivers her baby. The man was later charged and found guilty of killing his patient, and c-sections would remain uncommon and risky until the late 19th century.

Baby Edward wearing some very fancy baby clothes.

Citation: “Edward VI as a Child,” Hans Holbein the Younger, oil on panel, 1538, National Gallery of Art.

 AFTER BIRTH

Jane goes into labor on October 9, 1537. She’s barely started her contractions when Henry tells his heralds to start spreading the news through the streets. No pressure, Jane! After what must be a very long and exhausting THREE DAYS, around 2 o’clock in the morning, it’s over. She is put back into her giant bed, depleted, but alive with joy. The ordeal was long and painful, but Jane doesn’t care: she’s done it. She has finally given Henry a son: the future King Edward VI. Despite her trial, Jane feels well enough to compose several letters later in the day, including one to Thomas Cromwell: “... by th'inestimable goodnes and grace of Almighty God we be delivred and brought in child bed of a Prince conceived in moost Laufull Matrimony betwene my lord the Kinges Maiestie and us.” Several days later, baby Edward is christened at the palace by a jubilant Henry, who orders a 2,000 gun salute fired from the Tower of London. The entire country is jubilant: farmer’s wives hang garlands above their doors in celebration, torches are lit, banquets are held. It’s a triumphant moment. One contemporary records Edward’s birth as the “most joyful news that has come to England these many years.”

So, is Jane planning on breastfeeding? She’s a queen, so definitely not. That’s not to say the Tudors don’t see merit in a mother feeding her baby. As in most eras, the issue of whether or not a woman does so is a matter around which much debate, and judgment, swirls. Most writers of the era say that it’s a mother’s duty to do it instead of handing their baby off to someone else: the activity bonds them. Tudor lady Elizabeth Clinton agrees, though she does admit: “that it is troublesome; that it is noisesome to one’s clothes; that it makes one look old.” Most women breastfeed their babies: I mean, the milk is freely available, and for working women, it makes no sense to hand their babies off to someone else for nursing. But most upper class women choose to employ a wet nurse. After all, it’s their duty to make as many heirs as possible, and all Tudor women know that breastfeeding themselves can delay this process. It’s also, some whisper behind hands, bad for one’s figure. Jane, as Queen, will have a small army of nursery attendants to look after Edward, but the wetnurse might just be the best paid, and the most influential, of them all. 

ELIZABETH NORTON: ...So a lot of time and effort goes into selecting them, you obviously need a woman who is a mother, because obviously they need to be breastfeeding. So you will look at that infant to make sure that they seem healthy, you'll look at their older children as well, just to make sure that they're healthy children. 

But this isn’t just about finding someone healthy. Tudors believe that the woman’s character is also an important consideration, as her temperament, attributes, and even virtues travel via her milk right to the child she’s nourishing. And she has to be from the right class, of course.

ELIZABETH NORTON: So you wanted a virtuous woman and upstanding woman. For the royal babies, they choose gentlewomen. So they'll tend to be women who live locally, they're quite high status. So gentlewomen are, you know, the wives of knights or a squire: they're not peasants.”

Jane’s wetnurse will have to leave her family, including her children, who will be given their OWN wetnurse, to nurse the queen’s baby. This is an honor, to be sure, but it comes at a cost. Still, that woman often goes on to have a HUGE amount of influence on the royal child. She serves as a kind of mother figure, and is often a more constant presence in their lives than anyone else. 

ELIZABETH NORTON: Henry VIII personally invited his wetnurse to his coronation. So he's 17 years old. So he hasn't needed a wetnurse for a very, very long time. But he personally invited her to the coronation, and also paid for her to have a new dress for the occasion. So I think that's quite a nice anecdote, but it shows how important a witness could become to their charge.

That said, queens usually spend the first few weeks after birth with their baby. This is called the “lying in” period: essentially the Tudor equivalent of maternity leave. New moms are expected to lie in bed for a period of 15 to 60 days, as they believe a woman’s body needs time to physically recover and cleanse itself after labor. During this time, the mother is discouraged from getting up and walking around, and she might spend two weeks on her back before even sitting up. This lack of movement and blood flow, though, could have perilous side effects: some women die from postpartum complications such as blood clots and pulmonary embolisms. (Can you even imagine spending two months indoors confined to your room, finally giving birth, and then being told to stay in bed for two more weeks?) 

At least such women are excused from their normal domestic duties. Husbands or other family members are expected to take charge of cooking and cleaning, and horizontal tennis time will not be on the menu. Poor women aren’t able to partake in a particularly lengthy lying-in period, as they usually have to return to work, but most Tudors believe that at least some recovery time was necessary. After all, as one contemporary put it, "The mother at that time by reason of her travail and delivery is weak, and not in case to have her head much troubled with many cares.” This stays the case until they’re ready for the ritual “churching” ceremony, at which point they can resume their household duties. Beyond marking the conclusion of the lying in period, the churching ceremony celebrates and confirms a woman’s status as a new mother. It also allows her to be officially welcomed back into society. When England was still a Catholic nation, churching began as a process of purification. Women who had just given birth were seen as “unclean,” and were not allowed to attend mass until they had undergone the churching ceremony. The priest would meet the woman outside of church, sprinkle her with holy water to “cleanse” her, and then formally welcome her back inside to be blessed. After the Reformation, though, churching still exists, it’s more of a thanksgiving for the survival of the mother than a cleansing, and it’s a recognition of the pain she endured. She’s given a place of honor in the pew closest to the altar. (This all sounds nice, until you realize the ceremony isn’t free… women have to pay the church first. Ugh. Really?)

Steep entrance fees aside, Tudor women love churching. It means an end to months of isolation for some women, and for others, it’s just a fun social gathering- a welcome occasion to dress up and catch up with female friends. The new mother is escorted to the church for the ceremony by her friends, sisters, and anyone who attended the birth, including the midwife. After the ceremony, there’s usually a party, which many men refer to as “gossip’s feasts.” Sign me up!

Unfortunately, Jane will never get the chance to attend her own. She has cramps, then diarrhea. By the time the royal physicians are summoned, she is in a rapid decline. A week later, Henry is told Jane isn’t going to recover. He sits by her bed as Jane’s confessor hurries over, ready to ease her passage into heaven. On October 24th, just weeks after giving birth, she dies. She’s just 28 years old.

Jane’s death was likely caused by dehydration, anemia, and a pulmonary embolism. But it isn’t long before nasty rumors about a botched c-section start making the rounds. These are falsehoods started by Henry’s Catholic haters - the Vatican ordered clergy members to spread the story that Jane died because Henry sacrificed her to save their son, Edward. The story was so tragically dramatic that it became the subject of several popular ballads. “The Death of Queen Jane” gives us a very tired Jane begging her doctors to save Edward, crying out to them to “rip open my two sides, and save my baby!” This isn’t true…but in the end, Jane DID sacrifice herself to bring her son into the world. In doing her duty, she sadly lost her life.

Henry is, by all accounts, heartbroken. He mourns the loss of the woman he calls “his most entirely beloved wife.” He had finally gotten his long-desired son, but it had come at a cost that he would mourn for longer than any of his other wives. When a courtier offered his congratulations about Edward’s birth, a devastated Henry replies, "Divine Providence hath mingled my joy with the bitterness of the death of her who brought me this happiness." He wears black for three months, and a one funeral ballad, “The Wofull Death of Queene Jane,” mourned how, “The flower of old England was laid in cold clay, Whilst the royal King Henrie came weeping away.” 

Jane Seymour was the last Tudor queen to successfully give birth to a future king, and her son Edward would assume the throne at 9 years old, only to die from tuberculosis 6 years later. Jane was also the only one of Henry’s six wives to receive a proper conventional funeral befitting her status as queen. Henry buried her in his own tomb at Windsor Castle in St. George’s Chapel, and he would join her there 10 years later, having requested on his deathbed to be buried next to his “true and loving Wife, Queen Jane.”  Jane is the one he idolized - the one he turned into a kind of saint. She was, of course, much more complicated, but that’s often how we remember her: as a soft, sweet, submissive woman. But she had courage and strength as well.

Music & voiceovers

Music comes courtesy of guitarist John Sayles and The Tudor Consort, a choral group from New Zealand.
Voiceovers come courtesy of Katharine Elliot, and the following, who can all be found on Fiverr: Sadie, Andy, Kristian, Chris at Naturally RP, Karl, and Baz at Voiceover Elite.

Tudor EnglandKate J. ArmstrongJane Seymour, England, queen