The French Armada of 1545: The Day the Mary Rose Sank

The French Armada of 1545 was the largest invasion fleet ever launched against Tudor England—larger even than the more famous Spanish Armada. Yet despite its scale and danger, this dramatic moment in history remains largely forgotten. In the summer of 1545, over 200 French ships carrying 30,000 troops crossed the Channel with one clear goal: invade England, capture Portsmouth, and topple Henry VIII. What followed was not a triumphant English victory, but a desperate, chaotic defense marked by confusion, tragedy, and one of the most haunting shipwrecks in British history—the sinking of the Mary Rose.

Let’s uncover the full story of the French Armada of 1545: the politics behind it, the invasion that nearly succeeded, and how sheer luck, geography, and fierce resistance barely held the line.

Transcript of The Day the Mary Rose Sank: France’s Bold Invasion of Tudor England

Today we’re going to talk about something that often gets overlooked. When people think about Armadas invading England, they immediately think of the Spanish one. But there was actually an earlier invasion in 1545—one that was even bigger. And that’s the one we’re going to talk about.

If you ask anyone to name the biggest naval threat England faced in the 16th century, they’ll almost certainly say the Spanish Armada. But what if I told you that 43 years earlier, another Armada came—larger, more chaotic, and every bit as dangerous?

In the summer of 1545, France launched an invasion fleet of more than 200 ships, carrying 30,000 troops, with one clear mission: capture Portsmouth and topple Henry VIII. It was the largest force assembled against England in the early modern period—bigger even than the Spanish Armada that came decades later.

This episode is about the French Armada—a dramatic but often forgotten chapter in Tudor history. There were no glowing bonfires of victory, no Protestant winds miraculously smashing the enemy fleet. No, this was a grim, grinding campaign fought in the narrow waters of the Solent, where the English were outnumbered, scrambling, and very nearly overrun.

At the center of it all was a beautiful, deadly warship: the Mary Rose, Henry VIII’s pride and joy, which sank before his very eyes. We’re going to dive into the tangled European politics that led to the invasion, the scrambling English defense, and the strange series of events that turned a looming disaster into a near-miraculous survival story for England.

The Road to Battle: European Politics

The road to the Battle of the Solent began not on English shores, but in the messy web of European alliances and betrayals. By 1544, Henry VIII had formed a military alliance with his sometimes-friend, sometimes-rival Charles V, Holy Roman Emperor. Together, they were meant to pressure Francis I of France in the ongoing Italian War, which lasted from 1542 to 1546.

It was all part of the endless chess game of European power politics. Honestly, the specific names don’t even matter. What matters is that these countries were constantly shifting allegiances, ganging up on one another. This invasion? It was just another episode in that never-ending drama.

But for Henry, this was his chance to grab French territory and glory. Remember, Henry fancied himself a warrior king—someone like Henry V. In his heart, he yearned for another Agincourt. It was like his greatest life’s ambition was to lead another Agincourt and be crowned King of France, like Henry V.

This was what he lived for. It was his purpose in life. And that summer, he personally led a campaign across the Channel, capturing the fortified town of Boulogne. It was a costly and exhausting affair, but Henry was triumphant. Francis was humiliated—and he vowed revenge.

Meanwhile, over in the Vatican, Pope Paul III, still smarting from Henry’s break with Rome and the brutal treatment of his daughter, Katherine of Aragon, was urging Catholic monarchs to unite and crush the English heretic. Francis saw an opportunity and thought, That’s a part I can play. It fit nicely with his desire for revenge.

Then came the twist: Charles V, having gotten what he wanted, sneakily signed a separate truce with Francis. Now Henry was left holding Boulogne—and the bill—with absolutely no allies.

Francis acted quickly. In early 1545, he declared his intent to liberate England from Protestant tyranny and began assembling a massive invasion force under Admiral Claude d’Annebault. More than 200 ships, including 25 war galleys and 30,000 men, were readied in the Seine estuary. By sheer size, it was a more formidable force than the later Spanish Armada.

And England? She had just 80 ships, 12,000 soldiers, and a whole lot of territory to defend—including active campaigns in Ireland, France, and Scotland. The coastal defenses were a mess. And the navy—Henry’s proud creation—was about to face its first true test. Even Henry seemed a little rattled.

The Invasion Begins: French Armada Sets Sail

So, the French Armada set sail. It was impressive on paper—but from the start, it seemed a little cursed. On July 6th, 1545, as the fleet prepared to depart from the Seine estuary, disaster struck. The French flagship Carrack caught fire and exploded while still at anchor. The blaze gutted the ship and threw the invasion into immediate chaos.

Admiral Claude salvaged what he could and transferred his command to La Maire, only to see that vessel then run aground outside of Le Havre shortly after. The ship began leaking badly and had to be hastily patched up before it was even seaworthy.

Still, on July 16th—ten days later—the patched-together fleet finally launched. As I said: 200 ships, 30,000 soldiers. It was massive. Their destination was Portsmouth—Henry VIII’s naval stronghold.

Now, England had been expecting this. Henry and his Privy Council had traveled to Portsmouth to personally oversee the defense. Troops were mobilized. Cannons were manned. But despite the urgency, England was stretched pretty thin.

Much of the army was still tied up abroad, and the remaining coastal forces were understrength and scattered. The English navy was led by Lord Admiral John Dudley, the Viscount Lisle, who brought together what ships he could—only 80 in total—including the Henri Grâce à Dieu, the towering flagship, and the Mary Rose, a veteran warship and a personal favorite of the king, named after his sister.

On July 18th, the French fleet appeared off the coast. They had the numbers, they had the wind, and they had caught England at a very vulnerable moment. For a brief time, it looked like they might just be victorious.

The Battle of the Solent: The Sinking of the Mary Rose

That day, the French fleet entered the Solent—the narrow stretch of sea between the Isle of Wight and the English mainland—without resistance. With Henry watching from Southsea Castle, the French moved into position, their war galleys prowling close to shore while the larger ships held back in deeper water.

Viscount Lisle cautiously sailed the English fleet out from Portsmouth Harbor. The initial clash was… a little underwhelming. Both sides exchanged long-range cannon fire, but there was little real damage.

The French galleys attempted to get in close with their powerful bow-mounted guns, but they were driven back by smaller English vessels, including nimble row barges. Still, the imbalance was obvious: the French had more ships, more men, more firepower.

Their main problem wasn’t the English—it was the geography. The Solent’s shallow waters and tricky currents made it nearly impossible for the heavier French ships to maneuver effectively, especially without a strong wind. And that wind was stubbornly absent.

That evening, Henry boarded the Henri Grâce à Dieu, his newest warship, and had his dinner there. While aboard, he confirmed that Vice Admiral George Carew would command the Mary Rose.

The Mary Rose was an older but still powerful ship that had served England for over three decades. It was a pretty emotional moment—Henry had personally overseen her design and construction, and she had been with him since the very early days of his reign.

At dawn on July 19th, the calm persisted. The French galleys resumed their harassment, darting forward and firing on the becalmed English ships. Then, late in the afternoon, a breeze finally stirred the flags. The English fleet began to move. The Mary Rose was one of the first to act—eager to meet the enemy and prove her worth. But within moments, something went terribly wrong. She fired a broadside, turned to bring her other guns to bear, and vanished beneath the waves.

The sinking of the Mary Rose is one of the most infamous and mysterious moments in Tudor naval history. That afternoon, as the breeze lifted the English fleet into motion, the Mary Rose moved to engage the French galleys. According to eyewitnesses, she fired her guns from one side, as noted, and then began to turn to bring her other broadside into play.

What happened next has never been fully explained. Suddenly, the Mary Rose heeled over violently to one side. Her open lower gun ports—which had just been used in the first volley—were still open. As she tilted, water rushed in.

Within moments, she capsized and began to sink. Her heavy guns and stores made recovery impossible. She slipped beneath the surface of the Solent in full view of the king, who was watching nearby from Southsea Castle.

Of the estimated 400 to 500 men aboard, fewer than 40 survived. Some contemporary reports blamed the crew, suggesting they had failed to close the gun ports after firing. Others hinted at panic or confusion on deck. One French eyewitness claimed that a galley had struck the Mary Rose with a cannon shot and holed her, but no such damage was found when the wreck was excavated in the 20th century.

Another theory suggests the ship may have simply been too top-heavy—overloaded with soldiers and equipment. As she turned in the breeze, her instability may have doomed her.

Whatever the cause, the loss was catastrophic—not just for the battle, but for Henry personally.

The Mary Rose had been one of his earliest great warships. He had commissioned her in 1509, the year he became king. She had seen action against the French before, had been refitted and modernized, and was a symbol of his growing naval ambitions. And now, she was gone, dragging hundreds of Englishmen with her.

Henry reportedly watched the disaster unfold in stunned silence. The rest of the English fleet held position, unwilling to risk another blunder. The wind, as quickly as it had come, died down again. The French galleys moved forward once more, but now they were facing an English fleet that was dug in—and angry. The death of the Mary Rose hadn’t broken the English; it had made them mad.

The Isle of Wight: French Invasion Attempts

With the naval battle stalled and the Mary Rose at the bottom of the Solent, the French turned to their next objective: invading the Isle of Wight. The island was strategically vital—just across from Portsmouth—and, the French believed, lightly defended.

In truth, the islanders had been bracing for something like this for years. The Isle of Wight had a long memory of French raids going back to the Hundred Years’ War, and its population—just under 9,000—was surprisingly well-trained. Men were required to undergo military training, and even some women were trained as archers.

On July 21st, Admiral d’Annebault ordered troops to land at three separate points: St. Helen’s, Bonchurch, and Sandown—hoping to divide and overwhelm the defenders. At St. Helen’s, a small English fort had been firing on the French fleet. It fell quickly, and the nearby villages—Seaview, Bembridge, and Nettlestone—were pillaged. The French advance halted there. They didn’t regroup or push inland, despite having superior numbers.

The main action came at Bonchurch, where the French landed in force and marched inland. The first English defense was stiff, and the French were repelled. But a second push broke through, and the defenders began to flee.

According to legend, one local captain, Robert Fisher—too heavy to escape up the steep hills—cried out, “A hundred pounds for a horse!” before being cut down. The line may sound familiar—it’s widely believed to have inspired Shakespeare’s famous line, “A horse! A horse! My kingdom for a horse!” in Richard III.

The final landing at Sandown met fierce resistance. A new castle was under construction there, and though it wasn’t yet complete, English troops and local militia rushed to the shore. A brutal skirmish followed. The French lost several commanders and retreated in disarray.

Elsewhere, a French detachment dug in among the ruins of Bembridge and managed to hold off English attackers, but they were cut off and exposed. The French had troops on the island, but they had no real foothold—and the clock was ticking.

The Battle of the Solent never erupted into a full-scale clash of fleets—not because either side lacked the will, but because the conditions made it nearly impossible. After the Mary Rose disaster, the wind died down again, leaving both sides awkwardly drifting.

But John Dudley had an advantage the French couldn’t match: he knew these waters. The Solent was his backyard, and he used its complex tides and shoals like invisible weapons. Dudley maneuvered the English fleet into a defensive position that blocked the main French ships from advancing. The larger French vessels, already struggling with damaged hulls and navigation problems, couldn’t get into firing range without risking grounding.

The galleys, effective in tight quarters, couldn’t force a breakthrough alone. Meanwhile, the English ships had the protection of Portsmouth Harbor, and supplies were easy to move in from shore.

Reinforcements could be mustered. Shore-based artillery was in place. The French had no such luxury. Admiral d’Annebault’s flagship La Maistresse was still leaking from its earlier grounding back in France.

Illness was spreading among the crowded ships, and provisions were already running low. The longer they lingered, the weaker they became. The French still held pockets of the Isle of Wight, but they had failed to push inland or secure a fort. With each passing day, their position worsened.

The invasion that had once looked so overwhelming was now dangerously exposed. Dudley didn’t actually need to win a grand naval battle—he just needed to hold the line. So, by July 22nd, just three days after the sinking of the Mary Rose, Admiral d’Annebault made the call: the French invasion of England was over.

His fleet was battered, supplies were dwindling, and morale was collapsing. The troops on the Isle of Wight had failed to establish a proper foothold. Holding the island would have required constructing three full fortresses—a task estimated to take three months, even without constant harassment from locals wielding longbows and pitchforks. Worse, the flagship La Maistresse was still leaking badly. The admiral couldn’t afford to lose another ship—or more men to sickness.

On July 23rd, as a parting gesture of defiance—or perhaps desperation—the French landed 1,500 troops near Seaford, about 40 miles east of Portsmouth. They raided a nearby village, but instead of terrified peasants, they encountered local militia who responded with force. Armed with longbows and fierce determination, they repelled the French attack.

The Aftermath: A Narrow Escape

Bloodied and humiliated, the invaders retreated once more to their ships.That was it. The French fleet turned back across the Channel. The grand Armada that had once seemed unstoppable had failed utterly and completely. England had survived—barely—and the memory of those July days would fade, overshadowed in time by another Armada.

In the end, the French Armada of 1545 was bigger than the Spanish Armada and arguably more dangerous. Yet it barely registers in popular memory. No national holiday. No commemorative paintings in the Houses of Parliament. No Francis Drake playing bowls on the beach. Why?

Part of it is the lack of a clear-cut, dramatic victory. There was no glorious naval battle to boast of, no captured enemy flagship. The English held the line, yes—but through geography, luck, and stubbornness, not through any kind of decisive blow.

The real legacy of the battle wasn’t triumph. It was tragedy. The sinking of the Mary Rose—her sudden loss—came to symbolize the vulnerability of Tudor England. That ship, more than anything else, is what keeps the story alive.

When the Mary Rose was raised from the seabed in 1982, after 437 years underwater, it brought with it a ghostly reminder of a nearly forgotten war—a time when France launched a massive assault on England’s southern coast and came dangerously close to succeeding.

The French Armada may not have changed England’s borders, but it changed how the Tudors thought about defense, readiness, and naval power. And it left one magnificent wreck to tell the tale. So there you go.

The summer of 1545 could have ended very differently for Henry. France had the ships, the soldiers, and the ambition to deal England a crushing blow. But in the end, it was the tides and timing—bad luck and good defenses—that kept the Tudor crown intact.

Mary Rose, of course, still rests in Portsmouth, her splintered hull a witness to those tense days in the Solent. Her story is the one that we remember. But behind it lies the forgotten drama of the near invasion—the invasion of the Isle of Wight—and the ghost of a war that could have dramatically reshaped England.

This was not a glorious victory. It was a super lucky, narrow escape. So we’ll leave it there for now, friends: the French Armada—bigger than the Spanish one, more dangerous, but unsuccessful all the same.

Heather Teysko is the creator, writer, and producer of The Renaissance English History Podcast, the original Tudor history podcast, started in 2009. She's been writing about history online for over 25 years, since her first site on Colonial American history became number one in history on Yahoo in 1998. In 2019 she created Tudorcon, which is now a yearly event, in addition to writing books, and running TudorFair.com - a whimsical Tudor Merch shop.

She has been passionate about Tudor England since she first read Alison Weir's The Six Wives of Henry VIII 30 years ago, and subsequently moved to London after college to spend her time immersed in Tudor history (how exciting when she got to interview Alison for the first time!). In addition to history, she is passionate about travel, and has lived in 3 countries and 4 states (not counting her perpetual state of confusion), and her family (who help her host her YouTube channel occasionally).

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