May Day in Tudor England was a vibrant, complex celebration filled with joy, pageantry, and occasionally, political unrest. Rooted in ancient fertility festivals like Beltane and Floralia, May Day evolved during the Tudor period into a holiday marked by maypole dancing, crowning May Queens, and royal spectacles—yet it also saw its share of darker moments, from riots in London’s streets to the dramatic downfall of Anne Boleyn.
In this episode, we’ll explore the many layers of May Day in Tudor England, from rustic village traditions to courtly pageants and the events that turned this springtime holiday into a date of both celebration and crisis.
Transcript of May Day in Tudor England: Riots, Revelry, and Anne Boleyn’s Last Stand
It is May 1st—May Day. I got up this morning and started singing “It’s May, the Lusty Month of May” from Camelot, which my mom loves. That movie—and especially that song—somehow became part of the soundtrack of my childhood. So I got up and started singing it this morning, and I put it on.
Normally at breakfast, we listen to Classic FM, but today I played that instead—the old Broadway version—and my husband and daughter were both just looking at me like, What is this music you’re playing for us? I was like, It’s the Lusty Month of May. It’s May!
Anyway, I hope you’re having a good May as well, because that’s what we’re going to talk about today—May Day, which was a celebration of spring and renewal. We’re going to talk about how our Tudor friends would have celebrated May Day, as well as some notable May Day events from the 16th century. Because yes, some significant things happened on May Day throughout the Tudor period.
Today is a day for drinking, for dancing, for crowning a May Queen, and for welcoming the warmer days. It’s a day when inhibitions go out the window and all kinds of frolicking happens. There’s also that magical “Now is the Month of May.” I think that one’s by Thomas Morley? Now is the month of May, when merry lads are playing… I remember singing that in high school chamber choir.
Anyway, I sang it in high school, and it really makes me laugh every time I see it performed now. It’s such a popular one for chamber choirs, and I always think about how we were up there in our little tuxedos and satin dresses, looking very prim and proper, singing this 16th-century music… which is basically a song about making out in the hay.
There’s literally a lyric that goes: “Why then why sit we musing, youth’s sweet delight refusing, each with his bonny lass upon the greeny grass.” Ooh! So that’s May: a time for frolicking in the grass with your special someone, I suppose.
But May Day could also mean riots in the streets, royal theatrics, or even the beginning of a queen’s final fall. So today, we’re going to look at the many sides of May Day in Tudor England—from maypoles to mobs, and from Anne Boleyn’s last public appearance to angry apprentices smashing windows in a rage.
Let’s start with the traditions. May Day celebrations had deep roots, stretching all the way back to ancient festivals like the Celtic Beltane and the Roman Floralia. These early spring rites were all about fertility, renewal, and abundance. In Tudor England, those ideas hadn’t gone away—they had just become a bit more English.
Villages raised tall maypoles, often hauled in from nearby woods and painted in bright colors. People danced around them with ribbons, drank ale, and took part in May games. There was Morris dancing, greenery draped over doorways, and the crowning of a local girl as the May Queen—a living symbol of spring itself.
Even the court got in on the fun. Henry VIII, especially in his younger days, loved a good May Day pageant. There are records of elaborate “disguisings”—sort of like Tudor costume dramas—where he and his friends dressed up as Robin Hood and his merry men and burst in on unsuspecting courtiers.
It was one of the few times of the year when the lines between royalty and commoners could blur. You also saw that spirit at Christmas time with the Boy Bishop and similar traditions. So you know, it was a day when people could just get up to shenanigans.
The celebrations were popular with the working classes and apprentices too—which meant May Day could also become a powder keg. And that brings us to one of the most infamous May Days in Tudor history: May 1st, 1517.
London was super tense. The city’s population had exploded in the early 1500s. Many native-born Englishmen—especially tradesmen and apprentices—were increasingly resentful of foreign workers, particularly Flemish and French artisans who had come to England and found success in clothwork, shoemaking, and other skilled trades. The sense among many Londoners was that these foreigners were taking English jobs and flaunting their wealth.
In the lead-up to that May Day, anti-immigrant sentiment was boiling over. A preacher named Dr. Bell gave a sermon at St. Mary’s Fenchurch (also called St. Mary Fittle), warning that foreigners were growing too rich and powerful. He called on Englishmen to act—and they did.
On the night of April 30th, a riot began. Apprentices and laborers flooded into the streets, attacking the homes and shops of foreigners. The mob was huge—over a thousand people strong—and they moved through areas like Cheapside and St. Martin le Grand, looting and shouting, “Down with the strangers!”
The Duke of Norfolk was called in with troops to restore order, and dozens of the rioters were arrested. Some were executed quickly, as an example. But then, in a dramatic moment a few days later, Katherine of Aragon reportedly went down on her knees before Henry VIII and begged him to show mercy. This, of course, was the traditional role of a queen—to beg for clemency—and Henry agreed. Many of the young men were pardoned.
The event was used as a demonstration of royal mercy. Still, the Evil May Day riots left a scar. They were a grim reminder of how easily joy could turn to violence, especially when a holiday gave the restless a reason to gather—and a sermon gave them a target.
Now, 19 years later, May Day would once again be a turning point in Tudor history. But this time, the chaos wasn’t in the streets. It was at court, in front of the king himself. And at the heart of it all was Anne Boleyn.
By May 1st, 1536, Anne’s position was already dangerous. She had failed to give Henry a living son. The court was swirling with rumors, and Cromwell—once her political ally—had now aligned himself with her enemies. The wheels were in motion. But Anne didn’t yet know it.
That morning, the court gathered at Greenwich Palace for the traditional May Day joust. It was a pageant of chivalry: knights in gleaming armor, banners flying, the crowd cheering as favored champions rode into the lists. Anne was there, watching from the stands, seated beside the king.
To anyone looking on, it seemed like a normal springtime celebration. Henry Norris was there too. He was one of the king’s closest friends—and one of Anne’s most trusted allies. He rode in the tournament. Anne had known Norris for years. He was part of her inner circle and rumored to be one of her admirers. Most likely, nothing inappropriate ever happened between them. But the accusations would come soon enough.
During the festivities, something shifted. Without warning, Henry stood up and left. He abandoned the joust, boarded a barge, and returned to Whitehall. Those close to him knew what it meant—something serious was unfolding.
That same evening, Norris was arrested. He wasn’t told what the charges were at first—only that he was being taken in for questioning. Now, they had recently had that fight a couple of days earlier. Those of you who get my Tudor Minute in your YouTube feed—a short I put out most days—know that they had a very public argument in which Anne told Norris that he looked to “dead men’s shoes.”
She quickly realized what a mistake that was, because mentioning the king’s death was treason. So she asked him to go to her almoner and swear that nothing improper had ever happened between them—which was a rather strange request, and it probably made things worse. That very oath was later twisted into “proof” that something had happened.
Within days, more arrests followed: Francis Weston, William Brereton, and George Boleyn—Anne’s own brother. The list of accused men grew rapidly, and the charges—adultery, incest, treason—became more grotesque by the day.
For Anne, that May Day joust was the end of her safety. It was the last time she appeared publicly as queen, sitting beside her husband, applauding the courtly games. Soon, she would be under arrest and in the Tower. And so May Day—a festival of life, growth, and new beginnings—became the day when Anne Boleyn’s fall truly began. Not with a dramatic arrest or confrontation, but with a public celebration that suddenly turned cold as the king walked away.
Though Anne’s fall would cast a long shadow over May Day at court, the tradition didn’t stop with her. In the reign of her daughter, Elizabeth I, May Day remained a popular holiday. It took on a more polished and curated tone, of course. Elizabeth understood pageantry and symbolism better than anyone.
She used seasonal imagery to reinforce her image as the youthful, eternal Virgin Queen. Even as she aged, portraits showed her surrounded by springtime motifs—roses, flowers, fertility symbols—and her courtiers played along with the theme.
Some years, the court would put on masques or entertainments to mark the day. These weren’t quite as wild as the Robin Hood escapades of her father’s early reign, but they still allowed for spectacle. Elizabeth may not have danced around the Maypole herself, but she understood the power of tradition—especially when it could be molded into political theater.
Outside the palace walls, May Day continued much as it always had. In the countryside, villagers still raised Maypoles and crowned May Queens, but in London, the tone began to shift.
By the 1590s, city officials—many of them with strong Puritan leanings—began cracking down on the holiday. This was also the period when we see a crackdown on theaters and other forms of entertainment that were viewed as too secular. By 1594, May Games were officially banned in the city on the grounds that they encouraged disorder, idleness, and, as one official put it, “a return to popery and pagan vanity.”
And so, in just a few generations, May Day had gone from royal revels to festive chaos, to something viewed with deep suspicion—a relic of an older world that no longer fit the stricter moral codes of late Elizabethan London.
Whether it was surrounded by garlands and dancing or marked by riots and arrests, May Day was always more than just a spring holiday in Tudor England. It was a time when tensions could bubble up—a day that carried a duality: joyful celebration paired with the potential for unrest.
So, whatever you are doing today, May 1st—whether you’re raising a Maypole or not—I hope you are having a most fabulous day and taking a moment to remember the tradition of May Day, which is both ancient and very special.
Related link:
Tudor Minute May 12, 1536: Anne Boleyn’s co-defendants were tried
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).
