The first History Reading Room is happening this Sunday, August 16!

Join me for a relaxed live video chat about what we’re all reading. There’s no assigned book and no homework—just bring whatever you’re currently enjoying (or have read), whether it’s history, biography, historical fiction, royal history, or something completely different.

We’ll share what we’ve been reading, what we’ve learned, what has surprised us, and which books deserve a place on everyone else’s ever-growing TBR pile. Come ready to chat—or simply listen and pick up some new recommendations!

📚 Sunday, August 16
⏰ 9 a.m. CDT / 10 a.m. EDT / 3 p.m. BST

The History Reading Room is open to all Patreon & Substack patrons/paid subscribers —including those at the lowest level on Patreon of just $3 a month. And honestly, what can you get for $3 anymore?

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Join me each month for a relaxed live video chat about what we’re all reading! There’s no assigned book and no homework - just bring whatever book you’re currently enjoying, whether it’s history, biography, historical fiction, royal history, or something completely different.

We’ll talk about what we’re reading, what we’ve learned, what has surprised us, and which books deserve a place on everyone else’s ever-growing TBR pile. Come ready to share - or simply listen and pick up some new recommendations!

This will be the third Sunday of every month at 9am CDT/10am CDT/3pm BST. First meeting will be Sunday, August 16th!

Interested in joining? Let me know!!

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I wanted to create a series of lectures for people who were new to Tudor history - starting at the very beginning and explaining how the Tudors came to the throne. I completed the first lecture and had already created and edited the second when I realized I simply didn’t have the time to give the course the attention it deserved. So I set it aside.

Fast forward to today. After spending the past months exploring England’s medieval kings with Matt Lewis, it feels like the right time to dust this project off.

Rather than let all that work sit unseen, I’ve decided to finally share the first lecture.

I’d love to know what you think. If you enjoy it, would you like me to continue the series?

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One of the unexpected joys of hosting a history podcast is that I often come away having learned something I wasn’t expecting.

That happened again during my recent conversations with Matthew Lewis as we worked our way through England’s medieval kings. Somewhere in the middle of our discussion, I realized something I hadn’t fully appreciated before: England rarely seemed to get the same kind of king twice in a row.

It’s not a hard-and-fast rule, of course. History rarely gives us rules.

But it does give us patterns.

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The more we talked, the more I found myself thinking about the remarkable contrasts between successive monarchs. Looking at one king in isolation tells you part of the story. Looking at him beside his successor often tells you much more.

Take Richard the Lionheart and his younger brother, John.

Richard has become the archetypal warrior king. His reputation was built on military exploits and the Crusades, even though he spent surprisingly little time in England itself. John inherited not only the throne but also the consequences of Richard’s expensive ambitions. His reign was marked by military failures, political conflict, and, ultimately, Magna Carta.

Same family. Same kingdom. Completely different kings.

The pattern continues with John and Henry III.

John’s reign was defined by confrontation. Henry III spent much of his long reign trying to restore stability after the turmoil left behind. Deeply religious and more inclined toward peace than conflict, Henry approached kingship in a way that could hardly have been more different from his father’s. Yet those same qualities eventually contributed to fresh political crises and another baronial revolt.

Then came Edward I.

If Henry often seemed hesitant, Edward rarely did. He was energetic, decisive, and determined to strengthen royal authority. His campaigns in Wales and Scotland earned him a formidable reputation, while his legal reforms helped shape English government for generations.

And then came Edward II.

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Perhaps this is the most striking contrast of them all.

Edward II inherited one of the strongest kingdoms in Europe from one of England’s most capable rulers. Yet his reign became synonymous with political instability, military defeat, and eventual deposition. It’s difficult to imagine two reigns that feel more different than those of Edward I and Edward II.

The pattern appears again with Edward III and Richard II.

Edward III’s reign is remembered for military triumphs and the opening phases of the Hundred Years’ War. Richard II inherited that legacy but had a very different vision of kingship. He emphasized royal dignity, ceremony, and the sacred nature of the Crown. Those ideas would eventually bring him into conflict with many of his leading nobles, ending with his deposition in 1399.

What struck me most is that none of these kings ruled in a vacuum.

Each inherited the successes, failures, expectations, and problems created by the ruler before him. Sometimes they embraced that legacy. Sometimes they seemed to reject it entirely. Whether intentionally or not, each reign feels almost like a response to the last.

It’s made me appreciate English history in a different way.

Instead of seeing kings as isolated figures, I’m beginning to think of them as links in a chain. You can’t fully understand one without looking at the monarch who came before - and the one who came after. The transitions themselves often tell us as much as the reigns.

That’s probably my biggest takeaway from this series with Matthew Lewis so far. I started out expecting to revisit familiar stories about famous kings. Instead, I’ve found myself noticing the spaces between them.

And those spaces are proving to be some of the most interesting parts of the story.

This is just Part One of a thought that’s been rattling around in my head. Next time, I’ll continue the pattern through the Lancastrian kings, where the contrasts become even sharper - from Henry IV to Henry V, and then from England’s great warrior king to the tragic reign of Henry VI.

Until then, I’d love to hear from you:

Is there a pair of successive English monarchs whose differences have always fascinated you? Or do you think there are examples that break this pattern completely?

I’d genuinely love to read your thoughts in the comments. One of my favorite things about writing here is that the conversation doesn’t end when I hit “Publish.”

—

If you enjoyed this reflection and would like to hear the conversation that inspired it, I’d love to have you join me on the Tudors Dynasty & Beyond podcast.

Matthew Lewis and I are making our way through England’s medieval kings (every Thursday) one reign at a time, exploring not just the events, but the personalities, decisions, and turning points that shaped the monarchy. These Substack posts are my chance to share some of the bigger ideas and patterns that emerge after those conversations.

You can find the Tudors Dynasty & Beyond wherever you listen to podcasts, and if you do give it a listen, I’d love to know what you think. I hope you’ll join us as we continue our journey through England’s remarkable medieval kings.

If you love history, this is an event you won’t want to miss. Set against the stunning backdrop of one of England’s most historic castles, the weekend will feature talks from renowned historians Alison Weir and David Starkey (additional fee applies), along with exclusive tours (tickets required), special events, and unique experiences throughout the castle grounds.

Whether you’re passionate about Tudor history, royal history, or simply enjoy spending time in extraordinary historic places, this promises to be a fantastic few days.

For full event details, ticket information, and pricing, visit: https://sudeleycastle.co.uk/news/history-weekend-june-2026

Will I see you there this year?

Written by Sylvia Barbara Soberton

1. She was the ‘great whore, infamous above all others’.

Mary is remembered as a ‘great whore, infamous above all others’. This characterization comes from a letter written by papal legate Rodolfo Pio da Carpi, Bishop of Faenza, dated 10 March 1536—or more precisely, from how that letter has been translated into English. The English translation, published in the tenth volume of Letters and Papers in 1877, states that:

‘Francis said also that they are committing more follies than ever in England, and are saying and printing all the ill they can against the Pope and the Church; that ‘that woman’ pretended to have miscarried of a son, not being really with child, and, to keep up the deceit, would allow no one to attend on her but her sister, whom the French king knew here in France per una grandissima ribalda et infame sopre tutte’.

Historians who base their interpretation of Mary’s character accepted this translation, mistakenly believing that Mary was the ‘grandissima ribalda’, ‘great whore’. The word ‘riblada’ is not synonymous with a ‘whore’, or ‘prostitute’.

I returned to the original letter written in Italian, and discovered that Mary Boleyn is not specifically mentioned in it. In his original letter, Rodolfo Pio da Carpi said that Francis I told him that:

‘that woman [Anne Boleyn] pretended to have lost a male child, even though she was not pregnant. To better conceal this deception, she did not allow anyone except one of her sisters to attend her in this matter, whom His Majesty has known here in France as a great wanton and, above all, infamous’.

When Pio da Carpi referred to ‘one of her [Anne’s] sisters,’ he did not name Mary Boleyn in particular. Anne had only one sister, which is why the editors of the Letters and Papers series interpreted Pio da Carpi’s comment as referring specifically to Mary Boleyn, even though she is not mentioned in the dispatch.

2. She was less intelligent than Anne.

Mary is usually portrayed as less intelligent than Anne, but there is no evidence that her education was neglected or that she was not a diligent student. She was selected to join the household of Princess Mary Tudor, Henry VIII’s younger sister, who married Louis XII of France in October 1514, so she must have been considered a good choice and perhaps spoke French fluently at that point. A lot has been inferred about Mary’s potential based on the unproven assumption that it was her younger sister Anne who was selected to join the household of Archduchess Margaret of Austria, Regent of the Netherlands. However, in my book I raise the possibility that it was actually Mary, and not Anne, who may have served the archduchess

3. She was not ambitious.

Mary married William Stafford for love in 1534 and was banished from court because she did not ask for her family’s approval. Many historians assume that Mary was happy to settle down in the countryside and leave court, but the letter she wrote to Thomas Cromwell does not support this view. Mary was ambitious for herself and for William, and she wanted him to return to court to serve the King. Stafford was ‘of an ancient stock [noble family] and again as meet [suitable] (if it was his Grace’s pleasure) to do the King’s service as any young gentleman in his court’. Stafford was able to return to court in 1539.

4. She was more attractive than Anne.

Many historical narratives portray Mary with idealized features—typically blonde hair and bright eyes. Yet no contemporary record definitively describes what she truly looked like. A portrait of Mary, from which several copies were made, is now preserved in the Royal Collection, while other versions are displayed at Hever, Longford, Rockingham, and Warwick Castles. The question remains whether this portrait type derived from a now-lost original painted during Mary’s lifetime, or whether it was commissioned posthumously by her children, who took pride in their connection to Elizabeth I through her mother, Anne Boleyn, Mary’s younger sister.

5. She was the mother of Henry VIII’s illegitimate children.

Mary was Henry VIII’s mistress but the details of their relationship, such as the dating and duration of their romance, are not known. She had two children born during her marriage to William Carey – Katherine c. 1524 and Henry in 1526.

In 1535 a rumour suggested that Henry Carey was Henry VIII’s illegitimate son – that’s it, just one rumour. Historians have speculated that Catherine Carey may have been Henry VIII’s daughter, partly due to a portrait of an unidentified woman, currently labelled as Catherine, that depicts a woman bearing a resemblance to the King. However, the woman’s identity remains uncertain, and there were no contemporary rumours to suggest that Catherine was his child.

The legal implication was that Mary’s children were William Carey’s because they were born while Mary was married to William. Henry and Catherine Carey never openly spoke about Henry VIII being their father. Their elaborate tombs at Westminster Abbey proclaim William Carey as their father and allude to their maternal and paternal ancestries, including the coats of arms of the Carey, Spencer, Beaufort and Boleyn families.

My new book Mary Boleyn: The Queen’s Slandered Sister, is available NOW in bookshops and online.

My friends Carolyn and Sue presented me with a small gift in celebration of my new book, Anne Boleyn: Reputation, Revolution, Religion, and the Queen Who Changed History. They had been faithful readers of the manuscript as I was researching and writing, and they shared in my excitement about its publication. I unwrapped the box to find a stack of custom-made Anne Boleyn bookmarks. A picture of my cover took up the top half, and underneath were the words, lifted directly from an early chapter of the book: “Anne Boleyn was a book lover.”

“Anne Boleyn was…” has been a sentence completed in countless different ways. Anne Boleyn was…a seductress, manipulator, gold-digger, social climber, witch, prostitute, adulteress, sexual deviant. Anne Boleyn as an intellectual who loved books has not been the common way of completing the three dots of that sentence, but Sue and Carolyn were right not just to identify it as a central characteristic of Anne, but also at the heart of the cataclysmic times she lived in, the principles of faith she most firmly believed, and the drama and tragedy of her rise and fall.

Anne was born at the turn of the 16^th century, a time that has, in retrospect, been named as a hinge time. New ways of thinking were emerging at a dizzying pace and ruptures with the institutions previously unchallenged in their hold on truth and power were happening in violent and consequential ways. It was all being underwritten by the printing press and the availability of books. Anne Boleyn benefited from these emerging possibilities. She was educated. She was educated in a circle of women where women’s education was treated as normal and where access to books was considered essential. It was in being raised to be a book lover that Anne’s faith was formed, and Anne’s faith would come to change everything.

Anne was raised in two European courts: briefly that of Margaret of Austria and then for six formational years serving Queen Claude of France. Both courts emphasized women’s education, along with engagement with the cutting-edge philosophical and religious thought that was emerging in Europe. In Claude’s court, in particular, Anne was encouraged to read the Bible, not in Latin, which had for so many centuries guarded who could access scripture, but in the vernacular. She was in the company, too, of Claude’s sister-in-law, Marguerite d’Angouleme, a writer, scholar and politician. Marguerite would later be called a “Reforming Catholic” for her commitment to securing access to the Bible for all people and her desire to address corruption in the church and monasteries. In her famous poem, Le Miroir de 1’Arne Pecheresse, Marguerite articulated a personal relationship with Jesus that many judged heretical and that almost got her writing banned.

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Anne had come back to England by 1522. She returned to secure a beneficial marriage, but she also came with a strong commitment to these “evangelical” principles—evangelical being the catch-all term to describe reform agendas that were centered on accessing the Bible and prioritizing the Word of God as holding ultimate authority. It was 1527 before anyone noticed King Henry noticing Anne. Henry had been married to Catherine of Aragon for almost twenty years and only had one daughter to show for it. This was a political and personal problem, but for Henry it was most significantly a religious problem. He interpreted his lack of offspring as signaling God’s anger. Catherine was Henry’s brother’s widow and marrying her was forbidden by a Biblical law found in Leviticus.

Fierce speculation about what drew the king to Anne has ensued ever since, but what is clear is that when the king decided he wanted a woman, she was left with few options. It was likely Anne’s education, and especially her religious convictions, that convinced Henry that Anne would be a woman to right his, and the kingdom’s, relationship with God. She would bear him princes that would provide proof of God’s restored favour toward Henry and England. Anne read books about reformist principles. Anne was versed in Scripture. This was intoxicating to Henry. Although it is easy to read Henry backwards from the incapacitated, erratic, childish, gout-plagued, abscess-afflicted man that he was at the end of his life, he was initially a King who prided himself on his intelligence.

After some initial reluctance, Anne embraced the opportunity to become involved in consequential religious and political decision-making and to bring her evangelical influences to bear on her home country. Anne chose to use this disempowering position to effect real change. She revealed later that she understood her strange circumstances—selected by the king to become his queen—as ordained by God.

The pope was reluctant to grant Henry his desired annulment from Catherine. It was Anne who changed the conversation from one of convincing the pope to that of rejecting the pope. She did it through the flame of faith that Anne had learned in the court of Queen Claude and that was continually stoked by access to books, contraband though they might be. Anne was caught reading the writing of William Tyndate, exiled English Reformer, and rather than apologize for reading what she should not, she brought it to Henry and insisted he read it too. Tyndale argued in On the Obedience of a Christian Man against the centralized authority of the pope or that one person could be St. Peter’s successor on earth.

As Anne’s access to wealth and power increased, so did her library. She might have been known for her fashion sense and extravagant jewels, but she was also passionate about book buying. Anne and her brother George were most interested in reformist books, especially those aligned with French reformers, some of them condemned, from several trailblazing French printers. The siblings owned around forty evangelical books between them, and Anne stocked her library with deluxe devotional books and specially commissioned handwritten Scriptures. She owned two works by Lefevre D’Etaple: a French translation of the Bible (which had been condemned by the Sorbonne in France) and his Introductory Commentary on the Four Gospels, gifted to her by her brother. Rose Hickman, a merchant’s daughter, reminisced during the time of Elizabeth I that Anne used to request that her father bring back “the gospels and epistles written in parchment in French together with the psalms” on his journeys to the continent.

It took six long years for Henry and Anne to split the English church from Rome, to name himself as the Supreme Head of the English church instead, to get his annulment and to make Anne his wife and queen. At various times along the way, Henry’s mixed bag of emotional beliefs saw him waffle on severing England from Roman authority. It was Anne who steadfastly encouraged the now accelerating train of religious reform.

Anne used the years of waiting for the promised marriage and negotiating this religious break to make critical appointments of clergy with reformist beliefs into the highest offices of power, including Thomas Cranmer as Archbishop of Canterbury and Matthew Parker as her chaplain. Men who previously had to be in hiding or closet their beliefs for fear of persecution were suddenly, because of Anne, being promoted to run the church. She sought out new and emerging talent from Cambridge university, financially supporting the education of future clerics who would go on to steer the church’s reform in consequential ways. Anne intervened on behalf of exiled reformers, helping to normalize the idea of an English Bible which the whole realm could access. protecting the illegal trade in Bibles became a signature of her rise to power and her reign. Her advocacy, support and campaigning bore fruit that she was able to witness in her lifetime. In October 1535, months before her death, the complete Bible was finally published in English by Miles Coverdale. The dedication “Unto the most victorious Prynce and our most gracious soveraigne Lorde, Kynge Henry the eight…and your dearest iust wife and most vertuous Pryncesse, Quene Anne.”

About a month before her death, Anne locked horns publicly with Thomas Cromwell, who had risen in the king’s ranks by helping Henry and Anne to secure the break from Rome. He was a reformer like Anne, but his vision was different. In March of 1536, a bill was introduced to begin the dissolution of the monasteries. Anne, influenced by the practical social reforms of the European women in whose company she had grown up, wanted to see some of the wealth from the monasteries to provide for the poor and to bolster universal access to education. Cromwell –and the king—were unwilling to limit the financial windfall that dissolving the monasteries would bring the crown. Anne wasn’t helped by having not produced any more sons than her predecessor, which three years into her marriage with Henry, was making him suspect that his marriage to Anne hadn’t fixed his relationship with God either. Cromwell, and likely the king, moved against Anne. She was accused of adultery with five men, including her brother, and after a trial in which the outcome was all but assured, she was found guilty of high treason.

She was beheaded on May 19^th, 1536.

---

Historians have recently made the discovery that Catherine of Aragon, Anne Boleyn and Thomas Cromwell were all gifted the same 1527 Book of Hours, printed from the same French printer. Who bestowed these gifts on these three fractured, and sometimes warring, people of power at the same time and for what purpose is a delicious, and unanswered, question.

It was in that printed book that Anne wrote a fanciful rhyming couplet:

Remember me when you do pray,

That hope doth lead from day to day.

Anne Boleyn.

Anne has certainly been remembered, but too often for the labels and accusations rather than for the reasons why those labels and accusations were applied and made in the first place. Anne had many enemies because of her polarizing religious views, and there were all too many who were willing to cast her—both in her life and after her death—as a Jezebel, a Salome, a faithless whore, and an evil woman because of her Protestant convictions. The labels and the scandals surrounding Anne have had a life of their own, with the religious agenda she championed relegated to the cutting room floor.

Despite our blindness to her legacy, Anne’s fingerprints are nonetheless smudged all over the Protestant church of today. Anne’s protegees Thomas Cranmer and Matthew Parker would become two of the three theologians credited with shaping a distinctive Anglican theological ethos. Cranmer’s prayer book is still used by Protestants across the world. Across all iterations of the Protestant movement that would emerge from the 16^th century, a commitment to the authority of the Bible and the belief that each individual Christian should be able to access both the Scriptures and a personal relationship with God became defining characteristics. Christians continue to believe that following Christ compels an economic reordering of society, with better opportunity and material circumstance for all.

I serve today in the church that Anne Boleyn helped to found and shape. This year, the Anglican Church of Canada celebrates the 50^th anniversary of the ordination of women. Anne’s story has bolstered my own at key junctures along the way, including when I was a young woman in seminary wondering whether I was really where I was supposed to be, and finding ‘my people’ in the Trinity College library reading about Anne Boleyn. I found grounding and encouragement in knowing the truth that women shaped the church I lead, too.

I can picture Anne holding that Book of Hours, praying with it, finding solace in its smell and feel and substance. This particular book connected her to the religious traditions of the past, and it represented the power words now had to travel because of printing. It signaled a world that was changing, that made it possible for a woman like her to make an impact like she did. The world that never changes fast enough, however, and women still remain subject to the desire and violence of men in power.

I hope that Anne was granted some inner knowledge—from that book or from the others that she held and read and in which she wrote her notes—that the ideas for which she fought would continue to live and breathe and speak, that her voice would not be forever silenced, and that her story would have more to say.

Anne Boleyn: Reputation, Revolution, Religion, and the Queen Who Changed History Hardcover – May 12, 2026 (US)

Purchase on Amazon US: https://www.amazon.com/Anne-Boleyn-Reputation-Revolution-Religion/dp/1640658599

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Burnout doesn’t always look the way we think it will.

It’s not always dramatic. It’s not always walking away from everything or having a full breakdown. Sometimes it’s much quieter than that, and honestly, a lot easier to miss.

Because on the outside, everything can look… fine.

You’re still showing up. Still answering messages. Still putting things out into the world. But underneath that, something has shifted. The energy you used to rely on just isn’t there in the same way, and in its place is this strange, hard-to-explain heaviness.

Not full exhaustion. Not total disinterest. Just… a slowing.

There’s a stage of burnout that sits right in the middle - between pushing at full speed and completely shutting down. It’s the stage where you’re still functioning, but it feels like everything inside you has quietly stalled.

And that’s the part no one really talks about.

Because from the outside, it can look like you’re just having an off week. Or that you need a break. But internally, it feels very different. Things that used to feel easy now feel like work. Starting anything feels harder than it should. Your focus isn’t what it used to be. And the things you actually want to do - the reading, the writing, the creating—suddenly feel out of reach.

That’s usually when the self-talk kicks in.

Why can’t I just do this?
What’s wrong with me?
Why does everything feel so hard?

But this isn’t about discipline. And it’s not because you’ve suddenly become unmotivated.

This kind of burnout doesn’t come from doing too little - it comes from doing too much for too long without really recovering.

It builds slowly. Through constant output. Through carrying responsibility. Through emotional stress layered on top of everything else. Through that quiet pressure to keep going, to keep producing, to stay consistent no matter what.

And for a while, you can. You push through. You rely on habit, or adrenaline, or just sheer determination.

Until your system decides it’s had enough.

And when that happens, it doesn’t always shut everything down completely. Sometimes it just… pulls back. It starts conserving energy in ways you don’t consciously control. It dials down your ability to focus. It makes starting things harder. It takes away that natural pull toward the things you used to love.

Which is why it can feel like you’ve lost a part of yourself.

If you’re someone who is used to being curious, productive, engaged - this stage is incredibly disorienting. Because suddenly you’re not operating the way you always have. Reading feels forced. Writing feels impossible. Ideas don’t come as easily. Or at all.

And it’s so easy to take that personally.

To assume something is wrong. That you’ve lost your drive. That you need to fix it - fast.

So the instinct is to push harder. To try to get back on track. To force yourself to produce something, anything, just to prove that you still can.

But this is where it usually backfires.

Because the problem isn’t that you’re not trying hard enough. It’s that you’re depleted.

And pushing a depleted system just creates more resistance. More frustration. More shutdown.

What this stage actually needs is something most of us are really bad at giving ourselves - less pressure.

Not a perfect plan. Not a sudden burst of discipline. Just a willingness to let things be a little smaller for a while.

That might look like doing less without turning it into a failure. Letting things be unfinished. Choosing one thing that feels manageable instead of trying to get back to everything all at once. Allowing your interest to come back slowly instead of expecting it to be there on demand.

It’s uncomfortable, especially if you’re used to operating at a high level. It can feel like you’re falling behind, or losing momentum, or slipping in some way.

But you’re not.

You’re in a phase your system needs, even if it doesn’t feel good.

This isn’t the end of your creativity. It’s not the end of your ability to show up or produce or care about what you’re doing.

It’s a pause.

And I know pauses can feel threatening—especially when so much of your identity is tied to what you create and put out into the world. But this kind of pause isn’t failure. It’s adjustment.

Burnout at this stage doesn’t hit you over the head. It whispers.

It shows up as that quiet sense that you can’t do things the way you used to. And instead of ignoring that or pushing past it, there’s something to be said for listening.

Because it’s not telling you to stop.

It’s telling you something has to change before you can fully come back.

That’s where I am.

History likes simple villains.

It’s easy to point to Thomas Seymour and see the problem immediately. He was reckless, ambitious in a way that made people uncomfortable, constantly pushing boundaries he should have understood better than anyone. His fall feels inevitable - almost deserved.

And then there’s his brother, Edward Se…

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So… How Do You Actually Start Reading Tudor Handwriting?

In my last post, I talked about what paleography is - and why it’s not about memorizing an alphabet, but about learning how handwriting behaves.

But that naturally leads to the next question:

Where do you even begin?

Because understanding the theory is one thing.

Sitting in front of a document that looks completely unreadable is something else entirely.

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First: Stop Trying to Read It Like a Book

This is the mistake almost everyone makes at the beginning.

You look at the first line, left to right, and try to force meaning out of it.

It doesn’t work.

Tudor documents aren’t meant to be read that way - not at first.

Instead, you need to change your approach entirely.

Think of it less like reading…
and more like solving something.

Start with What You Recognize

Before you attempt full sentences, scan the page.

Look for anything familiar:

• Names (these are often easier to spot)

• Dates

• Repeated words

• Common terms (like the, and, said, king, lord)

Once you identify a word once, it becomes a foothold.

And then something important happens:

You start seeing that same word again elsewhere on the page.

That’s when the document begins to open up.

Build the Alphabet As You Go

In the last article, I said paleography isn’t about memorizing letter forms - and that’s still true.

But you do learn letters.

Just not in isolation.

Instead, you build a kind of working alphabet from the document itself:

• You identify how this writer forms an “h”

• Then a “t”

• Then maybe an “e”

And you test those assumptions as you go.

Because here’s the key:

Handwriting is usually consistent within a single document.

Even if it looks chaotic at first, the same person tends to form letters in similar ways across the page.

Once you recognize that pattern, everything becomes easier.

Expect Inconsistency (Yes, Both Are True)

Now here’s where it gets frustrating.

Even though handwriting is consistent in some ways…

It’s also inconsistent.

The same word might be spelled three different ways.
The same letter might look slightly different depending on speed or spacing.

This isn’t you getting it wrong.

This is the reality of early modern writing.

You’re not decoding a system designed for clarity - you’re reading something written for efficiency.

Skip What You Don’t Know

This is one of the hardest habits to learn.

When you hit a word you can’t read, your instinct is to stop.

Don’t.

Move past it.

Keep going.

Because often, the surrounding words will give you enough context to come back later and figure it out.

And more often than not…

A word that seemed impossible at the beginning becomes obvious once you’ve worked through the rest of the document.

Transcribe First. Interpret Later.

This is non-negotiable.

When you’re working with a document, your first job is to record exactly what you see:

• Keep original spelling

• Don’t “fix” grammar

• Preserve oddities

Even when it looks wrong.

Especially when it looks wrong.

Because those details matter.

They tell you about the writer, their education, their habits—and sometimes even their state of mind.

Read It More Than Once

You are not meant to understand a Tudor document in one pass.

You read it:

• Once to get fragments

• Again to connect them

• Again to refine

• And again to question what you thought you understood

Each pass brings clarity.

And each pass changes your interpretation slightly.

That’s not failure.

That’s the process.

The Moment It Clicks

There’s a point - usually unexpected - when something shifts.

You stop seeing individual letters.

You stop second-guessing every word.

And suddenly…

You’re just reading.

Not perfectly. Not effortlessly. But with enough confidence that the document starts to feel like language again.

And when that happens, something else follows:

The handwriting stops being a barrier
and starts becoming a voice.

Why This Matters (Beyond the Skill Itself)

This is where paleography becomes more than technique.

Because once you can work through a document yourself, you begin to notice things that don’t always survive in transcription:

• uncertainty in phrasing

• words that could be read more than one way

• subtle shifts in tone

And that matters - especially when we’re dealing with figures like Thomas Seymour, where interpretation of evidence can shape entire narratives.

When you read the original, you’re no longer relying entirely on someone else’s certainty.

You see the ambiguity.

And that changes how you understand the past.

Final Thoughts: Learning to Sit With the Document

If my first post was about seeing handwriting differently, this one is about working with it.

Slowly. Imperfectly. Patiently.

Paleography isn’t something you master quickly.

But if you stick with it, you gain something incredibly valuable:

The ability to meet the past on its own terms.

Not through a modern lens.
Not through someone else’s interpretation.

But through the words as they were written - however messy, inconsistent, or human they may be.

Rebecca Larson is an independent researcher, historical consultant, writer, and host of the Tudors Dynasty & Beyond podcast.

I want to be honest with you - and a bit more real than I was before.

The truth is, I haven’t just been “busy” or quietly working behind the scenes. I’ve been struggling. Lately, I’ve felt stuck in a kind of mental fog where focus is hard to hold onto and even the things I love - like writing and sharing history with you - hav…

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There are moments in the historical record when a voice breaks through - clear, composed, and unmistakably self-aware.

The so-called “confession” of the Lady Elizabeth is one of those moments.

What we see in this document is not a frightened girl scrambling to appease her interrogators. Instead, we encounter a fifteen-year-old who already understood power, perception, and - perhaps most importantly - silence.

This is Elizabeth before the crown. But it is also, unmistakably, Elizabeth the queen in formation.

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In January 1549, only days after the arrest of Thomas Seymour, Sir Robert Tyrwhitt arrived at Hatfield with instructions.

He was not there as a companion.
He was there as an examiner.

Within five days of Seymour’s arrest, Tyrwhit wrote to Edward Seymour that he had informed the Lady Elizabeth that Kat Ashley and Thomas Parry had been sent to the Tower.

Elizabeth wept.

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Velvet sleeves. Jewels flashing in candlelight. Stone corridors at Hampton Court. Portraits lining the walls, their gazes fixed and unblinking.

But history was not experienced only through the eyes.

It was inhaled.

To step into sixteenth-century England was to enter a world of layered scent - herbal, smoky, animal, human, sacred, and political. And if we want to understand how people actually lived, we must stop looking for a moment… and start breathing.

The Myth of Filth

Let’s begin by correcting something.

Tudor England was not uniformly filthy.

People did wash. Linen undergarments were changed more frequently than outer garments. Hands and faces were regularly cleaned. Elite households maintained standards of order and display.

But cleanliness did not mean odorlessness.

Homes were heated by wood fires. Smoke lingered in rafters. Tallow candles released a faintly fatty scent. Clothing absorbed sweat and environmental smells, especially outer garments that were rarely washed.

The result was not necessarily unbearable - but it was ever-present.

Smell was part of daily life, not something to be eliminated.

Rushes, Herbs, and the Floor Beneath Your Feet

In great halls and manor houses, rushes were often spread across floors - whether over stone, beaten earth, or wooden boards. Rushes were long, reed-like plants cut from marshy ground, dried, and scattered across interior surfaces. In an age before fitted carpets, they acted as a practical floor covering: softening hard ground, insulating against cold rising from below, absorbing spills, and muting the echo of footsteps in cavernous spaces.

Contrary to popular myth, they were not left to decay indefinitely. They were periodically replaced. But between changes they trapped everything: spilled ale, food scraps, wax drippings, and mud tracked in from outside.

To counteract unpleasant odors, strewing herbs such as lavender, rosemary, thyme, and meadowsweet were scattered among them. In a world governed by miasma theory, sweet scents were believed to purify the air and protect the body from disease.

A pleasant scent was not just comforting. It was protective.

The nose was tied to medicine.

The Body, Perfume, and Protection

The Tudors understood the body through the theory of humors - balance mattered. Odor signaled imbalance.

A foul smell could suggest illness, corruption, or even moral disorder.

In a world governed by miasma theory, disease was believed to travel through corrupted air. Plague, in particular, was associated with foul vapors. Sweet scents were thought to strengthen the heart and defend the body from harm.

This is where the pomander enters.

A pomander was a small, often ornate container worn on a chain or attached to a girdle, filled with crushed herbs, spices, musk, or ambergris. It was lifted to the nose in crowded spaces - not merely to mask unpleasant smells, but to guard against infection.

Fragrance was not simple vanity. It was medicine.

Perfumed gloves, imported spices, and aromatic resins carried layered meaning at court. They signaled wealth and refinement, certainly - but also health, global access, and participation in a shared medical understanding of the world.

To smell sweet was to signal control: over the body, over disease, over status.

The Kitchen: Wealth in the Air

If you stood near the kitchens of a royal palace, you would have known it instantly.

Wood smoke.
Roasting meat.
Boiling bones.
Spices imported from abroad.
Fish on fasting days.

At great houses and palaces, kitchens ran constantly. The smell of meat in abundance was the smell of prosperity.

By contrast, in humbler homes, cabbage and pottage dominated the air. Food had its own social scent.

To smell roasting venison was to smell power.

The Streets of London

Now step outside.

Urban England was more intense.

Open drains.
Animal slaughter.
Horse manure.
Tanneries.
Markets.
Fish.
Human waste disposed of far less discreetly than we might hope.

Sixteenth-century London was a city of competing odors. Industrial, domestic, agricultural, commercial - all layered together.

The monarchy experienced this too. On royal progresses, the king and queen passed through towns that could not hide their realities. The scent of the realm was unavoidable.

Power moved through streets that smelled very different from the curated air of court.

The Church: A Different Atmosphere

Before the Reformation, the church was a sensory experience.

Incense drifting from a thurible.
Wax candles.
Damp stone.
Crowded bodies gathered in ritual.

After England’s break with Rome, much of that sensory world changed. Incense disappeared from most services. Religious life became visually plainer - and olfactorily quieter.

The Reformation did not just alter doctrine.

It changed how England smelled.

And that shift mattered more than we often acknowledge. Religion moved from thick, aromatic ritual to a sharper, less sensory experience.

The nose noticed what theology declared.

A World Inhaled

We often sanitize the past. Or we caricature it.

The truth lies somewhere in between.

Tudor England was not a constant stench, nor was it perfumed elegance. It was layered. Complex. Human.

Smoke clung to velvet.
Herbs masked decay.
Incense sanctified stone.
Perfume signaled status.
Rot mingled with rosemary.

To understand Tudor life fully, we must imagine not only what people saw, but what they breathed.

A court was not merely witnessed.

It was inhaled.

Rebecca Larson is an independent researcher, historical consultant, writer, and host of the Tudors Dynasty & Beyond podcast.

Anno Domini 1526

It is not the habit of this court to remark upon the return of a gentlewoman from foreign service, for such movements are common enough. Yet there is something in the manner of Mistress Anne Boleyn - lately come from France - that draws more notice than propriety alone can explain.

She is not the most beautiful woman present. Nor does she endeavor to be.

Her distinction lies elsewhere.

Where others smile readily, she withholds. Where others lower their gaze, she meets it. Her speech is measured, touched with that French precision which lends even light words an air of deliberation. She understands silence - and uses it.

His Majesty has long delighted in admiration freely given. It is therefore curious to observe that admiration restrained appears to engage him more deeply still.

There have been moments - fleeting, yet perceptible - when conversation at table stills by a fraction. When a glance is returned, not dismissed. When a jest lingers beyond its intended lightness.

These things, considered singly, are trifles.

Taken together, they suggest intention - though whether hers or another’s is not easily determined.

The Queen conducts herself with her accustomed dignity. If she notes the altered current, she does not betray it. Constancy, in her, is neither naïve nor passive; it is chosen.

Yet constancy and novelty seldom share equal space for long.

Nothing has been declared. Nothing has been displaced.

And yet -

There are seasons when change announces itself not with thunder, but with attention.

- Lady Stillwater

William Sharington has long been treated as a minor figure in the drama of 1549 - a corrupt mint official who happened to be entangled with Thomas Seymour at an unfortunate moment.

That interpretation is far too gentle.

Sharington was not simply unlucky. He was expose…

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One of the biggest misconceptions about historical research is that it’s about finding answers.

It isn’t.

It’s about asking better questions.

When I first started researching Tudor history, I thought the job was simple: find the document, read the document, report what it says. But documents don’t just sit there politely offering up the truth. They whisper. They omit. They protect. They accuse. They posture.

And if you aren’t asking the right questions, you’ll miss it.

Start With “Why Was This Written?”

Before I even look at what a source says, I ask:

• Who wrote this?

• Who was it meant for?

• What was happening politically at the time?

• What did the writer stand to gain?

A deposition taken in the middle of a political crisis is not the same thing as a private letter. A council record written after someone has fallen from favor is not neutral ground.

Context is everything.

A source is never just a source. It’s a moment in time, shaped by fear, ambition, loyalty, or survival.

Ask Who Benefits

This one has saved me more than once.

If a document paints someone as reckless, ambitious, dangerous, or immoral, I always ask:

Who benefits from that portrayal?

In Tudor England especially, reputation could be weaponized. A single word -“rash,” “light,” “ambitious”- could shape how a person was remembered for centuries.

If I don’t pause to examine motive, I risk becoming an accomplice to someone else’s political narrative.

Notice What’s Missing

Sometimes what isn’t said is louder than what is.

Why does a record suddenly go quiet on a subject?
Why is one name repeated, while another disappears?
Why are certain details meticulously recorded, and others glossed over?

Silence in the archive is rarely accidental.

Challenge the Modern Lens

Another question I ask constantly:

Am I projecting modern values onto a 16th-century world?

It’s very easy to read ambition as villainy, confidence as arrogance, political maneuvering as moral failure. But Tudor England operated on different expectations - of gender, loyalty, hierarchy, and survival.

If we don’t ask whether we’re imposing our worldview, we risk misunderstanding theirs.

The Most Important Question: What If I’m Wrong?

This might be the hardest one.

When you spend hours with a document, you start to form theories. Patterns appear. Interpretations feel solid. But good research demands humility.

What if I’ve misread that word?
What if that phrase meant something different in 1548?
What if this source contradicts the narrative I prefer?

The goal isn’t to prove yourself right.
The goal is to get as close to the truth as the surviving evidence allows.

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Research Isn’t About Certainty

It’s about curiosity.

It’s about sitting with ambiguity instead of rushing to conclusions.
It’s about asking, again and again: What am I not seeing?

The right questions don’t just protect the people we study — they protect the integrity of the work itself.

And if there’s one thing the Tudor period has taught me, it’s this:

History doesn’t reward the loudest voice.

It rewards the most careful one.

—

Rebecca Larson is an independent researcher, historical consultant, writer, and host of the Tudors Dynasty & Beyond podcast.

Three days after the arrest of Thomas Seymour, the net widened.

Two members of Lady Elizabeth’s household were sent to the Tower of London: her cofferer, Thomas Parry, and her long-serving governess, Kat Ashley. Their detention was not incidental. It was deliberate, precautionary, and revealing.

The immediate cause lay in the testimony of William Wyghtman…

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I love Anne Boleyn.

She was my gateway into Tudor history. She was dramatic, intelligent, defiant, flawed, ambitious. She was executed in her thirties, left behind a daughter who would become one of England’s most iconic monarchs, and reshaped the religious landscape of a nation.

Anne matters.

But that’s not what I’m questioning.

What I’m questioning is the crown we have placed on her head - the perpetual one.

Not the crown Henry VIII gave her in 1533.

The one we have given her in modern Tudor memory.

Somewhere along the way, Anne stopped being one of the central figures of the 1530s and became the central figure of Tudor history itself. Every thread circles back to her. Every debate somehow invokes her. Every queen is compared to her. Every political shift becomes part of her story.

And I find myself asking:

When did Tudor history become a one-woman orbit?

Anne was queen for barely three years.

By contrast, Katherine of Aragon was queen for nearly twenty-four. Mary I of England reigned in her own right and navigated unprecedented political hostility as England’s first crowned queen regnant. Elizabeth I ruled for forty-four years and defined an era.

And yet - culturally, socially, algorithmically — Anne dominates.

Why?

Because she is narratively perfect.

She is romance and betrayal.
She is reform and rupture.
She is beauty, downfall, and the scaffold.
She is easy to dramatize. Easy to defend. Easy to mythologize.

But Tudor history is not just myth.

It is factional politics in council chambers. It is financial crises quietly destabilizing regimes. It is marriages engineered for leverage. It is whispered ambition. It is succession anxieties that stretched across generations.

While we debate Anne’s innocence for the thousandth time, how often do we ask:

What was happening in Edward VI’s council?
How did wardship shape elite power structures?
How did figures like Thomas Seymour attempt to maneuver within instability?
What did lesser-known women like Margaret Douglas or Arbella Stuart endure as dynastic pawns?

Anne has become more than a historical figure.

She has become a symbol.

A feminist icon.
A martyr.
A misunderstood visionary.
A queen perpetually re-crowned by modern audiences.

And that re-crowning fascinates me.

But it also concerns me.

Because when one figure absorbs all the light, others remain in shadow. The Tudors become flattened into a familiar arc: wronged mother, triumphant daughter. The messy, uncomfortable, deeply human machinery of power disappears behind a singular narrative.

I understand why people stay with Anne.

She feels personal. She feels emotionally accessible. She feels safe in her tragedy. We know her story. We know how to argue about her. We know how to defend her.

But growth - as readers, as enthusiasts, as historians - requires discomfort.

I did not start researching Thomas Seymour because he was lovable. I started because I realized I was staring at the same portrait as everyone else. I wanted to step sideways. I wanted to know who was moving pieces while the spotlight was elsewhere.

And that’s when Tudor history truly opened for me.

Anne Boleyn deserves remembrance.

She deserves nuance. She deserves context. She deserves to be studied seriously and critically.

But does she deserve monopoly?

Does she deserve to be the lens through which we interpret every Tudor woman? Every reform? Every political fracture?

Tudor history is an ecosystem.

And ecosystems suffer when one figure consumes the oxygen.

Anne was my doorway.

But she was not my destination.

And perhaps that is the real question beneath this rage:

Are we willing to leave the entryway?

Because beyond Anne - beyond the scaffold and the pearl necklace and the romantic tragedy - there is a vast, complicated, electrifying world of people who shaped England just as profoundly.

History is bigger than one crown.

Even a perpetual one.

As Thomas Seymour’s secret…

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