A New Year’s Eve toast, Minnesota-style. Photo credit R. A. Stockton
Happy New Year, friends! I hope you had a joyous and restful holiday season, and may this new year bring peace and good fortune for you and your loved ones.
For many folks, January is a time of contemplation and revitalization; some looking back, but even more looking forward. The same is true here at Plants and Plantagenets! I thought I’d take a moment to share with you what’s in store for the blog as we move into the new year.
In 2022, we’ll be looking at a different theme each month. During the month, we’ll spend some time in the realm of relevant history, and I’ll also bring you a real-time glimpse into the current stage of my own historical herb garden. As you know, I just love it when my two passions, history and herbs, overlap, so as often as possible I’ll be looking for ways to bring you content that combines those two together!
In January, I’ll be bringing you posts on the motif of reflection and renewal. We’ll explore how people in English agricultural communities started their new year of work, and I’ll share how, as an experimental gardener, I am considering the results of last year’s herb-growing efforts and making plans for the growing season ahead.
Topics for later months are still being firmed up, so if there’s something you’d like to read more about, please share your ideas in the comments below!
Of course, I’ll continue to bring you regular On This Day bite-sized history bits, so make sure you’re following along on Twitter for a daily digestible dose of the past.
Until then, I hope this winter season brings you beauty, coziness and calm!
Welcome back! Today I am sharing with you what I’ve recently learned about herbs and plants that have historically been considered helpful in times of grief or sorrow.
If you’re thinking “gosh, that seems…abrupt,” well, you’re not wrong. Today’s topic can be considered almost a part “B” to my previous post; they’re related but can also stand alone. If you’re just joining, you may wish to return here to get the story on why I’m talking about these herbs now, but let me give you a quick heads-up: the story centers on pet illness and loss. If you’re not feeling up to that, I totally understand. From here on out, we’ll be talking exclusively about plants.
On to the herbs!
Picking up where we left off: in October I found myself preparing for an upcoming loss. I began considering how I could plan for simple things that might provide moments of respite from the inevitable grieving I knew was coming.
Unlike some aspects of human life that have drastically changed over the centuries, the pain of losing loved ones is the same for us today as it has been throughout history. No remedy can eliminate the pain of grief and loss, nor is there a vaccine that would immunize us against heartache.
However, as our forebears knew, plants can help to ease negative emotional and physical responses to our grief and give us the “room” to think, process and react to the circumstances that are causing that pain. By calming racing hearts, overactive minds and clenching muscles, as well as by strengthening the nervous and cardiovascular systems taxed by our emotions, herbs allow us to endure, to learn and eventually to heal.
So partly as a grounding thought exercise and partly to work on the “acceptance” stage of grief, I decided to explore how humans have historically treated emotional pain.
Planning the search
I already had a few herbal allies in mind from my own experience and learning over the past few years. I refilled my dropper bottle of lemon balm tincture so it would be on hand and ready, as I knew from experience that lemon balm helps to calm my emotions and reduce feelings of panic. Chamomile is of course known for its calming effects; since my own harvest this year was poor, I knew a purchased tea could easily be found at the grocery store if needed. Finally, I started infusing another bigbatch of hawthorn berry tincture. Besides being delicious and an easy remedy to stick to, hawthorn cares for the heart in both the physical and the emotional sense, so I knew I could benefit from its comfort.
Hawthorn berry tincture
For other traditional remedies, I looked to the three historical herbals on my bookshelf: those by Hildegard von Bingen, Nicholas Culpeper and John Gerard. Of course I recognize that these three represent only the tiniest fraction of herbal knowledge around the world, even in their own times. In full transparency, however, I lacked not only the ready access to other works but also the emotional “spoons” to pursue further at the time.
Historical sources at hand
Even with such a small sample size, I wanted to compare what these leading herbalists recommended across the centuries. Coincidentally, there were about 500 years between Hildegard’s medieval writings and those of the early modernists Gerard and Culpeper, and approximately four centuries have passed since those early herbals were published in English. What might have changed over the course of nearly a millennium? Have any remedies stood the test of time?
Finally, to discover whether any 12th- or 17th-century treatments are still in use today, I relied on three excellent 21st-century herbals: those by Matthew Wood, Rosemary Gladstar, and Thomas Easley & Steven Horne (bibliographical info below in “Sources” section).
The 21st-century approach
A note on terminology
Early in my exploration, I noticed a difference in how grief (or melancholy or sadness, as it is more commonly described in these texts) was thought of as an ailment and when considering treatments.
In general, Hildegard von Bingen’s approach gives remedies to ease the physical pains brought on by a profound sadness, which is consistent with her prescriptions for most illnesses. We see that in her time, the proper treatment for a given bodily ailment was often determined by what was thought to have caused that problem. For example, a patient with a stomach ache might be given one remedy if they had eaten rotten food, but an entirely different cure if the ache was thought to be caused by breathing bad air.
By the 17th century, herbals more often addressed emotions as symptoms themselves to be addressed; while sadness could certainly manifest as an aching head or shortness of breath, many remedies were aimed at easing the melancholy itself.
Findings, from the expected to the unusual
I’ll start with the plants and herbs that have, to varying degrees, persisted as known remedies for sadness and melancholy into the modern age. These will likely seem the most logical options to most folks. From there, we’ll move to others that may surprise the casual gardener, and then to some remedies that might strike some as downright strange.
Rose
Today, the rose may most often be associated with positive emotions such as romantic love, but historically it has been connected to a wide variety of uses and meanings. Both Gerard and Culpeper identified the rose – red or white – as a remedy to strengthen the heart and refresh one’s spirits. The benefits of roses could be enjoyed by distilling them in water, creating a rose syrup, or making a conserve or “sugar of roses.”
I’d hazard a guess that most of us have been cheered by sniffing a blooming rose at one point or another, so you’re unlikely to be surprised to learn that roses are still used today in this manner. Modern herbalists Thomas Easley and Steven Horne recommend including the petals in an herbal tea to “reduce stress and help heal heartache,” and their observation is seconded by respected herbalist and author Matthew Wood, who adds “profound anxiety” to the conditions that benefit from rose.
Rosemary
Although rosemary is often mentally filed away as a savory culinary flavor, this herb has been used as an emotional support boost from ancient times to today. As I mentioned earlier, my research resources for this exercise were limited to my existing bookshelf, but fortunately my early modern herbals shed some light on previous writings upon which they relied.
John Gerard cited earlier widespread references by Arabian writers and “other Physitions” since that recommended making a conserve of rosemary flowers and sugar, to be ingested every day to mend mind and spirit. Culpeper agreed with the flower conserve method, but also advised that if a “melancholy man” were to “take the flowers, and make them into a powder, then bind them on the right arm in a linen cloth, this powder, by working on the veins, will make a man more merry than ordinary.”
(Note: I was somewhat surprised not to find any reference to rosemary in Hildegard’s Physica, falling as it did between the ancient and the early modern, but I may have overlooked it or perhaps she used another name that I was not familiar with.)
All three modern herbals reported that rosemary is still valued as an antidepressant and nervine support to combat nervousness and anxiety. Whether taken as a tincture or infusion, rosemary will help to calm and restore the nervous system.
Borage
Moving into (possibly) less-familiar territory for some folks, let’s talk about borage. It could be just my imagination, but it seems that borage is better known in the UK than it is in the US – or perhaps I just haven’t met many borage fans on this side of the pond yet. Still, it seems appropriate for this plant to be in the upper half of the pack, because those that are acquainted with it know its medicinal potential is significant, particularly when it comes to lifting spirits.
Borage flowers in shades of blue, pale pink and lavender
Now I really like borage – so much so that I wrote an entire post about it earlier this fall! Rather than rehash it all, I will summarize by saying that while Hildegard reserved borage for other physical ailments, both Culpeper and Gerard spoke strongly in favor of using borage to reduce sadness, melancholy, pensiveness, sorrow, dullness…just about every synonym for grief you can imagine. The flowers especially were said to cheer one who consumed them as a syrup or in a sugared treat.
As with rosemary, every modern herbal I consulted confirmed borage as an antidepressant. Fresh flowers and leaves are best, but before ingesting any part of borage, please discuss it with your physician, as there is a low level of toxicity in the plant that may harm internal organs or interfere with other medications.
To read more about borage (and to see more proof of how gorgeous it really is), check out my post here.
Lily of the Valley
This familiar flower falls in the middle of this pack, because while undoubtedly everyone is familiar with its attractive blooms, it isn’t on the top of most modern folks’ lists as a natural remedy – and with good reason!
Almost to a word, Gerard and Culpeper sang the same refrain about lily of the valley: if distilled in wine, it will comfort the heart and renew one’s spirits. What’s not to love, right? Pretty spring flowers, pleasant scent that’s used in many perfumes even today; honestly it sounds a lot less offputting than some remedies of the day, so what harm could it do?
As it turns out, plenty. Today we know that all parts of the plant are toxic, and it is especially dangerous to children and pets. Lily of the valley is by no means the only plant used in traditional healing practices that is now advised against, but as Easley & Horne unequivocally state, it should be used only by professionals and with the utmost care. (Incidentally, their book The Modern Herbal Dispensatory does not note any emotional support uses for this plant.)
Best admire this one from afar.
Motherwort and Feverfew
I’ve paired these two lesser-known plants together, as neither herb was well-documented in my historical herbals as particularly effective against grief. Hildegard recommended feverfew for other purposes, but she did not specify motherwort at all, at least not by that name – again, perhaps there was a different term used in the 12th century. (If you know, please share with me in the comments!)
In a rare divergence within the early modern camp, Culpeper and Gerard each championed one of these herbs for allaying sadness but not the other. Culpeper put his money on motherwort, which he praised as the best herb to “drive melancholy vapours from the heart, to strengthen it, and make the mind cheerful, blithe and merry.” In contrast, Gerard instructed those “such as be melancholike, sad, pensive, and without speech” to add dried and powdered feverfew (or “fetherfew;” that flexible 17th-century spelling was in full effect) to wine to drive away those conditions.
Never fear, though; whether you are Team Culpeper or Team Gerard, there’s at least one modern herbalist who supports your side. Easley & Horne condoned motherwort as a sedative to allay anxious or nervous feelings, while Wood added that it can soothe “excessive emotionality.” Wood also supported feverfew to raise spirits and decrease nervous feelings, so I’d call either herb a valid candidate.
A few things HAVE changed in the last millennium
Heads up, here’s where we start exploring some remedies that generally get much less traction these days. All of the following are included in Hildegard’s recommendations, but unless otherwise noted, I found no reference to these herbs in the context of treating grief or melancholy in either the 17th-century or the 21st-century herbals.
Mandrake
Yes, Harry Potter fans, you’ve got the right idea. While non-magical mandrakes lack the ability to deafen gardeners with their screams (as far as I know, at least), we are essentially talking about the same horticultural specimen.
Mandrakes were so named because their roots have a faintly humanoid shake, and therefore cures often involved the part of the root that resembled the part of the patient’s body that suffered. (This view was not unique to Hildegard; many medieval remedies assumed that a plant’s appearance gave clues as to its God-given medical purpose. For example, eyebright got its name, along with its assigned medical properties, because the flower itself resembles an eye.)
I’m not even going to quote Hildegard for this one, as her work explained many such uses for mandrake that I find fascinating. I truly recommend you grab a copy and read the entirety for yourself, as it is enlightening to see this type of medical thinking and experimentation at work.
Amusingly, five centuries later Gerard tore basically all “traditional” thought about mandrakes apart in his herbal, saying that it was nothing more than old wives’ tales and dismissing it entirely. I was unable to find any references to mandrake in the modern herbals at hand.
Mullein
Hildegard’s instructions on using mullein were simple and straightforward: “One whose heart is weak and sad should cook, and frequently eat, mullein with meat, fish, or small tarts, but with no other herbs. It will strengthen his heart and make him happy.”
I found one modern-day reference to mullein as a remedy for emotional duress: Wood stated that it may benefit those who “think too much” or suffer from nervousness or insomnia.
Today, one is more likely to see mullein oil used as a cure for earaches. I’ve also read that the entire dried flower stalk, if dipped in wax, also makes a great natural torch in the autumn. I haven’t tried this but would love to hear about it if you have!
Rue
Hildegard suggested that a person suffering from melancholy should eat rue following a meal, as “the heat of rue attenuates the harsh heat of melancholy and tempers its excessive cold.” Here again is an intriguing application of the medieval notion about the importance of balancing the humors; if one suffered from an excess of cold, they must offset it with a treatment that brings heat to drive it away.
Gerard and Culpeper both cited rue for various other ailments, but not in relation to grief or sadness. Modern herbalists, it must be noted, advise against taking rue internally at all. Wood’s herbal mentioned that rue may be beneficial to those unable to let go of negative emotions; he did not make a specific connection to sadness, but a reasonable connection may be made.
Geranium
Taking rue one step further, Hildegard advised one “who has pain in his heart and is always sad” to pulverize “geranium, and less pennyroyal, and even less rue” and eat it along with bread on a regular basis. This, she said, would boost the heart and restore the person to happiness.
Fennel
Today, fennel is generally prized for its culinary contributions, or perhaps as an ingredient in absinthe. If a 21st-century person is familiar with fennel as a medicinal herb, it is most likely in its role as a carminative or digestive aid. Culpeper recommended fennel as a gastrointestinal cure, while Gerard used it to improve eyesight.
In Hildegard’s day, however, a melancholic person was advised to liquify fennel and apply it topically on “forehead, temples, chest and stomach” to drive it away.
Onyx
Yes, I know this is not an herb or plant, but I had to include one final instruction from Hildegard on easing sadness. As those familiar with her Physica will already know, that work includes not only plants, but also sections on elements, trees, stones, fish, birds, animals, reptiles and metals.
Of onyx, she wrote: “If you are oppressed with sadness, look at an onyx intently, then place it in your mouth. The oppression of your mind will cease.” I confess, this passage makes me want to spend considerably more time examining Hildegard’s observations outside of the plant world, as this is certainly a glimpse into her worldview that is beyond what I’d expected!
Outcome
So after surveying (briefly) the last millennium for herbal allies against grief, have I added any of them to my emotional arsenal?
To be entirely honest: not to any great extent. Not that I don’t see value in some of the options above; if it wasn’t the middle of winter and borage was in flower, I might give that a try. Even just looking at borage makes me smile during the summertime, so it’d be great if I had some of that to hand now. Rosemary is another favorite of mine, so I’ll gladly adopt any extra reason to add it to even more wintertime meals! Still, my experience so far has been that the lemon balm and hawthorn tinctures have been great comforts to me, boosting me when everything just seems overwhelming.
Do you have any other herbal remedies that have helped you through periods of sadness or loss? Share in the comments below! (Oh, and it should go without saying: make sure to consult your physician before adding any herbal supplements to your routine; safety first, as always.)
Sources and Further Reading
Gerard, J., & Woodward, M. (2015). Gerard’s Herball. The Noverre Press.
Culpeper, N. (2018). Culpeper’s English physician and complete herbal. Forgotten Books.
Von Bingen, H. (1998). P. Throop (Trans.), Hildegard von bingen’s PHYSICA: The complete translation of her classic work on health and healing. Healing Arts Press.
Easley, T., & Horne, S. H. (2016). The modern herbal dispensatory: A medicine-making guide. essay, North Atlantic Books.
Wood, M. (2008). The EARTHWISE herbal, a complete guide to Old World medicinal plants. North Atlantic Books.
Hello friends. It’s been a hot second since I’ve written, not by design or desire, but because as so often happens, life took an unexpected turn over the past few months that bent all my best intentions out of shape. Let me fill you in about what’s been happening since my last post on Harvest Home, as well as what I’ve learned about how plants have always supported humans in times of grief.
I’d planned to spend October sinking gleefully into crisp days, burnished leaves, snuggly blankets and a good book, soaking up all the hygge and natural beauty of the season. I had just spent a glorious weekend in rural Pennsylvania for Tudorcon 2021 (more on that another time), and I was inspired, energized and so ready to embrace my favorite season.
Then I noticed some changes in the behavior of my oldest cat, Jasper, and I felt a niggle of trepidation in the back of my mind that was accompanied by my sinking heart.
A note about what’s to come
[I’m going to pause here for a moment of total transparency. The next bit of the story is going to be sad, especially for the animal lovers out there, so if the topics of pet illness or pet loss are ones you’d rather not read, that’s totally okay. If you’d like to skip that part and just read more about the historical remedies for melancholy and grief, I’ll be back on Thursday with that part of the story; please join us again then! In the meantime, here’s a picture of my two adorable “J” kitties, Jasper and Jacquetta.]
Jasper and Jacquetta, appealing for a tiny snack, 2021
How to part with your heart; or, the story of a girl and her cat
I have to say at this point that Jasper was never “just a cat” to me; it’s hard to explain to someone who hasn’t experienced this kind of connection with an animal, but we were the best of friends from the day he was adopted; he laid claim to my heart immediately and never, ever let go.
At first, I held onto the hope that Jasper’s decreased mobility and weight loss were due to the health issues he already had as a cat nearly 15 years of age. We’d been monitoring a heart murmur and developing arthritis for months, and he’d just been diagnosed with hyperthyroidism a few weeks before; surely that explained everything, right?
I’ll skip the details of the next week (gosh, it was a suspenseful, anxious week), but after an emergency clinic visit, two days of monitoring by our regular vet, and an overnight stay with the amazing staff at the University of Minnesota’s veterinary medicine facility, we finally had some answers. Unfortunately, they weren’t the ones we wanted.
The issue that landed us in the pet E.R. turned out to be a case of pancreatitis. Jasper recovered, thanks to the care of our vet and the U of M’s team, and I was relieved to learn that pancreatitis is generally not as dangerous (and possibly lethal) in cats as it is in dogs. Our relief was short-lived, however, as during some of the extensive testing that was done when treating the pancreatitis, growths were identified on several of Jasper’s internal organs. Further testing revealed that it was in fact lymphoma, and it had already spread enormously throughout his body, masked by the symptoms of his hyperthyroidism and other underlying conditions.
We had two options. We could go through chemo, which would be very taxing on his body given those other conditions and would give him another eight months or so (not to mention the very high price tag, which we’d gladly have paid if it could have controlled the cancer without taking too much out of Jasper). The doctors weren’t terribly optimistic about that route, though, and in the end we chose palliative care and a course of steroids that would give him a boost for a few weeks. Though it would probably only give him another one or two months, he was likely to have a high quality of life for most of that time, so we decided this was a situation in which quality mattered much more than quantity.
With Jasper, the day of his diagnosis
Friends, I’ll never be able to adequately describe the mix of emotions I felt that day. Strangely, my immediate reaction was simply relief that, after a few days that were very touch-and-go, I wasn’t having to say goodbye to my best friend right then and there. I was so thankful to have even just another day with him. Of course, that was very quickly replaced by a panicky and tearful sense of disbelief, denial and despair as I started to absorb the sad diagnosis.
Jasper, one week into treatment, late October 2021
We spent the next several weeks simply savoring our time with him as much as possible. I’d previously bought a backpack carrier to use with any of the cats, and somewhat to my surprise, Jasper adapted to it immediately. It was like suddenly he realized that being taken places, fussed over and utterly spoiled was a pretty okay lifestyle, and I’m so glad we were able to make those special memories and truly have fun together as a family.
Never a harness guy before, Jasper leaned fully into the freedom in his last weeks
As we knew would happen, however, eventually the steroid treatments lost their effectiveness, and Jasper’s condition worsened a bit each day. It’s too painful to catalogue those two weeks or so in detail, but we did our best to keep him as comfortable as possible while we cuddled him and waited for him to let us know when he was ready to go.
Happily hanging out in his carrier on his last visit with friends
On the morning of his last full day, Jasper had started looking pretty rough, so I called out from work that day to be with him. By late evening, my husband and I had to face the fact that he was suffering and seemed to be telling us he was tired of fighting. We knew we’d have to make the heartbreaking call to our vet in the morning to see when we could help him cross the Rainbow Bridge. We knew from experience with Lancelot, our beloved dog who crossed the bridge nearly five years ago, that although the clinic staff would take wonderful care of all of us and would be a huge supportive help, holding a dear friend’s paw while they cross is a tough, tough thing to do. Of course we would do so willingly, but we knew how much emotional pain it would bring. We went to bed, curled up around Jasper, telling him we loved him.
As it turned out, Jasper had one last bit of kindness up his sleeve for us. A little after 5:00am, he meowed once, loud enough to wake us up. He seemed to be trying to move, so Chris took him gently over to the litter box and the water dish in case he wanted either of those, then brought him back to his spot on the bed where he seemed to want to be. A few minutes later, I could see that his breathing had stopped. My darling boy went peacefully, and I pray without pain, and spared us all the trauma of that final vet visit. Even as I sat with him, tears streaming down my face while I kissed him goodbye and told him how much I loved him one last time, I knew he’d made his last journey on his own terms. I’ll never forget his last gift of peace.
Together on the campus of my alma mater, St. Olaf College. Northfield, MN 10/31/21
Learning, even in the midst of grief
When we got Jasper’s diagnosis and the expected timeline, at least we knew we would have a little bit of time to prepare ourselves to absorb the impact. In addition to purposefully making opportunities for memories together, I started thinking about how I could plan for simple things that might provide moments of respite from the inevitable grieving. Me being me, I began to wonder how generations of people before me have faced and survived great grief, which in so many eras was much more common than it is for most of us today. Perhaps, I thought, I could accept the inevitable with some measure of grace if I viewed it through the lens of the past, acknowledging the unavoidability of sadness and learning how those before me leaned on their ready plant allies to find a way forward.
NEXT UP: I share what I’ve gleaned from herbalists across the past millennium. See which plants have been the go-to choices across centuries when loss, tragedy or even just the winter doldrums strike in Feeling blue? Herbs can help.
Today’s fall festivals grew out of the harvest home traditions of northern Europe. Learn why these celebrations were so significant to those who depended on the harvest for their livelihood.
Every year since I started these herb garden experiments, I’ve made it a point to grow at least one new plant or herb each season. (Granted, as this is only my third year, it hasn’t exactly been a taxing challenge to meet, but still.) Sometimes those new plant friends go on to be perennial favorites, like calendula and comfrey. Other times…well, it turns out not to be such a great fit for one reason or another, and if that plant could talk, I’m sure it would agree that our breakup was mutual.
After something of a disappointing season in 2020 (that’s a whole separate post, but for now let’s just be honest: most things in 2020 were disappointing), I decided to pare things way down this time around. I chose just a couple of new-to-me plants and focused those early-season energies on having my first successful go at indoor seed starts.
I couldn’t tell you anymore precisely why I selected the new herbs I did. I must have been inspired, though, when I landed on what I’d now call the biggest winner of the year: borage.
Borage plants, June 2021. Photo by R.A. Stockton
“Haaaaaaaaave you met Borage?”
I never thought I’d end up as an herb’s wingwoman, but this summer I’ve been hyping up this particular one so often that I might as well adapt the classic How I Met Your Mother catchphrase. Let me introduce you to borage first, then I’ll rave some more about how much I’ve enjoyed growing it this year.
Borago officinalis is a member of the Boraginaceae family, along with well-known ornamentals like heliotrope and forget-me-not. It is easily spotted by gorgeous blue star-shaped flowers with black anthers rising from the center in a conical shape. Those blooms have long been its hallmark; John Gerard, writing in the late 16th century, described them as “gallant blew floures, composed of five leaves apiece; out of the middle of which grow forth blacke threds joined in the top, and pointed like a broch or pyramide: the root is threddy.”
Borage. Note the anthers in the center of each bloom and the stiff hairs along the stems. Photo by R.A. Stockton
Borage can grow up to three feet tall and two feet wide, and it is an aggressive self-spreader unless contained. Like its cousin comfrey, its stems and leaves wear stiff white hairs, so gardening gloves make interacting with both herbs more comfortable.
Borage is native to the eastern Mediterranean, though it was widely used in Europe – and to a smaller extent in North America – as a medicinal and culinary herb. Read on for more on both of these uses, as well as an important cautionary “word to the wise.”
Borage as Traditional Healer
I first learned of borage during my research into plants that were historically used for medicinal purposes. Over the centuries, borage flowers, leaves and the oil from its seeds have been used to treat a variety of conditions.
The Consistent Mood-Booster
Most consistently, borage has been relied upon for its ability to lift spirits and promote cheerfulness. Ancient writers praised borage for its cheering effect on the disposition, and the plant was believed to bestow courage on warriors preparing for battle. The entry in Gerard’s Herball referred back to Pliny, who called the herb “…Euphrosinum, because it maketh a man merry and joyfull: which thing also the old verse concerning Borage doth testifie: Ego Borago gaudia semper ago. I Borage bring alwaies courage.”
A borage flower with blue petals edged in vivid pink. Photo by R.A. Stockton, 2021.
Internal and External Helper
Gerard described his contemporaries using borage in salads to improve mood, comfort sadness and combat depression. Nicholas Culpeper (1653) advised that a syrup made from borage would not only serve those same purposes, but that it would also fight fevers, jaundice and skin afflictions. Its mucilage would aid sore throats and soothe coughs, and if distilled in water, it would heal inflammations of the eye.
Eyes and Ears
Culpeper was not the first to recognize borage as a treatment for eye afflictions. Hildegard von Bingen, a 12th century abbess and skilled herbalist, advised that a patient with diminished vision should regularly crush or break apart borage, apply it to a red silk cloth, and then tie the silk around the eyes overnight. She had a similar remedy for ringing in the ears that required borage juice and a silk of either green or white to be applied repeatedly to the neck and up to the ears.
Pale pink borage blossoms. Photo by R.A. Stockton, 2021.
Modern Uses
Herbal Remedy
Elements of these historical treatments remain in use by modern herbalists even into the 21st century. Easley & Horne promote the depression-fighting properties of borage and recommend a flower essence to create “cheerful courage when facing adversity.” Matthew E. Wood lists a variety of conditions that borage may benefit, ranging from mental/emotional stress to inflamed eyes and from skin irritations to fevers. (Note: both sources caution against the risks associated with this herb, especially its internal usage, so please attend carefully to the warning included below.)
Culinary Delicacy
The borage plant gives off a pleasant, slightly sweet and refreshing aroma, and the flowers, leaves and stalks are edible. Its delicate flowers have a mild flavor that has been likened to cucumbers, which can be candied to decorate cakes or used as a colorful garnish in cocktails, and its young leaves can be used in salads. (Older leaves may cause irritation or discomfort due to those prickly hairs that develop as they mature.) As with medicinal preparations, culinary borage should be used fresh, as much is lost in the drying process.
Star-shaped borage flowers. Photo by R.A. Stockton, 2021.
While these borage preparations certainly look and sound tempting, I must again warn you that not all experts consider it advisable to consume borage. If you choose to enjoy borage for more than its considerable visual appeal, please make note of the considerations below so that you can make informed decisions.
That “Word to the Wise” I Mentioned….
Borage shares more than just a prickly stem with its cousin, comfrey. Both plants, while traditionally consumed to treat internal concerns, are now known to contain a low level of toxicity that can cause damage to internal organs like the liver. Borage also has the potential to interfere with certain medications, and it should not be used if you are pregnant.
This entry (https://www.webmd.com/vitamins/ai/ingredientmono-596/borage) from WebMD outlines some of the concerns about borage that you may wish to consider, but as always, you should consult a physician or trained herbalist before consuming. (As a friendly reminder, as stated here, I am neither a physician nor a trained herbalist, and all of the information provided in any of my articles is for informational purposes only!)
And Now, A Bit of Fangirling
Enough with the academic stuff; as interesting as all of that is, none of it is why I enjoyed growing and getting to know borage this year. It’s also not why I’d recommend that you, dear friend and reader, consider including it in your future garden plans. So now let’s talk about the actual important stuff.
Easy Indoor Start
Confession time: prior to this year, I never had success starting plants from seed. I’d given it halfhearted tries in the past, but I knew my setup wasn’t quite right, so the sprouts I did get were few and weak. Mostly I ended up sowing the seeds outdoors again and crossing my fingers for a better outcome there (great job little seedlings, you thrived despite my goof-ups).
This spring, I made a bunch of needed upgrades and ended up with a proper seed-starting configuration. Still, given my past struggles, I was skeptically hesitant to get my hopes up. Borage came through for me with a massive self-esteem boost when within a few days, it became the first of my seeds to germinate! And wow, every single cell sprouted.
They were also the fastest-growing of my lot for most of the spring; I had so much fun marveling at how much they’d grown every time I’d check in on them. I know how cheesy this sounds, but watching those borage seedlings take off totally renewed my enthusiasm and got me invested in making sure my other herbs and flowers made it, too.
Baby seedlings, just transplanted outside! Borage in the 3 planters (terra cotta, grey & green) directly to the left of the white planter box.) May 24, 2021. Photo by R.A. Stockton.
Relaxed Outside Grower
My borage plants were champions when it came time for transplanting them outdoors, too. I’d started more seeds than I’d estimated would survive, to ensure I had at least a couple viable plants. By the time late May rolled around and frost season was finally over here, it turned out that I had a few too many plants for the containers I’d meant to use.
Borage growing in a container, buds and leaves spotted with water droplets. Photo by R.A. Stockton, 2021.
So I stuck extra borage into any old, barely-holding-together pots I had and crammed them into bigger containers with more plants than would be recommended, yet they gave it a hearty go from the start!
Charming Blooms
The next reason I loved growing borage this year sounds superficial, but we all enjoy the visual pleasures our gardens bring us, don’t we? Well, as it turns out, borage flowers are absolutely gorgeous.
I described them above as an easily-recognizable method of identifying borage, but this is truly a case where a picture is worth a thousand words. (Since I’ve included many photos of the blooms from my garden, you can guess how many words I think could be expended in an attempt to adequately detail their appearance!)
Shaped like 5-pointed stars, these delicate flowers range from light pink to varying shades of periwinkle blue, sometimes tinged with magenta around the central anthers. When the plant has many flowers in bloom at various stages of maturity, the spectrum of extraordinary pastels is stunning. Even when they’ve faded and fallen away, no unsightly wilted mess remains.
Borage flowers in a variety of colors, from pale pink to deep periwinkle. August 2021. Photo by R.A. Stockton.
Natural Resilience
By now you’ve probably gotten the (very fair!) impression that I’m not necessarily a green thumb by nature. Whatever success I have has more to do with research, acknowledging and catering to my limits, and frankly, luck. Even with the best of intentions, there have been many gardening lessons I’ve learned the hard way by experiencing failure and figuring out what I did wrong.
The same happened with borage. I realized somewhat belatedly that I didn’t actually know whether borage needed pruning, or how to prune it, until several of my plants had gotten rather…scraggly and had stopped producing flowers. I did some internet research but didn’t find quite what I was looking for, probably because most people with borage in their yard either let it grow naturally or just “know” through long familiarity with the plant.
Finally, I decided I had to give it a go, even without an official guide. Borage doesn’t have the easily-discernible pruning points that many herbs do; there are no obvious forks on the stem with visible new growth, signaling where a well-placed clip of the shears would encourage a fuller plant and another round of blooms. I crossed my fingers and did my best.
I still don’t know if my approach was the right one or not, but my borage certainly looked better after its haircut. It even bounced back enough to have a few more rounds of flowers. So I suppose I should take note of the lesson and have enough confidence in the future to try something, anything, before the plants get out of hand.
Fresh borage flowers after my somewhat inexpert pruning attempt. Photo by R.A. Stockton, July 2021.
Êvolving Connection with the Garden
Speaking of lessons learned, borage also reminded me that gardening doesn’t always have to be about what and how much I’ve produced by the end of the season. I’ve had a sort of thought evolution on this topic over the past five years or so, which upon reflecting now, I find quite interesting.
Initially, I gardened every year just for the sake of having pretty plants to enjoy and some visual interest to liven up the deck space. After several years of basically growing the same selection of familiar, low-maintenance annuals, I found myself envious of my friends’ impressive full-sized gardens and wishing I could grow something I could actually harvest. It felt like my container garden lacked a purpose, and my zeal to keep up with the annual tasks dwindled.
My perspective changed a few years ago, when my interest was piqued as a result of some historical reading. I began researching the types of home remedies that women in centuries past, primarily the medieval and early modern periods, used to treat common ailments for family members, friends and neighbors. I was awed at the amount of herbal knowledge that had been gathered and passed down from mother to daughter for generations, and I began to wonder whether those medicinal plants were still commonly found today.
As a result of my curiosity, I reinvented my garden to grow those herbs. For the first couple of seasons, I focused my efforts on producing enough plant material that I could then experiment with some simple historical remedies, like compresses, salves and tinctures. Each fall, I made new plans for what new plants and remedies to try the next year.
Old favorite herbs, yarrow and calendula, with newcomer catmint. June 15, 2021. Photo by R.A. Stockton.
As much as I enjoyed those experiments, there were down sides to that approach as well. If I didn’t feel like I had enough preserved and saved at the end of the season, I’d get stressed, even though I am privileged enough to not need to rely on these items for my person or family health.
I was still in that mindset for probably the first half of this season. Then, for a couple of weeks or so, I wasn’t able to spend much time caring for my plants, and the garden’s overall health suffered a decline.
Borage flowers, picked and ready to preserve. Photo by R.A. Stockton, 2021.
I faced the distinct possibility that I wouldn’t have enough of certain herbs, borage included, to be able to make the products I’d planned. As overdramatic as it sounds, I felt like my efforts would be wasted and my season a failure.
Then about a week after I’d finally pruned the borage, it started coming back. Fresh new growth sprung from stems that had seemed spent, and new clusters of buds showed up like magic. It finally knocked enough sense back into my head that I realized something: if I spent all of my time focused on and worrying about what I would end up with at the end of the season, I’d miss the entire experience of watching these plants grow, thrive, then die or go dormant. I was missing the now, which was trying to teach me valuable lessons if I’d just pay attention!
Deep bluish-purple borage flowers, with bright orange calendula blooms in the background. Photo by R.A. Stockton, 2021.
So the final reason I’ve loved having borage added to my garden this year is that it reminded me how important it is to be present in each moment. For that, I’m grateful to this tiny blue-flowered plant.
Gerard, J., & Woodward, M. (2015). CHAP. 123. Of Borage. In Gerard’s Herball (pp. 185–186). essay, The Noverre Press.
Culpeper, N. (2018). Borage and Bugloss. In Culpeper’s English physician and complete herbal (pp. 90–91). essay, Forgotten Books.
Von Bingen, H. (1998). CCI. BORAGE. In P. Throop (Trans.), Hildegard von bingen’s PHYSICA: The complete translation of her classic work on health and healing. essay, Healing Arts Press.
Easley, T., & Horne, S. H. (2016). In The modern herbal dispensatory: A medicine-making guide. essay, North Atlantic Books.
Wood, M. (2008). Borago officinalis. Borage. . In The EARTHWISE herbal, a complete guide to Old World medicinal plants (pp. 145–149). essay, North Atlantic Books.
This past week, we commemorated the death of Henry V of England on 31 August 1422. For a man who was hailed in his day as a mighty warrior king, immortalized by Shakespeare, and even today looms larger than life in historic memory, his end was abrupt, unexpected and lacked glory. Perhaps fittingly, I will save full discussion of his eventful life for other occasions, but as the impacts of his passing would be felt for decades, the event itself deserves commemoration.
Henry V of England. National Portrait Gallery
A note to prepare the reader: if you feel somewhat turned around by the plethora of Henrys in this story, it’s for good reason! Three generations of Plantagenet kings in succession, all christened Henry, marked the start of the 15th century, much as the 12th century was home to multiple powerful matriarchs who shared the name Matilda. (Read about one such Matilda, mother of the Plantagenet dynasty who also carried the title of Empress, here.) In an effort to maintain the distinction between each as much as possible, I have utilized their alternate names or titles to assist.
Boyhood in the Royal Family
Our Henry was the oldest child of Henry Bolingbroke (the future Henry IV) and Mary de Bohun. Born at Monmouth Castle in September 1386, he was known in his early years as Henry of Monmouth. His grandfather was John of Gaunt, the powerful Duke of Lancaster and one of Edward III’s sons. John’s nephew, Richard II, was on the throne at the time of his grandson’s birth.
Throughout his youth, Henry’s father Bolingbroke found himself increasingly at odds with his cousin, the king. Just as Henry was reaching his teenage years, Richard sent Bolingbroke into exile, even while Henry himself was still serving the king on campaign in Ireland.
An Inheritance Denied
The following year, Henry’s grandfather John of Gaunt died, and Richard II refused to allow the Lancaster titles and lands to pass to his heir, the exiled Henry Bolingbroke. The ensuing conflict is worthy of further discussion at another time, but for our purposes now, suffice it to say that Bolingbroke did not take the loss of his inheritance well. It was the proverbial last straw, and it galvanized Bolingbroke to take action.
Richard II
Richard II had become increasingly tyrannical as his reign progressed, so by 1399, Bolingbroke had easily gathered supporters from amongst those nobles who had been alienated from the crown. He returned to England, declaring that his aim was to reclaim his title and rights as Duke of Lancaster, but he found that he had enough support have himself proclaimed king.
Henry was still with Richard in Ireland when Bolingbroke usurped the throne as Henry IV. To his credit, Richard did not punish the son for the sins of the father, though it certainly must have made for some uncomfortable moments.
Henry IV of England (r. 1399-1413 CE). Made by an unknown artist c. 1597-1618 CE. 580 mm x 445 mm (22 7/8 in x 17 1/2 in). National Portrait Gallery
Henry, Prince of Wales
With his father now on the throne, Henry was made Prince of Wales and joined his father on his military campaigns, where he gained experience and demonstrated significant skill. They suppressed a revolt by the Welsh prince Owain Glyndwr and defeated a group of rebellious English nobles led by Sir Henry “Hotspur” Percy at the Battle of Shrewsbury.
Despite that battle ending in a royal victory, it nearly had fatal consequences for the new royal family. During the fighting, 16-year old Prince Henry was struck in the face by an arrow, which missed his nose and his eye but embedded itself into the back of his skull.
The task of treating the prince’s gory wound fell to John Bradmore, a surgeon from London. I will omit the grisly details here, but Bradmore later wrote a book, Philomena, about the inventive treatment he successfully used on the prince. He was able to prevent a deadly infection from taking hold, and Henry escaped with only the scars on his face.
The King is Dead. Long Live the King!
Henry IV died in 1413, and his son succeeded him as Henry V and the second king of the Lancastrian line. The new king set about piecing the country back together and smoothing over some of the fissures that opened after his father deposed Richard II. He saw to it that Richard’s body was respectfully reinterred in Westminster and welcomed his father’s enemies back into his councils.
With things on the home front settling down, Henry prioritized the continuing wars in France. His forebears had been pursuing their claim to the French throne since 1337 in what would become known as the Hundred Years’ War, and Henry’s military training and instincts led the way to fresh successes in battle.
Victory at Agincourt
Henry V’s most illustrious victory came in October 1415 at Agincourt. The English were heavily outnumbered and should have lost the battle, at least on paper, but the French suffered from disorganized leadership and a battleground site that put them at a disadvantage.
English archers using longbows cut down many knights and horses at a distance, while remaining protected from the advancing French lines by sharpened poles embedded into the ground in front of them at an angle. Any foot soldier or cavalry rider who got too close would have been impaled on those stakes. Many French fighters even suffocated in the mud left behind from the previous day’s rains; the battlefield was so crowded that once a soldier slipped and fell, he was unlikely to be able to get back up and instead either drowned or was trampled by his fellows pressing onward from behind.
After their victory, the English captured a large number of French prisoners of war. Normally, those prisoners of noble rank would have been ransomed back to their families. Not only was it the chivalric thing to do, it also meant that both sides benefitted from the transaction: the victorious side gained significant sums of money, and the vanquished were spared their lives. At Agincourt, however, Henry ordered his men to execute all of the prisoners they had taken. Whatever his motives may have been, Henry’s battlefield glory and reputation were somewhat tarnished by his treatment of his defeated enemy.
Warrior King on Campaign
For the next several years, the tide of the war remained in England’s favor. The French were in such political disarray that Henry was able to conquer and hold large areas of territory. By 1420, Charles VI of France was forced to sue for peace.
That summer, Charles and Henry signed the Treaty of Troyes. As part of their agreement, Henry was recognized as regent of France and named as Charles’ successor to the throne. To cement the peace and symbolize the joining of England and France together, Henry was to marry Charles’ daughter, Catherine of Valois. The two were married at Troyes Cathedral in June 1420.
Marriage of Henry V and Catherine of Valois. British Library.
Henry spent the next several months continuing his campaign, but he returned to England at the end of that year. He remained there until June 1421, when he returned to France after the death of his brother, who had been leading the English forces.
Fateful Parting
While Henry was away, his new queen, Catherine, gave birth to the couple’s first child: a baby, Henry, born at Windsor Castle in December 1422. Sadly, baby Henry would never meet his father; even as Catherine welcomed their son and heir, Henry V had already embarked on what was to be his last military campaign.
Over the winter of 1421-22, the English army laid siege to the town of Meaux. Sometime during the siege, Henry had contracted dysentery, then known as the bloody flux. While such diseases were common occurrences amidst the unsanitary conditions of siege warfare, Henry was strong and still only around 35 years of age; it must have been hard for anyone who knew the young warrior king to imagine him brought low in such a manner.
Unfortunately for his family and his country, Henry succumbed on August 31, 1422. His body was returned to England and interred at Westminster Abbey. Suddenly the old king was gone, and the new king of England and heir to France was a tiny boy, barely nine months old.
Arrangements for an Infant King
During the months following his initial illness, Henry had made what preparations he could to protect his son’s future and the stability of England in the event that he did not recover. He would have been painfully aware that his heir was his baby son, whose minority would be a dangerous time for both the boy king and the country.
Henry named his brother John, Duke of Bedford, as regent of France on behalf of the baby Henry VI, who inherited his father’s role as successor to Charles VI. Henry and John’s remaining brother, Humphrey, would be appointed as the boy’s protector and regent in England to protect, guide and advise him at home.
“Woe to thee, O land, when thy king is a child….” – Ecclesiastes 10:16
With their new sovereign a nine-month-old baby and an ongoing foreign war, England’s stability began to fracture. Humphrey, Duke of Gloucester had control over the infant king at his late brother’s command, but his powerful uncle, Cardinal Beaufort, often opposed and even undermined Humphrey.
Fifteenth-century drawing of Humphrey Duke of Gloucester
Factions soon formed that supported either the duke or the cardinal. Throughout Henry VI’s minority, the nobility quarreled for influence over the impressionable young king and sought the favor of his uncles.
Impact on the French Wars
While his soldiers certainly may have grieved the loss of their warrior king, Henry V’s death did not have an immediate detrimental effect on the English objectives in France. Bedford proved himself to be a capable administrator, and the next several years saw a succession of victories as the army worked its way south.
Eventually, however, the years of intense warfare took their toll on the English government, its army and its people. The treasury was running dry, old reliable commanders died or could no longer lead troops, and the French started to rally, aided by the arrival of Joan of Arc. Over the years, lands won by Henry V were gradually lost, one after another, and the English people grew disenchanted with the fight for glory across the Channel.
In the eyes of many English citizens, all of the money, time, effort and blood they had spent for the cause over nearly a century was being squandered away by feuding nobles and disastrous military mistakes. Unsurprisingly, these frustrations contributed to the increasing instability at home.
A Very Different Sort of King
By the time Henry VI reached his majority and could rule on his own, it had become evident that this king was made of different stuff than his father had been. By nature, he was more suited to be a scholar than a warrior. He was extremely pious and devout, but he lacked the natural instincts for ruling a country or curbing a raucous bunch of nobles. More and more, Henry relied on his favorites and rewarded them richly, which only served to further unbalance the court. Where his father had worked to reunite the country and expand its influence on the continent, Henry’s reign was a slow spiral downwards until ultimately he, too, was deposed from the throne.
Henry VI. National Portrait Gallery
Ultimately, Henry V’s early death led to significant imbalances both at home and abroad. Those factors simmered until they eventually erupted into the civil war that would later become known as the Wars of the Roses.
On this day in history, 12 August 1469, the father and brother of the Queen of England were executed by the King’s former closest friend. How did such a horrible act come to pass? To set the scene, we must step back to the beginning of Edward IV’s reign, to the early summer of 1461.
A Fraught and Fragile Peace
Edward IV was officially crowned king following his decisive victory at the battle of Towton, where the Lancastrian forces supporting Henry VI and Margaret of Anjou were defeated so soundly that all but the most deluded acknowledged that the Cousins’ War (later known as the Wars of the Roses) was finally all but over. After long years of strife and instability, Henry VI was deposed and the Yorkist line of the Plantagenet dynasty was established on the English throne. The new king now faced the challenge of restoring a workable peace.
Edward IV by an unknown artist, National Portrait Gallery
Unsurprisingly, Edward rewarded the men who had been loyal supporters of his cause and kept them close; notably Richard Neville, Earl of Warwick, who had been the cousin and most loyal ally of Edward’s father, Richard Duke of York. The support Warwick gave to the Yorkist cause, ultimately resulting in Edward IV’s kingship, earned him the nickname “Kingmaker.”
Edward also realized that in order to avoid further rebellions and keep himself on the throne, he needed to mend fences with the Lancastrian lords who had supported Henry VI. He pardoned those former enemies that surrendered and swore fealty to him, in most cases even returning their lands. Edward had learned from Henry VI’s disastrous early reign that if he did not rule with the advice and input of lords on both sides, he could just as easily be deposed himself.
For the first several years of the new reign, despite the addition of their former enemies to the royal council, Warwick enjoyed his position as Edward’s closest advisor and effectively the most powerful person in England after the king himself. In Warwick’s mind, he was where he deserved to be after all the efforts he’d made to put Edward on his throne: in a place of influence and respect.
The King’s Independence
The internal harmony at Edward’s court lasted until the fall of 1464. By September, Warwick had returned from the continent, where he’d been negotiating a marriage for Edward with the French princess, Bona of Savoy, no doubt pleased with his efforts and ready to report his success to the king and his council.
Instead, Edward preempted his longtime mentor and made a shocking announcement: he had already made a marriage of his own in secret! Warwick was undoubtably shocked that Edward had ruined this opportunity to make an alliance that would strengthen England’s position abroad and cement Edward as the true king.
Elizabeth Woodville, Edward IV’s chosen queen. Daughter of Richard Woodville, Baron Rivers and Jacquetta, Dowager Duchess of Bedford
Even worse in Warwick’s eyes, Edward’s chosen queen was the daughter of Richard Woodville, Baron Rivers, one of those Lancastrian lords that the king had pardoned after Towton. To Warwick, it was complete and utter betrayal.
The Envious Earl
In the months and years after Edward and Elizabeth’s marriage, the king became more reliant on his Woodville in-laws. He rewarded them as well; Elizabeth’s father was made Earl Rivers, and her siblings made advantageous marriages with the other noble families of England.
Warwick’s jealousy grew. Despite Rivers’ proven success throughout his long military and administrative career, Warwick believed that his own higher birth and his constant loyalty to York should ensure his unchallenged place at the top of Edward’s government, and he deeply resented the diminishment of his own influence.
Warwick suffered another blow to his pride when Edward refused to grant his permission for his brother, George, Duke of Clarence, to marry Warwick’s elder daughter, Isabelle. It proved to be too much for the earl to stomach. He retreated to Calais with his family, where Isabelle and George were married on 11 July 1469 in defiance of the king.
George, Duke of Clarence
The Kingmaker Strikes Again
Just a day after the wedding, the Earl of Warwick was joined by his new son-in-law the Duke of Clarence, and his brother the Archbishop of Canterbury in issuing a proclamation, officially stating their grievances against the state of Edward IV’s government. Naturally they could not take issue with the king himself; that would be treasonous.
Instead, they leveled attacks against his advisors, including the Woodville men and even Queen Elizabeth’s mother, Jacquetta, who was not only Countess Rivers but also the Dowager Duchess of Bedford. Warwick declared them to be guilty of giving Edward poor advice that damaged the country’s peace and economic success, and he accused them of looking only to their own betterment.
Following that declaration, Warwick and Clarence readied their forces to return to England. Warwick intended to replace Edward on the throne with his brother. To him, any York king would do, as long as it was he who pulled the strings.
Kingmaker Captures King
Back on English soil, a band of rebels led by Robin of Redesdale had been operating that summer in the north, probably at Warwick’s encouragement. Their mischief had been handled easily enough by loyal lords, so Edward was not overly concerned. He had been traveling to various locations around the country with his entourage, including his father-in-law, Earl Rivers, and his two brothers-in-law, Anthony and John Woodville.
In late July, Redesdale’s rebel forces were moving south, and the Earl of Pembroke took the royal army out to suppress them. The two sides met in battle at Edgecote Moor on 26 July 1469, where despite the earl’s best efforts, the royal army was defeated. Meanwhile, Warwick and Clarence had landed in England and marched to Coventry, where Warwick’s supporters were to meet and join forces. The captured Earl of Pembroke was brought before Warwick at Coventry, where he was beheaded on 27 July 1469 (see my previous post on this topic here).
William Herbert, Earl of Pembroke, kneeling before the king
When Edward heard the news of the disastrous battle and Pembroke’s fate, he was farther north in Nottingham. From there, he ordered Earl Rivers and his sons to ride immediately away for their own safety. Edward knew his old ally Warwick well enough to know that his wife’s family would not be treated mercifully if they fell into his hands. Edward’s small force rode south, but they were overtaken by the Warwick faction and the king was taken prisoner.
Warwick’s Vengeance
With King Edward in his custody, Warwick effectively controlled the government. He took this opportunity to eliminate several of his opponents, including the Woodvilles.
Richard and John Woodville, who had been sent to Wales, evaded Warwick for a time but were eventually captured at Chepstow and handed over to him. At Warwick’s command, Earl Rivers and his son were beheaded on 12 August 1469 at Kenilworth.
Anthony Woodville was also captured, but for unknown reasons he was spared the judicial murder suffered by his father and brother. He returned to London later in 1469, now as the new Earl Rivers, which must have brought at least a small measure of comfort to his grieving mother, sister and nieces.
Anthony Rivers, 2nd Earl Rivers, kneels before his brother-in-law, Edward IV and his sister, Elizabeth
Sources and Further Reading
Higginbotham, S. (2015). Murder at Coventry. In The Woodvilles: The wars of the roses and England’s most Infamous family (pp. 53–61). essay, The History Press.
Gregory, P., Baldwin, D., & Jones, M. K. (2012). Jacquetta of Luxembourg. In The women of the Cousins’ War: The Duchess, the Queen and the King’s Mother (pp. 132–133). essay, Simon & Schuster.
Gristwood, S. (2014). Blood sisters: The women behind the wars of the roses. Basic Books, a member of the Perseus Books Group.
Time for another periodic peek at this year’s garden experiment, and another opportunity to explore the influence of plants on human history. This blog is all about documenting and sharing things I learn and today, thanks to several Twitter posts by talented historians, I was prompted to do a bit of digging into the history of Lammas Day. (As always, I am not an expert, but rather a continual learner; any mistakes are solely my own!)
What is Lammas Day?
Traditionally celebrated on August 1 and observed in Scotland, Ireland, Northern Ireland, Wales, and England as a Christian holiday, Lammas Day celebrates the first grain harvest of the season. The term ‘Lammas’ (or ‘Loaf-Mass’) stems from the Old English ‘hlaf-mas,’ and medieval customs included baking a loaf from the first grain sheath harvested. The Celtic festival known as Lughnasadh also marked this early stage of the harvest season and celebrated the sun god, Lugh.
Today, the names are often blended or used to denote a general harvest observance, though they have rich and distinct histories in each culture. By either name, these celebrations also mark the halfway point between the summer solstice and the autumnal equinox, making August 1 a cross-quarter day on the lunar calendar.
Garden Status on Lammas Day
On this August 1, my garden (and much of the Midwest) has been suffering after several weeks of extremely hot, dry conditions. It’s been miserable for humans, and even the most sun-loving plants have felt the strain. I must also admit: due to circumstances of…well, life…I’ve had less time to spend taking care of the garden lately, so I take responsibility for the effects of the mild state of neglect I’ve left it in. In the past couple of days, the weather has cooled down a bit, so combined with more regular watering, things are generally springing back fairly well.
Of course, my garden does not include any grains, so the bread-baking aspect of a traditional Lammas Day wasn’t an option. However, some sources I consulted today indicated that, in addition to grains, four herbs are also commonly harvested on this day: meadowsweet, mint, sunflower and calendula.
Calendula
Calendula is one of my favorites; it was one of the very first medicinal herbs I grew. Now it is an old friend that I love to greet again each year, and its bright, cheerful blooms that proliferate during the sunniest days of summer seem tied to the sun itself. I can easily understand the association between its harvest and this holiday,, marking the start of the transition from midsummer’s sunny dominance into the season when the earth starts to prepare for its rest.
This season, the calendula in my garden have bloomed continuously and well since late May. Since I have limited space and therefore only a relative few plants, I do my best to prune the flowers at their peak to encourage the plants to continue flowering. Preserving the flowers at this time also retains the highest levels of medicinal benefit for the preparations I’ll make with them later.
I knew what I’d find when I went out to see the calendula today: since I hadn’t been diligent in pruning for the past couple of weeks, I knew many of the flowers would have gone to seed by this time. In some ways, I was disappointed; I missed the beauty of so many golden flowers all at once. At the same time, however, I prepped myself to look on the bright side of a less-than-ideal gardening situation, which is something I’ve been trying to do more consciously this year.
Instead of seeing flowers missing petals and dried past the point of much medicinal value, I strove to value them as the seeds for next year’s crop; this year’s plants passing on their legacy to begin anew next spring. In past years, I haven’t let blooms go to seed if I could help it, preferring instead to amass what they could offer immediately. Of course, that resulted in the need to purchase brand new plants or seeds each season. This year, I’ve tried to take a more measured approach – one that means I can take what I need from this year’s crop to make needed preparations for myself, family and friends, but that also encourages the plant to fulfill its natural life cycle and leaves us room to grow together next year.
I’ll leave you tonight with these snapshots from today’s calendula visit. As you can see, I trimmed quite a few spent flowers, which I’ll allow to dry so that I can preserve those seeds for next spring. Despite the neglect these plants have suffered in the past week or two, they are still persevering with new blooms – and now that they’ve received a refreshing trim, I hope we’ll see still more lovely flowers in the waning days of summer.
Calendula heads, ready to be dried for next year’s seeds
On this day in 1469, William Herbert, Earl of Pembroke and his brother were executed. Both had been captured the previous day after the battle of Edgecote Moor, fighting for King Edward IV against his former friend and ally, the Earl of Warwick.
William Herbert and his wife, Anne Devereaux, kneeling before the king. (British Library)
William Herbert started his military career in France, defending the lands of the Lancastrian king, Henry VI of England. He gained significant experience during his time there until his capture at the Battle of Formigny in 1450, after which he was ransomed and returned home to the Welsh Marches. There he formed alliances with both the Duke of York and Richard Neville, the Earl of Warwick. Herbert was one of the men who found himself cultivating relationships with both Lancastrian lords and Yorkist ones during this period, which undoubtedly led to conflicts of conscience down the road.
Ultimately siding with the Yorks paid off for Herbert, as after Edward IV ascended to the throne, he was ennobled and eventually entrusted with the command of the Welsh forces protecting the Yorkist interests. In 1468, Harlech Castle surrendered to Herbert, and Edward IV rewarded him with the title of Earl of Pembroke, which had until recently belonged to the staunch Lancastrian, Jasper Tudor. Herbert also gained the wardship of Jasper’s nephew, the future Henry VII.
Favor with King Edward threatened Herbert’s other alliances, however. The Earl of Warwick, also known as the Kingmaker for his efforts to put the dukes of York on the English throne, took exception to the preference Edward showed to Herbert, who had previously been in Warwick’s service. Warwick also targeted the family of Edward’s queen, Elizabeth Woodville, whom he resented for their influence with the king. By 1469, Warwick had lost patience with the king and was ready to take matters into his own hands.
In July 1469, Warwick married his eldest daughter to Edward’s younger brother George, Duke of Clarence, without the king’s permission. Just days after the wedding, Warwick and Clarence invaded England with the intention of deposing Edward and setting up Clarence and Isabelle on the throne. Edward, initially not believing that his cousin and oldest friend was truly taking up arms against him, bid Warwick and his brother come to him for a meeting. Upon realizing that this was no mere disagreement to be solved with gentle words, Edward armed and rode out to confront the earl.
Herbert’s Welsh forces marched to meet the king’s near Edgecote Moor. Herbert even brought along his ward, Henry Tudor, to give the young nobleman an education in the art of war. Battle broke out with Warwick’s troops on July 26, and Edward’s army was defeated. Herbert and his brother, Richard, were captured and taken to Warwick at Northampton the next day. On July 27th, the two Herberts were beheaded.
King Henry VI’s English forces, led by John Talbot, 1st Earl of Shrewsbury, were defeated by the French at the battle of Castillon in Gascony. Neither side realized it at the time, but this encounter would come to be known as the final battle of the Hundred Years’ War.
The term ‘Hundred Years’ War’ came about in the 19th century to describe the period of intermittent warfare between the French and English that lasted over a hundred years, from the 1340s to 1453. The causes of this conflict are many and varied, and as several excellent books already address the topic in detail, we will boil it down to the barest bones here.
Edward III‘s effigy, Westminster Abbey
In 1328, Charles IV of France, the last king of the Capetian dynasty, died childless. In the ensuing contention and disagreement about who should be his successor, several of Charles’ relatives staked their claims to the empty throne. One of these claimants was Edward III of England, whose mother Isabella of France was Charles’ only surviving sibling. Ultimately, the French crown was awarded to Philip of Valois, the dead king’s first cousin.
This turn of events didn’t sit well with Edward, who viewed himself as Charles IV’s closest living kin. Old grudges die hard, especially when a crown is at stake, so Edward’s successors clung fast to the title of King of France for generations. As a result, the next century saw a series of intermittent battles and campaigns as the English kings made attempts to reassert their claim to the French throne and its territories.
Territorial Tug-of-War
As one might expect in a war that wore on for so long, the advantage teetered back and forth throughout the decades. In the 1420s, the Duke of Bedford made significant gains in securing English territory for his nephew, King Henry VI, only to see the French surge back following the inspiring leadership of Joan of Arc. By the final years of what the English people knew as the French wars, Henry’s finances were sorely stretched, his subjects were weary of seeing their hard-won territories gradually retaken by the French, and his leading nobles were quarreling and causing deep divides amongst their followers.
Henry VI of England
In the fall of 1452, his confidence buoyed up by increased successes at home and ready to make a definitive show of might on the Continent, Henry VI named John Talbot, 1st Earl of Shrewsbury, as his deputy in France. Henry didn’t exactly go down in military history as a sterling commander, but his choice of Talbot for this final mission was well-founded.
The ‘Terror of the French’
John Talbot earned an early reputation as a competent and decisive military commander, serving early on in the Welsh rebellion of Owain Glyndwr and subsequently in Ireland. Later, he served in the French wars with the Duke of Bedford and the Earl of Warwick, including at the 1428-9 siege of Orleans, where Joan of Arc’s forces turned the tide of the war in favor of the French. His signature aggressiveness and successful techniques earned him sobriquets such as ‘the English Achilles’ and ‘the terror of the French.’
John Talbot, kneeling, presenting a book to Henry VI and Margaret of Anjou
Talbot was taken prisoner after the Battle of Patay on June 18, 1429. He was eventually ransomed after four years of imprisonment, then continued to support Henry VI militarily both in France and at home in England. Two decades later, Talbot found himself in French hands once again following the English loss of the city of Rouen in 1449, this time as a hostage to ensure that the Duke of Somerset handed over both the city and six key castles per the terms of the peace agreement. Some sources state that as a term of his release, Talbot promised to never again take up arms against the French king. (As poignant as this story is, I have been unable to verify any primary sources that support it as of the time of this writing; I will update once I have confirmation one way or the other.)
Edmund Beaufort, Duke of Somerset, negotiating with French envoys at Rouen
Regaining the Upper Hand
Charles VII of France
Despite setbacks caused by the failures by his quarreling dukes, Henry VI’s faith in Talbot as a commander remained strong. He appointed Talbot as his deputy in France in early September 1452, and by late October Talbot’s forces had retaken the city of Bordeaux and were on their way to reclaiming dozens of towns and garrisons in Gascony. It looked as though England was turning the tide in its favor at last.
The French king, Charles VII, took the winter of 1452-3 to regroup, and by the summer of 1453 his troops had invaded Guyenne. On July 8, they laid siege to Castillon, east of Bordeaux. Talbot’s forces were bolstered by new troops brought that spring by his son, Viscount Lisle, and he set out to relieve the garrison at Castillon on July 16.
Fateful Decisions
Talbot’s signature decisive actions served him well early in the day on July 17, as his troops easily defeated a small contingent of French archers they discovered near Castillon. His luck soon changed, however. Perhaps emboldened by this early victory, or tricked into thinking that a cloud of dust raised by retreating camp followers in advance of the battle instead signaled the flight of enemy troops from the siege, Talbot decided to attack the main French camp without waiting for the reinforcements he expected to arrive soon.
Instead of marching into an easy victory, the English troops collided with the full strength of the French army. Talbot pushed his men on, despite the unanticipated adversary and the lack of reinforcements, only to be defeated by French artillery. John Talbot was killed during the battle, though the exact circumstances of his death are debated. His son, Lord Lisle, also died that day.
Painting of the Battle of Castillon, Charles-Philippe Lariviere
Aftermath and Aftershocks
What had seemed to many as a revival of English dominance in France ended instead as the last gasps of a dying claim. Realizing the desperation of their situation, the citizens of Castillon surrendered to the French the next day, and by late October of that year, Bordeaux had also capitulated.
The shock at home in England was intense as well. Henry VI himself was an unexpected casualty of the final battle of the Hundred Years’ War. Upon hearing of England’s devastating defeat, he lapsed into a catatonic state that left him ineffectual as a ruler and spurred the discord that resulted in the Wars of the Roses.
No official peace treaty was ever signed, but after the loss of Gascony, the English became painfully aware that any further military advance into France was a minor priority compared to establishing peace at home. Hostilities ceased, and Calais remained the sole remaining vestige of English power in France for another hundred years.
Sources and Further Reading
Johnson, L. (2019). Shadow king: the life and death of Henry Vi. Head of Zeus.
History.com Editors. (2009, November 9). Hundred Years’ War. History.com. https://www.history.com/topics/middle-ages/hundred-years-war. Access date: July 17, 2021.
Wikimedia Foundation. (2021, July 17). John Talbot, 1st Earl of Shrewsbury. Wikipedia. https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Talbot,_1st_Earl_of_Shrewsbury. Access date: July 17, 2021.
