November 15th, 1558, a woman lies in a dark chamber inside St. James’s Palace. Her abdomen is painfully swollen with fluid. She has lost her sight, and one by one, her organs are beginning to fail. She is only 42 years old. She is the Queen of England, and her body has been turning against her since she was 14.
What you are about to hear is not only the story of how Mary I of England died, it is also the story of a lifetime filled with mysterious illness and suffering that the medicine of her time could neither understand nor cure. Before we continue, if you enjoy stories about dark and forgotten history, consider subscribing and telling us in the comments where you are watching from. It helps the channel keep bringing you stories like this. Now, back to the story.
For five years, Mary had ruled England with fierce determination and deep religious conviction. Around 300 Protestants were executed by burning during her reign. At the same time, the entire country watched as she desperately tried and repeatedly failed to produce a royal heir. Now, at just 42 years old, her body was collapsing in ways that shocked even the harsh medical standards of the Tudor era.
But to understand the terrifying reality of her final days, you first need to understand something else. Mary had spent most of her life slowly dying, not as a metaphor, but in a very real, physical way. From the age of 14, her body seemed to fight against itself. What happened in November 1558 was simply the last battle in a struggle that had been going on for decades.
Imagine the scene in August 1558, only three months before her death. Mary sits quietly in her chamber at Richmond Palace. Her stomach is so swollen that standing up has become difficult. The ladies attending her whisper nervously among themselves, wondering if perhaps the queen is finally pregnant. But Mary knows better. She has experienced this exact swelling before, twice. Both times, the court believed she was expecting a child. Both times, there was no baby, only embarrassment, disappointment, and the painful feeling that even God had abandoned her hopes.
One of her physicians, Dr. Thomas Huick, examines her that morning. He notices that her skin has taken on a yellow tint. Her eyes appear slightly swollen, and her voice has grown deeper and rougher than before. But what he writes privately in his journal reveals even more. He notes that the queen suffers from her old disease again, worse than ever. Those few words explain everything about the final stage of Mary’s life.
To understand what was happening, we also need to look at the state of England in 1558. The country itself was struggling to survive. London was suffering badly, not in a symbolic way, but literally. An influenza epidemic that began in 1557 had already killed around 8,000 people in the city. At the same time, the harvests of 1555 and 1556 had failed disastrously. Food shortages spread across the country, creating the worst famine many people could remember. The population was exhausted, hungry, and sick.
Inside the royal court, the atmosphere was even darker. Everyone knew that Mary I of England was dying. Just as important, everyone knew who would replace her. The next ruler would almost certainly be Elizabeth I, the Protestant daughter of Anne Boleyn, a woman Mary had spent most of her life refusing to recognize as her sister.
Then there was another problem. In September 1558, Mary’s husband, Philip II of Spain, was far away in Brussels. He had already been gone for more than a year, having left England in July 1557. Mary wrote to him again and again, asking him to return to her side, but his response was silence, a complete and devastating silence.
Meanwhile, at the royal court, Mary’s closest political ally, Reginald Pole, was also dying. He had fallen ill in September with what doctors called a quartan fever, which historians now believe was probably malaria. These two figures, Mary and Pole, had spent five years trying to restore Catholicism in England. Now, they were both dying at the same time, and everyone understood what that meant. Their entire religious project was about to collapse.
But the most disturbing part of the story is Mary’s own physical decline. There are details about September 1558 that official court records never mention. By that time, Mary could no longer clearly recognize people’s faces. Her loyal lady-in-waiting, Jane Dormer, later described this in memoirs that were not discovered until the 17th century. Dormer wrote that Mary sometimes called for people who had already been dead for years.
But the most heartbreaking detail was this: Mary constantly asked for her husband, Philip. Her attendants had to keep lying to her, telling her that he was on his way back. They could not bring themselves to tell their dying queen the truth, which was that Philip had already emotionally abandoned her. Letters discovered centuries later in Spanish archives show that Philip had begun referring to Mary in the past tense while she was still alive.
To understand the medical horror of Mary’s final months, we need to look at what had been happening to her body for most of her life. From the age of 14, Mary suffered from what court doctors called her usual troubles. Today, many medical historians believe she may have had severe endometriosis. This condition occurs when tissue similar to the lining of the uterus grows outside of it. Each month, Mary reportedly experienced extremely heavy bleeding that left her confined to bed for days. The pain could be so intense that she sometimes vomited or even lost consciousness.
Her doctors tried many different treatments. They practiced bloodletting from her feet. They gave her powerful purgatives that left her dangerously dehydrated. At one point, they even removed some of her teeth, believing dental problems were responsible for her headaches. None of these treatments helped. In fact, each one left her weaker than before.
But by 1554, something new and even more serious began happening inside Mary’s body. The pituitary gland, an organ no bigger than a pea located at the base of the brain, had most likely developed a tumor. It probably wasn’t cancer, but it was still extremely damaging. This type of tumor, known today as a prolactinoma, releases large amounts of hormones into the body. Those hormones can trick the body into thinking it is pregnant even when it isn’t.
For Mary I of England, the cruelty of this condition was especially painful. Mary desperately needed a child to secure a Catholic future for England. Instead, her body created the illusion of pregnancy, not once, but twice. Her abdomen swelled, and her body even began producing breast milk. At times, she reportedly felt what seemed like the movement of a baby inside her. But there was never a child. Behind it all was likely a tumor pressing against her brain, slowly damaging her health from within.
By the spring of 1558, new and more serious symptoms began to appear. Her abdomen started swelling again, but this time it felt different. The swelling was firmer and far more painful than before. Fluid had begun building up in her abdomen, a condition known as ascites. Modern oncologists who have studied historical accounts believe the most likely explanation was reproductive cancer, possibly ovarian cancer that had already spread to the liver.
Even small movements caused waves of pain through her body. The growing fluid in her abdomen pushed against her lungs, making it difficult for her to breathe. Her liver, now struggling to function, could no longer properly filter toxins from her blood. As a result, she sometimes became confused and experienced hallucinations. Her skin also began turning yellow from jaundice, a sign of serious liver failure. Even people who were used to seeing the physical suffering of royal illness found her appearance shocking.
By October 1558, Mary had been moved to St. James’s Palace. The palace was chosen because it was smaller and easier to keep warm, making it more comfortable for someone who was dying. But comfort meant very little when almost everyone around her was disappearing. There is one detail from this time that rarely appears in history books: by late October, the Queen’s household had shrunk dramatically, from more than 400 servants in attendance to fewer than 50.
Where had everyone gone? They had gone to Hatfield House. There, many of them were kneeling before the future queen, Elizabeth I, and pledging their loyalty while their current queen was still alive. One example was Susan Clarencieux, Mary’s trusted lady of the bedchamber for 20 years. She left on October 25th, telling Mary she needed to visit her sick mother. Instead, she went directly to Elizabeth. Another official, Thomas Cornwallis, Mary’s controller of the household, simply disappeared on November 1st without offering any explanation. Even Mary’s own physician, Dr. Thomas Huick, began making visits to Hatfield, though at least he still returned to care for the queen in between those trips.
November 10th, 1558, just one week before her death, Mary’s physician, Dr. Huick, performs what will be his final examination of the queen. His notes, which are preserved today at the Royal College of Physicians, describe symptoms that would alarm any modern doctor. Mary had completely lost her sight in both eyes; she was now effectively blind. The tumor in her body, whether it originated in the pituitary gland or had spread from somewhere else, was likely pressing on her optic nerves. She lived in total darkness, unable to see the faces of the few servants who still remained with her.
Her fever rose to dangerously high levels, then suddenly dropped so low that her hands and feet turned blue. This repeating cycle suggested that different systems in her body were shutting down one after another. Her kidneys were barely working. Even though a large amount of fluid had built up in her abdomen, she produced almost no urine.
But the most disturbing part of her condition was this: Mary was still conscious. She was aware of what was happening to her and could feel every moment of pain. Tudor medicine had no morphine and no real form of effective pain relief. The strongest treatment doctors could offer was wine mixed with herbs, which did very little to ease her suffering.
On November 13, just four days before her death, her loyal lady-in-waiting, Jane Dormer, sat beside her bed holding her hand. Mary’s sightless eyes suddenly seemed to focus on something no one else could see. Then, she smiled, the first smile anyone had seen from her in weeks.
“Do you see them?”
Mary whispered. Jane gently asked what the queen meant.
“The children, little children like angels playing and singing.”
Mary answered softly.
At the same time, Mary’s close ally, Reginald Pole, who was dying across the river at Lambeth Palace, was reportedly experiencing similar visions. His secretary, Nicholas Harpsfield, later wrote that Pole spoke about seeing a great light and hearing heavenly music. It seemed that the two leaders of England’s Catholic restoration were experiencing the same strange visions as they approached death. Modern medicine might describe these moments as hypoxic hallucinations, visions caused by a lack of oxygen reaching the brain. But to Mary, they felt completely real. She believed they were the children she had never been able to have in life, coming to guide her into the next world.
On November 15, two days before her death, Mary understood that the end was close. Despite being blind and in constant pain, she insisted on making her final confession. Her chaplain, Father John Feckenham, listened as she spoke. The confession lasted nearly three hours, not because Mary had that many sins to confess, but because she kept losing consciousness in the middle of her sentences.
Whenever she regained clarity, she gave instructions about her funeral. She asked to be buried beside her mother, Catherine of Aragon. But there was a tragic truth that everyone in the room already understood: none of those wishes would actually be fulfilled. In just a few days, Elizabeth I will take the throne, and Protestant England will no longer be holding Catholic masses for anyone’s soul. Mary’s final wishes are being written down by people who already know they will never come true.
November 16, 1558, night falls over St. James’s Palace. Mary receives the last rites shortly before midnight. Her chaplain, Father John Feckenham, anoints her with holy oil. He gently touches her eyes, ears, nose, lips, hands, and feet as part of the ritual. But every touch causes her pain because her skin has become extremely sensitive.
Her loyal lady-in-waiting, Jane Dormer, would later describe the moment in heartbreaking detail. The room was lit only by candles, and their smoke filled the air, making Mary’s already difficult breathing even harder. Her slow, strained breaths grew weaker with every passing hour. Sometimes, Mary would suddenly squeeze Jane’s hand with surprising strength. Moments later, her grip would loosen and her hand would fall limp again.
At 3:00 in the morning on November 17, Father Feckenham begins celebrating mass in Mary’s chamber. This is unusual, as normally mass would not begin until dawn, but everyone in the room senses that dawn might come too late.
November 17, 1558, sometime between 4:00 and 5:00 in the morning, as Father Feckenham raises the consecrated host, the most sacred moment of the Catholic mass, something remarkable happens. Mary, who has not spoken clearly for days, suddenly responds during the prayer.
“Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi, miserere nobis.”
Her voice sounds strong and steady, nothing like the weak whispers of the previous days. Then, Mary’s eyes, those blind eyes that had seen nothing but darkness for weeks, suddenly focus on the raised host. She sees it somehow. In a way no one can explain, she sees it. A gentle smile appears on her face. It is a calm and peaceful smile, the kind none of them have seen since before her illness began.
And then, nothing. There are no dramatic last words, no gasping breath, no final struggle. Mary simply stops breathing. The change is so quiet that no one notices at first. For several minutes, no one realizes she is gone. Jane Dormer keeps holding her hand, thinking the queen has simply fallen asleep. Only when Dr. Huick checks for a pulse does the truth become clear. Mary I, Queen of England, is dead.
What happens next is both practical and symbolic. Nicholas Throckmorton has been waiting outside the chamber for this exact moment. He doesn’t even wait for an official announcement; one look at the doctor’s face is enough. Without asking permission, he walks into the room and removes the coronation ring from Mary’s still-warm hand.
Think about how disturbing that moment was. Mary’s body had not even started to cool yet, and already someone was removing the symbols of her royal power. Nicholas Throckmorton did not close her eyes or pause to say a prayer. He had only one responsibility: deliver the coronation ring to Elizabeth I as quickly as possible. Within minutes, he was on horseback, riding hard toward Hatfield House. The journey of about 20 miles normally took three hours; Throckmorton completed it in less than two, exhausting one horse to death along the way.
What happened to Mary’s body in the following hours would seem shocking today, but it was normal practice for Tudor royalty. The body was immediately undressed and carefully washed. The few ladies who had remained loyal to her carried out this task. After that, the embalmers began their work. Mary’s chest was opened, and her internal organs were removed. Her heart, liver, and intestines were placed into separate containers so they could be buried separately. At the time, people believed this would confuse evil spirits that might try to disturb royal remains.
The empty body cavity was then filled with spices and other preserving substances. But the embalmer recorded one particularly disturbing detail: Mary’s abdomen contained nearly two gallons of fluid. When the fluid was drained, the embalmer discovered something else as well: large masses of abnormal tissue, almost certainly tumors, were spread throughout her reproductive organs. One of the embalmers, William Harvey, privately wrote that in 30 years of work, he had never seen anything like it.
Afterward, the body was wrapped in cerecloth, a waxed fabric used to help preserve remains. It was then placed inside a lead coffin. But Mary would not be buried immediately. Her burial would take place more than a month later. First, she had to lie in state so that her subjects could come and pay their respects. Many of them had feared their queen; very few had truly loved her.
Meanwhile, at Hatfield House, Elizabeth was sitting beneath an oak tree, reading, or at least that was the scene she had carefully arranged. When Throckmorton arrived and presented the ring, Elizabeth dropped to her knees. She had been preparing for this moment for five years. Her first order regarding her half-sister was surprisingly respectful. Elizabeth commanded that Mary receive a funeral worthy of a Queen of England, and no expense was to be spared. Whether this came from genuine respect or clever political strategy is hard to say; most likely, it was both.
The chapel was covered in black cloth, and hundreds of candles burned day and night. There were so many that their smoke darkened the ceiling. According to accounts, the marks can still be seen today. Guards stood watch in shifts while a steady stream of nobles, clergy, and ordinary people passed by the coffin. But one detail about these visitors reveals something important: ordinary people came in larger numbers than anyone had expected. No matter what they thought about Mary I of England, often called Bloody Mary, she was still their queen, and many remembered the young princess who had once been treated harshly by her own father.
A funeral effigy was created, a lifelike figure of Mary that would be placed on top of her coffin during the funeral procession. The artists used death masks and measurements taken directly from her body to make it as accurate as possible. When modern historians studied this effigy in the 20th century, they noticed an important detail: the swelling of Mary’s abdomen was clearly visible. The artists had made no attempt to hide it or make her body appear more normal. Instead, they preserved the physical signs of the suffering she endured at the end of her life.
On December 13th, 1558, London woke to the sound of church bells ringing. The funeral procession began at St. James’s Palace. Mary’s coffin, covered with purple velvet and cloth of gold, was placed on a large carriage pulled by four black horses. Behind it came the heralds carrying the symbols of her royal authority. They held her coat of arms, her helmet, her sword, and her shield. During the ceremony, each of these objects would be broken and thrown into the grave to symbolize the end of her reign.
Then came the coffin itself, with the strangely lifelike effigy lying on top. The figure wore crimson velvet, a crown on its head, and held the royal scepter and orb. Its painted eyes stared blankly toward the sky above London. For many observers, it was an unsettling reminder of Mary’s blindness during her final days.
The procession moved slowly through the streets of London. Crowds lined the route. Some people were crying, some stood in silence, and others openly celebrated her death. One chronicler even wrote that he heard someone shout a celebratory remark before guards quickly forced the man to be quiet.
The funeral sermon was delivered by John White. He carefully chose his words, trying to honor the dead queen without offending the new one. But at one moment, he made a striking statement.
“She was a king’s daughter, she was a king’s sister, she was a king’s wife, she was a queen, and by the same right, a king as well.”
With that final phrase, “a king as well,” White defended Mary’s right to rule in her own name, not simply as the wife of a king. For the year 1558, it was a surprisingly bold and almost feminist idea. Elizabeth I, watching the ceremony from a hidden gallery, was said to have nodded in approval.
The procession continued for nearly three hours. Prayers were spoken, hymns were sung, and finally, the moment came for Mary to be laid to rest. Mary’s coffin was carried to a burial vault in the north aisle of Henry VII’s Lady Chapel. This was not where she had hoped to be buried. Mary had wanted to rest beside her mother at Peterborough Cathedral, but that wish was never granted. Instead, this vault would become her final resting place.
As the coffin was lowered into the grave, the officers of Mary’s household performed one last ritual. They snapped their white staffs of office in half and threw the broken pieces into the tomb. It was a powerful symbol: their duty to Mary had officially ended forever.
But history takes an ironic turn here. Mary was buried alone in that vault, without a monument or inscription, with only simple stones marking the place. The queen who had desperately wanted to be remembered and to leave behind a strong Catholic legacy was, in many ways, quietly forgotten.
Forty-five years later, when Elizabeth I died in 1603, James I of England made a decision that would likely have shocked both sisters. He ordered Elizabeth’s coffin to be placed in the very same vault as Mary’s, not beside it, but directly above it. Even in death, Elizabeth quite literally rested above her half-sister. James later commissioned an impressive white marble monument, but the monument showed only Elizabeth’s effigy. Mary was not even mentioned in the original inscription, as if she had never existed. It was not until the 18th century that a small Latin inscription was finally added. It read:
“Partners in throne and grave, here we sleep, Elizabeth and Mary, sisters, in hope of resurrection.”
Meanwhile, in Brussels, Philip II of Spain received the news of Mary’s death on November 20, three days after it had happened. According to his secretary, the king reacted with cold formality. The report stated that his majesty received the news with proper seriousness and then went to his private chapel for an hour of prayer. Just one hour, that was all the time Philip allowed himself to mourn the wife who had loved him deeply, waited for him, and died calling his name.
Later, in a letter to his sister, Joanna of Austria, Philip was even more direct.
“I feel a reasonable regret for her death,”
he wrote. But he was already thinking about politics. Within days, he instructed his ambassadors to suggest a marriage proposal to Elizabeth. The same man who had ignored his dying wife was now trying to marry her successor. To her credit, Elizabeth kept Philip waiting for months before finally rejecting him with careful and polite diplomacy.
In the weeks after Mary’s death, her physicians began comparing their notes in an effort to understand what had killed their queen. Doctors such as Dr. Huick, Dr. Owen, and Dr. Caesar gathered their observations together. Their conclusions, written in Latin and preserved in medical archives, described a truly disturbing medical case.
The doctors reported that abnormal growths were found throughout Mary’s reproductive organs. They also noted that her liver was severely enlarged and badly diseased. The amount of fluid collected in her abdomen was far beyond what the body could normally tolerate. One physician even recorded that her pituitary gland looked unusually large and deformed during examination.
When we translate these observations from 16th-century medical language into modern terms, they strongly resemble a case of metastatic ovarian cancer that had spread to the liver, possibly combined with a tumor in the pituitary gland. Such a combination of illnesses would have caused extreme suffering. It likely meant constant pain, severe hormonal imbalance, mental confusion, and the gradual failure of several organs.
What makes the case of Mary I of England especially interesting to modern doctors is that she probably suffered from several different conditions at the same time. The endometriosis that had troubled her since adolescence and remained untreated for decades would have significantly increased her risk of developing cancer. The pituitary tumor that caused her false pregnancies would also have disrupted her entire hormonal system. On top of that, the long emotional stress of her difficult and traumatic life weakened her immune system. Then, the influenza epidemic of 1558 delivered the final blow to a body that was already severely damaged.
Modern oncologists who have reviewed the historical evidence believe Mary likely developed ovarian cancer sometime around 1557. By the time the symptoms became obvious in 1558, the disease had probably already spread. Even with modern medical treatment, her chances of survival would have been very low. With Tudor-era medicine—bloodletting, harsh purgatives, and prayer—she had almost no chance at all.
Only days after Mary’s funeral, Elizabeth I began reshaping the religious and political direction of England. Catholic altars were removed, and priests were ordered to conduct church services in English instead of Latin. The heresy laws that had allowed Mary to execute Protestants were repealed.
But the most lasting change happened in the historical narrative itself. Elizabeth’s chroniclers started shaping a story that would survive for centuries. In their version of history, Mary became Bloody Mary, a cruel tyrant whose rule was simply a dark interruption in England’s destined Protestant future. The real woman slowly disappeared from memory, replaced by a simplified and exaggerated image.
Yet, some parts of the story could not be erased. After Mary’s death, her loyal lady-in-waiting, Jane Dormer, fled to Spain. There, she wrote memoirs describing Mary’s final days in personal detail. Without those writings, many of the intimate moments from the Queen’s last weeks might have been lost forever.
Mary’s funeral effigy also survived. The figure clearly shows the swollen abdomen that marked her final illness. Today, it is kept in the museum of Westminster Abbey, quietly preserving evidence of her suffering. Modern medical specialists who have examined the effigy say the swelling matches what we would expect from ascites, a buildup of fluid often caused by advanced cancer. In a strange way, the physical signs of her illness were preserved in wax and cloth.
In 1876, something unexpected happened. Workers renovating Westminster Abbey accidentally broke through the floor into the vault where Mary had been buried. For the first time in more than 300 years, someone saw her coffin. The coffin was still intact, although clearly worn with age. Directly above it rested the coffin of Elizabeth I, exactly as James I of England had ordered centuries earlier.
The workers quickly sealed the vault again, but before they closed it, they noticed something interesting: mary’s coffin was much smaller than Elizabeth’s. This fits with what historians know about their physical appearances. Mary I of England was small and slight, standing barely five feet tall. Elizabeth, in contrast, was taller and had a more commanding presence. Even in death, Elizabeth seemed to dominate the space above her sister.
In the 1970s, medical historians began carefully studying the records describing Mary’s symptoms. A physician named Milo Keynes published an important paper suggesting that Mary may have suffered from a prolactinoma, a tumor of the pituitary gland. This condition could explain many of the strange symptoms recorded during her life: her false pregnancies, her problems with vision, changes in her voice, and other issues that had long puzzled historians.
In 2010, researchers at the Royal College of Physicians reviewed all available historical evidence. Their conclusion was that Mary most likely died from ovarian or uterine cancer that had spread to her liver. The fluid buildup in her abdomen, the yellowing of her skin, and the rapid decline in her final months all support this diagnosis. One tragic detail stands out: Mary’s endometriosis, which had gone untreated for decades, likely increased her risk of developing cancer. The illness that caused her suffering as a young woman may have ultimately contributed to her painful death.
To understand Mary’s final months, it is important to realize how severe her condition must have been. Ovarian cancer that spreads to the liver causes intense and constant pain. Tumors press against surrounding organs, stretch internal tissues, and create a deep, grinding agony that never truly stops. The simple remedies available in Tudor times, such as wine mixed with herbs, would have done almost nothing to relieve that pain.
The buildup of fluid in her abdomen would have made breathing extremely difficult. Imagine trying to breathe while several gallons of fluid press upward against your diaphragm; even the simplest movements would become exhausting. Sitting upright, eating, or speaking would drain her energy.
And then there was the blindness. During her final weeks, Mary lived in complete darkness. She could not see the faces of the few people who still cared for her. She could no longer read the prayer books she loved. She could not even see the crucifix that she held in her hands almost constantly. For a woman whose faith was her main comfort, not being able to see religious images must have been heartbreaking.
The mental effects—confusion, hallucinations, and memory loss—took away the last bit of her dignity. This was a queen who had always prided herself on her intelligence and education, now reduced to calling out for people who had been dead for decades. The pituitary tumor that probably caused these symptoms was slowly destroying her mind, even as the cancer destroyed her body.
Through it all, she was conscious enough to know she was dying, to realize she had failed, and to understand that her husband had abandoned her. That may have been the cruelest part of all. Mary was not given the mercy of unconsciousness until the very end; she felt every moment of her body betraying her.
The story of Mary Tudor’s death is, at its core, a deeply human tragedy dressed in royal robes. Take away the crown, the politics, and the religion, and what remains is a woman dying in agony, abandoned by those she trusted. But Mary’s story, especially the horrors of her last days, reminds us of something important: power cannot protect us from death, and faith cannot shield us from suffering. Sometimes, the people history labels as villains are simply broken people doing terrible things for reasons that made sense to them at the time.
The servants who found her body that morning immediately began preparing it for its role in history. But for just a moment in that quiet room, she was simply Mary Tudor, not Bloody Mary. She was just a woman who had finally stopped suffering, and in the end, maybe that was the only mercy she ever received.
