The Longevity of the Neville Women

by Susan Appleyard

It is impossible to be definitive, but it seems the life expectancy of a woman in the Middle Ages was about thirty-five to forty. While the average life expectancy of a man was truncated by battle and block, as well as work related accidents, the battlefield for women was the birthing chamber. Many died in childbirth (5%) or from complications arising afterward (as many as 15%). If a woman survived her child-bearing years, however, she stood a good chance of living into her fifties or sixties.

I was surprised to discover that the Neville women, four sisters, all lived to a ripe old age. By the Neville women, I mean the daughters of Earl Ralph of Westmoreland and his second wife, Joan Beaufort: Eleanor, Katherine, Anne and Cecily. The trouble with living so long is that collectively they outlived numerous husbands, sons and even grandsons. I decided to look into this, focussing on the male members of the families who reached manhood. Information about girls is harder to find, especially if they were younger daughters or didn’t marry well.

Eleanor was the eldest, born c. 1397 died 1472. She had three spouses, but children with only the second and third. The second was Henry Percy Earl of Northumberland, with whom she had ten, seven of them boys. Of the four I could track, all four predeceased her, although one was a bishop and might have been expected to live longer than the others who all died in battle or under the axe. One of her grandsons became Earl of Northumberland in his turn and also predeceased her, while another had five sons who all outlived her. I coul’t discover anything about her second husband and the two sons she had with him.

Katherine, Duchess of Norfolk, came next, born c.1400 and died sometime after 1483. She had 4 husbands but only 1 son and 1 grandson, who did not outlive her but were fortunate to die natural deaths.

Anne was born c.1411 and died in 1480, outliving two husbands. By her first, Humphrey Stafford, Duke of Buckingham, she had four sons and outlived all but one. Of two grandsons, one survived her.

Cecily, born 1415, died 1495, the youngest and best known had only one husband, Richard Duke of York with whom she had four sons and outlived them all. The eldest was King Edward IV, who had two sons, known as the princes in the tower. A contentious issue, but it is highly likely that Cecily outlived them. Her second son was killed at the age of 17 and had no issue. The third son, George had one son who outlived his grandmother by about four years. Her fourth son, King Richard III had one son who did not outlive her.

Most of the information above came from Wikipedia and http://www.geni.com/

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Susan Appleyard is an author of historical fiction. She has written two books set during the War of the Roses, which are available at Amazon, and a third is due to be released in June.

Childbirth in Early Modern England

by Sam Thomas

When we think about the difference between the past and present, our minds often turn to medicine, and with good reason. Who in their right minds would want to return to a world of leeches and blood-letting, of pregnancy without doctors and high death-rates for both mothers and children? But as so many of the writers on this blog have made clear, there is far more behind the history than modern stereotypes, and childbirth is no exception.

If you were to peek in on a woman in labor (or “in travail” as she might have said), the first thing you might notice is the people in the room. There would be a midwife rather than a doctor, of course, and you’d not find her husband – until the eighteenth century at the very earliest, childbirth was the business of women.

Rather than doctors, nurses, and bright lights, the mother would be surrounded by her female friends and neighbors – her god-sibs or gossips – who came to help, socialize, to see and be seen, and at a more general level, just to make sure that everything went right. (Before we join hands and start to sing Kumbaya, it’s worth noting that sometimes gossips argued with each other, with the midwife, and even with the mother. Imagine if your own mother were present – and giving you advice – when you were in labor.)

Unlike today, when most women deliver while lying on their backs (good for the doctor, not so good for the mother), early modern women gave birth in a more upright position, either held by two of her gossips or sitting on a birthing stool, or both. While other women could participate in the delivery of the child, only the midwife had the right to touch the mother’s ‘privities.’ Once the child was born, the midwife would cut the umbilical cord (for boys, the longer the cord, the longer his, um, equipment; for girls the shorter the cord, the tighter her privities), swaddle the child, and hand her over to the mother.

The question of maternal mortality has been much discussed, and our best guess is that 5-7% of births ended in the death of the mother. In some cases, death might be caused by an obstructed birth, but more often mothers died some weeks after delivery, usually of puerperal fever, a bacterial infection contracted during childbirth. Thus while individual incidents of maternal death were not terribly common, most women would know a woman who had died in labor.

After giving birth, the mother would enjoy a period of lying-in. During these forty days, she would be confined to her room, free from the demands of household labor. During this time, her neighbors would visit, but she did not go out into public. At the end of her lying-in, the mother would go to her parish church and give thanks to God for her survival, and resume the heavy work of a wife and mother.

----------------

Sam Thomas is the author of The Midwife's Tale: A Mystery from Minotaur/St.Martin's. Want to pre-order a copy? Click here. For more on midwifery and childbirth visit his website. You can also like him on Facebook  and follow him on Twitter.

Queen Charlotte?

Or how Queen Victoria almost wasn't.

by V.R. Christensen

The matter of royal accession during the reign of George III should not have been a matter of any great debate. George IV had already served as regent (off and on) during his father’s madness. The line of George IV was further ensured by the fact that he had a legitimate child, even if she was merely a daughter.

A princess though she was, Charlotte was not much pampered or loved. She was pawn, as children too often are, in the acrimonious game between her rivalling parents, estranged from the time of her conception. She was an unhappy young woman, and desperate to escape the confines of her life. Her ticket out? Marriage.

Because of the Royal Marriages Act of 1772 (passed by George III to ensure that his children's choice of spouses met with his approval) Charlotte's choices were relegated to a few foreign princes whom she'd never met. She made a run at Frederick of Prussia, but he was unresponsive. And then, at a ball given by the Duke and Duchess of York, she met the handsome Prince Leopold of Saxe-Coburg-Saalfield. Not only was he charming, ambitious and a renowned lady’s man, but he was also heavily in debt and looking for a solution. Charlotte was not very much in love with Leopold at the outset; she simply saw him as a means of escape. Neither was Leopold in love with her, but he was very much enamoured of the idea of being consort to a rich princess, and one who would very probably become Queen. Perhaps taking a lesson from her father's miserable marriage, Leopold considered it wise to fortify his position by convincing Charlotte to love him, at least to rely on him. By all accounts, he succeeded quite brilliantly in his aim to win her heart. He was an an affectionate and attentive husband. So successful was he, that, in the course of his efforts, Leopold found himself very much in love with her in turn. He gave up his rakish ways and took up the part of faithful husband and indispensable helpmate. Charlotte was so dependent on him in fact, that she made a royal declaration that she would subject herself to her husband’s rule, making him King upon her accession. All he needed more to secure his position was an heir.

In due course, an heir was on its way, but Charlotte was subject to the ‘skill’ of the royal doctors, who prescribed a ‘lowering’ treatment for the expectant mother. This consisted of a liquid diet of meatless, vegetable-free broth and restriction from all exercise. Consequently, when her time came, two weeks after the due date, she lacked the necessary strength to deliver the baby. After a gruelling fifty hours of labour, the baby, a beautiful, perfectly formed boy, emerged—dead. Charlotte had not even the strength to feel her devastation. To make matters worse, her placenta had not detached, and she endured a procedure which essentially tore it from her uterus. Her torso was then wrapped tightly in bandages, and when she complained of pain, she was given warm compresses. She was bleeding internally, though she was wrapped so tightly no one was yet aware of it. Until it was too late.

At 2:30 in the morning, Charlotte died, and two generations of royalty were swept away.

It was 1817 and the question of accession was once more brought to the fore.

Charlotte’s death had sent her father, George IV, into a nearly fatal fit of illness, and it was generally believed he would die. He rallied, however. He might have done more to ensure the endurance of his own line. When his wife, Caroline died in 1826, he declared his intention to find a new wife and to produce another heir. But, lazy, fat, old and in poor health, he did nothing.

The next in line after the Regent, was George III’s second son Frederick, but the Duke of York had, as had his brother before him, separated from his wife within a year of their marriage, having produced no children. Also out of the running was the sixth brother, Augustus, whose marriage had not satisfied the requirements of the Royal Marriages Act.

That left William, Edward, Ernest and Adolphus vying for position.

William, Duke of Clarence, was next in line. It was Charlotte’s death that induced him to leave his beloved mistress (Mrs. Dorothy Jordan, with whom he had ten children) and look for a wife. He decided upon Adelaide of Saxe-Meiningen, whom he chose sight unseen. She was sickly, unattractive, but intelligent and pious—all of which rather counted against her with the world-wise (if not world-weary) prince. Adelaide was a mere 25 to his 52, yet despite all this, their marriage was a happy one.

The next in line after William was Edward, Duke of Kent. Edward was a favourite of Charlotte and Leopold and it was they who played matchmaker. Leopold introduced him to his sister Victoire. Edward was taken with her and proposed. She refused him. She had been married before, to a much older, unattractive and inattentive husband, who, as it so happened, had been the widower of her maternal aunt (yes, that made him her uncle). Consequently, she had no desire to enter again into that unhappy state called matrimony. Her interests, as well as those of her two children, were best served by remaining a widow. Disappointed, Edward returned to the arms of his mistress—until events catapulted him back into the hunt. With the announcement of Charlotte’s death, he tried once more for Victoire’s hand, this time begging the influence of her brother, who, though shattered over his wife's death, was ever the man of political strategy (he would later exhibit the foresight to train his nephew up to be the Queen’s consort). He saw in this match another opportunity to advance his own interests, and so persuaded Victoire to see them too. Circumstances had changed, and Edward was no longer a longshot for the throne.

Next was Ernest, Duke of Cumberland. But Cumberland was much feared and loathed by the people. It was generally believed at the time (though modern scholars doubt the allegations hold any truth) that he had murdered his valet and homosexual partner, and that he had fathered a child with his sister, Sophia. His choice of bride was almost as notorious as he. His first cousin, Frederica of Mechlenberg-Sterlitz, was once engaged to his brother Adolphus, Duke of Cambridge, but eloped with the Prince of Solms, whom she was later suspected of murdering. Ernest's marriage to Frederica, solemnised in 1815, satisfied all provisions of the Royal Marriages Act.

The last of the qualifying princes was Adolphus, Duke of Cambridge. Cambridge, the youngest of the seven sons, was also the most temperate of all the brothers, though perhaps no less ambitious. Within two weeks of Charlotte’s death, he was married to Augusta of Hesse-Kassel.

And so, in March of 1819, two years after Charlotte’s death, these four brothers, with their respective and very pregnant wives, rightly held very high hopes for the throne.

Cambridge (Adolphus) was the first to produce a post-Charlotte heir. Upon hearing of the delivery of the Cambridge child, Clarence (William) went to see for himself, sending a message to the King soon after informing him of the arrival (at long last) of a legitimate grandson. The child was called George in honour of his uncle and King.

On the 27th of March, the Duke and Duchess of Clarence had a daughter, but she did not survive her first day.

On the 29th of May, the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge (Adolphus) announced the birth of their son, also named George. The King was well pleased, for he’d taken great measures to ensure that his throne should pass to no woman. The Regent, too, felt very strongly that a King should be the head of England.

Except that five days earlier, the Duchess of Kent had given birth to a daughter, and the Kent child was ahead of the little Georges in succession, Kent (Edward) being next in line after William, who so far had no heir (nor would he, as all of his children by Adelaide died in infancy).

But then the Duke of Kent died. The laws of accession did not rule out his young daughter’s claim, but a King could take certain precautions, as had George III with his own daughters, denying them marriages and thereby guaranteeing they had no claims upon the throne. Perhaps to protect her from such devices, or perhaps to shield her from the unsavoury influences of his profligate brothers (for custom would dictate she fall under George’s care, then William’s upon the former's death) Kent made legal arrangements that his wife should maintain care of their child after his death, a thing virtually unheard of at the time.

Six days after Kent’s death, the King followed. In the shock, George IV fell ill as well, and it was believed he, too, would die. He rallied, however, despite surrendering 150 ounces of blood to the royal doctors.

George IV, once recovered, turned his back upon his niece and was prepared to turn them over to the Coburgs in Germany. Leopold, however, stepped in once again. Such royal neglect on the part of the English relatives proved to be just as well. It was Leopold who arranged for the burial of Kent's body at Windsor, as well as settling all of his sister's outstanding debts. He intereceded with George IV's favourite sister and arranged for them to assume residence at Kensington Palace, where Victoria was trained, very quietly, and without her knowledge, to one day reign.

Though Victoria was brought up to know she was a princess, she spent her childhood wholly unaware of just how great the chance was that she would one day claim the throne. Unlike the heirs apparent both before and after her, she had no cause to consider herself superior, no reason to be vain or to believe in her own self-importance. Instead, she had a unique sense of responsibility and a deep desire to do good.

When, after her uncle William's death in 1837, Victoria at last gained the throne, she was precisely what the people wanted, and perhaps what society needed. They were tired of the old ways, the old excesses.

Victoria brought the promise of a new era, and the world has never been the same.

For more about the life of Queen Victoria, see We Two, by Gillian Gill.

V.R. Christensen is the author of Of Moths & Butterflies, and Blind - a novella. Cry of the Peacock, a companion piece to Of Moths & Butterflies, is due to be released in October of 2012.