SECRET BLOG

The Bisley Boy

Thu, 15 Oct 2009 16:22:51 +0100

There have been many explanations given of some of the peculiarities of the reign of Elizabeth I. Her failure to marry, her early baldness and her strict instructions that no post mortem should be carried out on her body have all attracted their fair share of conspiracy theories. Few, however, are as colourful as the tale of the Bisley Boy.

Bisley in Gloucestershire is the site of Over Court, which in 1542 was a royal hunting lodge and, briefly, the home of Henry VIII’s youngest daughter, Princess Elizabeth, whilst her father hunted at the nearby Berkeley castle. According to the legend of the Bisley Boy, there ensued one of the nation’s greatest royal disasters. The young Elizabeth suddenly developed a fever and died, leaving the courtiers at Over Court and the villagers of Bisley in something of a quandary – how were they to tell Henry VIII?

To say court affairs were volatile at the time would be an understatement. On 13 February of that year, Henry’s fifth wife, Catherine Howard, had been beheaded for adultery, an event that had greatly upset the nine-year-old Elizabeth. Not only had Catherine been kind to her, but she was the cousin of Elizabeth’s own mother, Anne Boleyn, who had also suffered execution at Henry’s hands. Telling Henry of the death of his daughter would stir all this up again and so they decided not to tell him at all.

Now Henry’s relationship with Elizabeth varied; sometimes he would be fatherly; at others he would declare her illegitimate and disinherit her. If they were to get away with the deceit, they would definitely need a proxy. While the body of Elizabeth was being secretly buried in Over Court, the village of Bisley was being searched for a replacement. One was indeed found, of the right age and stature and with the necessary red hair. The only problem was that the replacement was male. Nevertheless the ‘Bisley Boy’ was duly dressed up as a Tudor princess and went on to become one of England’s greatest monarchs as Elizabeth I, always carefully eschewing marriage and any other means by which ‘her’ true sex might be found out. Or so the story has it.

One final flourish to this unlikely tale was given in the late nineteenth century by the usually dour vicar of Bisley, the Reverend Thomas Keble. He told his family that during building work at Over Court in 1870 he came across a stone coffin containing the remains of a young girl in Tudor dress. Perhaps with a wry and rare smile from this famously serious man, he added that he had secretly reburied the child when he realised who it must be, so as to ensure the house did not become a melancholic shrine.

Did you enjoy that story? There are 133 others like it in my book ‘Secret Britain - the Hidden Bits of Our History’ available signed and dedicated direct from me, from Amazon or any good bookshop. I think it would make a rather good Christmas present, though I say so myself.

The Dalrymple Mystery

Wed, 14 Oct 2009 18:37:51 +0100

Any marriage might be considered something of a risk but there have been few as risky as Janet Dalrymple’s in the latter half of the seventeenth century. Janet was the daughter of James Dalrymple, 1st Lord Stair, a whiggish lawyer and politician with an eye to securing the further rise of his ambitious family. His daughter, meanwhile, had her eye on the penniless Archibald, 3rd Lord Rutherford, a man of exactly opposite political opinions (being a firm Jacobite) and declining fortunes.

Janet and Archibald had sworn to marry by the time her parents found out about it, and swore that she wouldn’t. In the meantime Lord Stair found a far more suitable bridegroom for his daughter in the form of a puce-faced young man with an unhealthy interest in farming, David Dunbar of Baldoon. When he asked for her hand, Janet, embarrassingly, was forced to admit that she had already offered it to Rutherford. Lady Stair, when she heard about this, immediately wrote to Rutherford, telling him in no uncertain terms that the engagement was off, but he refused to accept the rather terse missive, demanding an interview with his beloved and her mother in the hope of changing her mind. However, he hadn’t counted on the barrack-room legal skills of Lady Stair who rather neatly showed, using extensive Biblical quotations, that a betrothal vow made by a daughter when still under the care of her father was null and void if the father disagreed with it.

To cap this legal flourish, an apparently overawed and humbled Janet returned her half of a gold coin (Archibald had the other half) that they had split as a sign of their vow. Decisively outmanoeuvred, he swept out of the room, hissing at Janet: ‘For you, madam, you will be a world’s wonder.’ This was not as nice a thing to say as it sounds today, actually implying that something terrible would befall her, as indeed it duly did. Archibald then left the country, never to marry nor return.

So on 24 August (some sources say 12 August) 1669, Janet Dalrymple and David Dunbar were married at the Kirk of Old Luce two miles from Carscreugh castle, the Dalrymple family seat. Later folklorists claim that her brothers who accompanied her to the church said her skin was as cold as ice and that she showed no emotion at all. A reception at Carscreugh ensued, after which the usual tradition was followed of locking the bride and groom in the bridal suite for the night. One of the groomsmen was given the key with strict instructions to keep the door locked so that no tricks could be played on the couple.

What took place behind that locked door is a matter of conjecture, save to say that some time later wild screaming was heard from the other side. After the groomsman had finally been persuaded that this wasn’t a joke in itself, the door was opened to reveal David Dunbar seriously wounded and bathed in blood. His bride sat some distance away, crouched near the fire, ‘dabbled in gore’ as one account rather vividly puts it. She had apparently gone quite insane and would only shout, ‘Tak’ up your bonny bridegroom.’ She died just nineteen days later on 12 September.

What led to this scene is still a mystery. The wounded David Dunbar survived and remarried, eventually dying from a fall from his horse on 28 March 1682. He, however, refused to ever mention the night of his wedding to Janet Dalrymple and took the secret with him to his grave. Whether she attacked him, he attacked (and fatally wounded) her or whether the insanely jealous Lord Rutherford secretly stole into the room and attacked his rival remains unknown to this day. One person at least did well from this tragic tale as the story later formed the basis for Sir Walter Scott’s hugely successful novel, The Bride of Lammermoor.

Did you enjoy that story? There are 133 others like it in my book ‘Secret Britain - the Hidden Bits of Our History’ available signed and dedicated direct from me, from Amazon or any good bookshop. I think it would make a rather good Christmas present, though I say so myself.

The Tartan Forgery

Tue, 13 Oct 2009 21:07:35 +0100

Very little is known of the early life of John and Charles Allen, both of whom were probably born sometime in the 1790s. Although this is partly because of the lack of contemporary records, it is more a product of the elaborate and fantastical web of deceit they spent the majority of their lives weaving around themselves.

We do know that they were the sons of Thomas Gatehouse Allen, a lieutenant in the Royal Navy, but beyond that things start to get a little murky. According to them, their father was not the son of Admiral John Carter Allen, an ancestor, you might think, illustrious enough to suit most purposes, but actually the son of Bonny Prince Charlie, the Stuart claimant to the English throne. This made John and Charles his direct heirs and hence potential kings of England.

It is unclear exactly when they ‘realised’ that they were of royal stock. They claimed to have offered their services to Napoleon and even to have fought alongside him at Waterloo, which would be a disappointing trait to find in the sons of a Royal Navy officer. What is certain is that sometime later they appeared for the first time in Scotland, where, in the Highlands at least, many held firm to the idea that the rightful king should be a Stuart and not a Hanoverian.

In Scotland the Allen brothers seem to have decided to become as Scottish as possible, changing their names several times until settling on the surname Hay in the hope that people would think they were related to the Hay Earls of Errol. This was so successful that they were soon regular guests at the homes of some Highland chiefs and came under the personal patronage of the Earl of Moray. Indeed, so much time did they spend deer stalking with their new aristocratic friends that they would later be able to write a whole book on the art, The Lay of the Deer Forest with Sketches of Olden and Modern Hunting.

Another book altogether would mark the beginning of their downfall. In 1829 they approached the Scottish antiquary, Sir Thomas Dick Lauder, claiming to be in possession of a late fifteenth-century manuscript known as the Vestiarium Scoticum, which detailed all the various identifying tartans of the Highland and Lowland clans. It was a brilliant opening gambit at a time when there was a huge interest in reviving Scottish history and folklore. Many saw the Allen brothers as the rightful Stuart heirs to the throne, championing the ancient rights and customs of Scotland. The brothers even claimed that some clan chieftains had ‘checked’ their own tartans against the book, proving their ancient and noble heritage.

Lauder was impressed but needed further proof – after all, he had been shown what was said to be an inferior eighteenth-century copy of the original. So he wrote to Sir Walter Scott, the eminent Scottish historical novelist. Scott was less impressed, pointing out that there was absolutely no evidence that Lowland clans had ever worn tartan or plaid, and noting that even the title of the book was bad Latin. He did, however, suggest that perhaps the original manuscript should be sent for detailed examination by antiquaries. This, of course, the Allen brothers refused to do.

If Scott was sceptical, others were not, and the Allens had soon set up house at the beautiful hunting lodge of Eilean Aigas, on an island in the Beauly river, Inverness-shire, which their new patron, Lord Lovat, had granted them. Here they really did hold court, finally fully declaring their Stuart ancestry and converting to Roman Catholicism (the religion of the Stuarts). With their hopes of acceptance amongst the Scottish aristocracy revived, the brothers published a version of the manuscript in 1842 that included a huge amount of their own research – some very good but a lot of it simply invented. As they gained in confidence, this was followed up by Tales of the Century, or, Sketches of the Romance of History between the Years 1746 and 1846. Nominally fiction, it was in fact a barely disguised rehearsal of the Allens’ claim to the throne. This little bit of hubris would finally bring them down.

The book drew an anonymous attack in the Quarterly Review (now known to have been written by Professor George Skene), which, having quickly dismissed the Tales, went on to demolish the scholarship of the Vestiarium, page by page. The author pointed out that the Vestiarium was a fantasy, a book that everyone would like to have existed but which was clearly a forgery. As even the romantic Sir Walter Scott put it, the ‘idea of distinguishing the clans by their tartans is but a fashion of modern date’.

With their reputation demolished, the Allen brothers’ little court broke up and the family moved to the continent where they hoped their pretensions to royalty might be better received. Twenty years later, and now very poor, they returned to London, where it was said they could be seen daily in the British Library, researching their claims, and carefully making notes using pens surmounted with miniature golden coronets. Perhaps they had the last laugh after all, as the myth that they started – of the ancient clan tartans – is stronger than ever. Today people from all over the world travel to Scotland to discover which ‘ancient’ tartan their Scottish ancestors once wore.

Did you enjoy that story? There are 133 others like it in my book ‘Secret Britain - the Hidden Bits of Our History’ available signed and dedicated direct from me, from Amazon or any good bookshop. I think it would make a rather good Christmas present, though I say so myself.

The Hidden Friends of Lady Lisle

Mon, 12 Oct 2009 07:14:53 +0100

The fate of Lady Alice Lisle at the Bloody Assizes of Judge Jeffreys shows how dangerous it can be to hide fugitives in your house, even if you’re doing it for all the right reasons.

Lady Alice had, indirectly, been closely linked to the main events of the English Civil War. Her husband, John Lisle, had been one of the signatories to Charles I’s death warrant and a grateful Cromwell had elevated him to the upper house in his Commonwealth government. At the Restoration in 1660, naturally enough, their fortunes had turned. John and Alice had chosen to flee rather than face the Royalists. However, the Royalist cause followed them to Switzerland and John was assassinated on his way to church.

Lady Lisle returned to England around 1665 and took up residence at Moyles Court, her father’s old house, where, having reached the age of fifty, she hoped to quietly live out the rest of her days. Indeed, she had every reason to think she would remain unmolested. She had never directly been involved in politics and although she remained a pious Protestant she never spoke out against the accession in 1685 of James II, the Roman Catholic brother of Charles II.

Not everyone took the accession of James so well. Within days of its taking place, a full-scale rebellion broke out when the Protestant Duke of Monmouth, an illegitimate son of Charles II, claimed the throne. The rebellion proved abortive. After the battle of Sedgemoor, Monmouth was captured and beheaded, and his supporters were mercilessly hunted down. It was at this time that the now elderly Alice Lisle was approached by James Dunne, a baker from Warminster, who was carrying a note for her from one John Hicks, asking her to shelter him and his friend Richard Nelthorp. Hicks, a Nonconformist minister, was well known to Alice. She agreed to lodge the men and hide them as necessary. What she almost certainly hadn’t been told, and didn’t know, was that the two men were more than just Nonconformists sheltering from religious persecution; they were fugitives from Monmouth’s defeated forces at the battle of Sedgemoor.

It was not long before the presence of the two men at Moyles Court was public knowledge. A local farmhand, John Barter, saw them and reported them to Colonel Thomas Penruddock. He made a surprise search of the house and arrested Hicks, Nelthorp and Lady Alice. All three were taken to Winchester to one of the most notorious special commissions in British history, set up by a fearful sovereign anxious to root out and punish any who had, in thought or deed, supported Monmouth. Presided over by the zealous Judge Jeffreys, the commission would soon gain another title – the Bloody Assizes.

The treatment of Lady Alice, the first person to be tried at these assizes, was considered excessive even by the standards of the day. Now almost deaf, she had to have the proceedings relayed to her by her friend, Matthew Brown, who stood beside her throughout her six-hour trial. Although the original transcripts don’t survive, accounts made from them suggest Jeffreys badgered and interrupted her witnesses. When the baker James Dunne was subjected to a prolonged cross-examination, he panicked, fearing he might himself be implicated, and denounced Alice. She calmly admitted that she had hidden Hicks, but only as a Nonconformist preacher, not as a traitor.

Alice was nonetheless condemned by a jury unnerved and overawed by Jeffreys’ ferocity. She was sentenced to the standard punishment for female traitors at that date – to be burnt at the stake – but put in an appeal for clemency to King James. The King, in a move that gained him widespread condemnation, merely altered her sentence from burning to beheading. Lady Alice Lisle was executed in the Market Square at Winchester on 2 September 1685, going to her death insisting that her only ‘crime’ was to ‘entertain a Non-Conformist minister’. She was seventy-one years old.

Did you enjoy that story? There are 133 others like it in my book ‘Secret Britain - the Hidden Bits of Our History’ available signed and dedicated direct from me, from Amazon or any good bookshop. I think it would make a rather good Christmas present, though I say so myself.

Thomas Hollis’s Fields of Dreams

Sun, 11 Oct 2009 08:37:02 +0100

The names of fields often have meanings that are obscure to us today but in the Dorset villages of Halstock and Corscombe they hold a clue to the secret burial of one of the greatest academic patrons of the eighteenth century.

Thomas Hollis was a very unusual character for his age. As a libertarian and a firm believer in democracy, he was of the opinion that the people had every right to depose a tyrant. As a republican, he was all in favour of the increasingly independent noises coming out of the British North American colonies. Like his great-uncle before him (another Thomas Hollis), he was also a major benefactor to the fledgling country’s academic institutions, making huge bequests to the library of Harvard College (later Harvard University), whose online library system has been named after him (Harvard OnLine Library Information System).

Having dedicated his life to helping the poor and promoting the arts, Hollis brought his philosophy to bear closer to home. He had inherited large tracts of land from various relatives and he renamed them in honour of his heroes and beliefs. Where some villages had ‘Apple Tree Farms’ and ‘Hillside Farms’, Hollis’s were named Liberty Farm, Locke Farm (after the philosopher John Locke) and Marvell Farm (after the satirist Andrew Marvell). Nor could his workmen avoid his influence in the fields, where it was possible to walk from Socrates field to Constitution field, passing on the way ‘Plato’, ‘Brutus’ (honoured for killing the tyrannical Julius Caesar), ‘Toleration’, ‘Confucius’, ‘Education’ and the very splendid ‘Reasonableness’.

Of course, in the intervening centuries these names have themselves been corrupted – Massachusetts Field becoming ‘Massy Field’, for instance, and many of the others have disappeared altogether.

Beneath one of these fields still lies Hollis’s last secret. Often accused of atheism, and certainly a rational dissenter at the very least, he did not believe in the pomp and ceremony of church burial or the vainglory of memorials. On 1 January 1774, whilst giving orders to workmen in one of his fields at Urless Farm, Corscombe, he suddenly announced: ‘I believe the weather is going to change; I am exceedingly giddy,’ and, with that, dropped dead. In line with the wishes of his will, he was buried where he had died, 10 feet down, and the land was immediately ploughed over so that no one would ever know in which of Thomas Hollis’s exotically named fields he lay buried. And there he remains to this day.

Did you enjoy that story? There are 133 others like it in my book ‘Secret Britain - the Hidden Bits of Our History’ available signed and dedicated direct from me, from Amazon or any good bookshop. I think it would make a rather good Christmas present, though I say so myself.