The Two Elizabeth Brookes: Mistresses, Marchionesses, and Tudor Scandals

The two Elizabeth Brookes were women of the Tudor court whose lives were steeped in scandal, ambition, and survival—but they are often confused, even by historians. Sharing not only a name but also a noble family and a flair for drama, these aunt and niece carved very different paths through the treacherous world of Tudor politics.

One Elizabeth Brooke was the estranged wife of poet Thomas Wyatt, whispered to be a possible queen consort to Henry VIII. The other became Marchioness of Northampton, a political power broker who stood beside Elizabeth I. Despite the confusion their shared name has caused, the two Elizabeth Brookes offer a rare, compelling lens into how women navigated love, power, and reputation in the dangerous courts of Tudor England.

Transcript of The Story of Two Elizabeth Brookes: Mistresses, Marchionesses, and Tudor Scandals

We are going to talk today about one name, two scandals—the two Elizabeth Brookes. These were two women called Elizabeth Brooke who, obviously, shared the same name, but they were very different individuals. Still, scandals are associated with both of them, and I thought it would be a fun topic to explore.

Way back when I first started this podcast, some of my earliest episodes were called A Tale of Two Thomases, where I talked about people like Thomas Cromwell and Thomas More. But anyway, this is going to be The Tale of Two Elizabeth Brookes. There’s the elder and the younger, and we’re going to talk about them both.

So, if you were a young woman arriving at Henry VIII’s court in the 1540s, you might hope to make a name for yourself—maybe catch the eye of a nobleman, maybe even the king if you were feeling bold and brave. But if your name was Elizabeth Brooke—well, congratulations, that name came with baggage.

In fact, there were two Elizabeth Brookes at court during the final years of Henry’s reign. One was a seasoned courtier with a complicated marriage to the poet Thomas Wyatt. The other was a teenage maid of honour just beginning her journey into the lion’s den of Tudor politics. Aunt and niece. Same name, same family, very different reputations.

Over the next two decades, both women would find themselves at the center of whispers, scandals, and the ever-turning wheel of royal favor. One was accused of adultery and lived in marital limbo, her husband immortalizing his heartbreak in verse. The other was denied the right to marry for years because her lover’s first wife had scandalously run off with another man.

One was rumored—just rumored, mind you—to have caught the eye of Henry VIII himself, possibly even considered as wife number six. The other would eventually wield influence to rival Robert Dudley during the early years of Elizabeth I. They were not queens, but they were close to power in ways that many queens never managed. And if you’ve ever confused them, don’t worry—so do a lot of historians.

This is the story of two Elizabeth Brookes: women with the same name, from the same family, who somehow navigated love, politics, and reputation in one of the most dangerous courts in Europe. And they both lived to tell the tale—well, almost.

The Elder Elizabeth Brooke: Scandal and Survival

The first Elizabeth Brooke was born around 1503, the daughter of Thomas Brooke, 8th Baron Cobham, and Dorothy Heydon. The Brookes were an old and well-connected Kentish family—loyal to the crown and respected in court circles. Even if rumors are to be believed, they were quite prone to drama. Elizabeth’s marriage was no exception.

She was married off to Sir Thomas Wyatt, now remembered as one of the earliest poets to write the sonnet in English. He was moody, brilliant, intense—and probably not the easiest husband.

By the mid-1520s, their marriage was already in trouble. Thomas accused her of adultery—not just a discreet affair, mind you, but what he described as “abominable and detestable misbehavior.” He moved out and refused to live with her, though he never formally divorced her.

In fact, under English law at the time, he couldn’t. They were tied together legally and socially, no matter how bitter things became. The details of what she did or did not do remain quite hazy. We know that Thomas claimed the moral high ground, and Elizabeth refused to go quietly. Their separation dragged on for years, and both sides seemed to have been just a little bit slippery with the truth.

In one of his letters, Thomas refers to his “wrongfully dishonored bed”—classic Wyatt: melodramatic, literary, and self-pitying. While he was writing tortured poetry and being sent on diplomatic missions, she was living separately, occasionally popping up in court gossip. And that’s where things get even more interesting.

After Katherine Howard’s execution in 1542, the court was once again speculating about who Henry VIII might choose as his next queen. The imperial ambassador, Eustace Chapuys, reported that the king was showing attention to Elizabeth Brooke—not the young niece, but the elder one, Thomas Wyatt’s estranged wife. According to Chapuys, “she has wit enough to do as badly as the others if she wished.”

It’s hard to say whether this was a serious possibility or just idle court chatter. Chapuys, for all his usefulness, was never above repeating juicy rumors. Still, the idea that Henry would even consider a woman entangled in a marital mess—one whom her husband had accused of adultery—is telling. Either her charm outweighed her baggage, or Henry was really running out of options.

She didn’t become queen, of course, but she remained linked to the court through her family and through Wyatt, whose poetry was dedicated to the memory of Anne Boleyn and the sorrows of courtly love. He died in 1542, still legally married to Elizabeth and never fully reconciled with her. In later years, he even took steps to ensure she wouldn’t benefit too much from his estate.

So that was the first Elizabeth Brooke—gossiped about, cast aside, but never entirely erased. The woman who might have been queen, if only her timing or her choices had been a bit better. Now let’s talk about the younger Elizabeth Brooke—a niece with ambition.

The Younger Elizabeth Brook: Ambition and Influence

This Elizabeth Brooke was born in 1526, the eldest daughter of George Brooke, 9th Baron Cobham of Kent, and Anne Braye. That made her the niece of the elder Elizabeth Brooke and conveniently ensured confusion between them that would continue for centuries. But where her aunt had a ruined marriage and the king’s fleeting interest, the younger Elizabeth found herself at the heart of a court scandal with much higher political stakes.

She arrived at court around the age of 14 as a maid of honour to Katherine Howard. By all accounts, she was bright, charming, and beautiful—just the sort of girl who caught attention. But it wasn’t the king’s gaze that she attracted. It was William Parr, brother to Katherine Parr, the future sixth queen and final wife of Henry VIII.

Now, William Parr had problems of his own. He was married to Anne Bourchier, heiress to the Earl of Essex. Unfortunately for him, Anne had eloped with another man and even had a child by him in 1541. Parr, humiliated and abandoned, wanted a divorce—and into that chaos stepped Elizabeth Brooke.

It’s unclear exactly when their relationship began, but by the time Katherine Parr became queen in 1543, the match between Elizabeth and William was widely known at court. The problem? The Church still didn’t allow remarriage after divorce. Even though Anne Bourchier had disgraced herself in the eyes of the law, and Parliament had declared her children illegitimate, William couldn’t legally remarry while she was still alive.

So Elizabeth and William lived in a kind of limbo. She was his partner, but not his wife. They were often separated—especially after Henry VIII died and Edward VI’s government took a dim view of the relationship. At one point, the Privy Council ordered William to stay away from her entirely, on pain of death.

She was exiled from court and sent to live at Chelsea in the household of Katherine Parr, along with the young Princess Elizabeth and Lady Jane Grey. It was an odd little community of women, all circling the crown in their own way.

Despite the political pressure, William and Elizabeth stayed together. In 1549, the Duke of Somerset was overthrown, and William’s close ally, John Dudley—soon to be the Duke of Northumberland—came into power. With that change came opportunity.

In 1551, a private bill was passed through Parliament officially annulling William’s marriage to Anne and legitimizing his relationship with Elizabeth. Finally, they were married. He became the Marquess of Northampton, and she the Marchioness—a status that placed her just below the queen in precedence. And they lived like it.

The couple set up house at Winchester House in Southwark and spent freely on gambling, entertainment, and gifts. French ambassadors recorded that the Duke de Vendôme gave her a jewel worth 200 crowns. She was radiant, influential, and—for the moment—safe. But Tudor fortunes were always conditional, and Elizabeth’s moment in the sun wouldn’t last.

The Rise and Fall of Elizabeth and William Parr

By 1551, Elizabeth Brooke was no longer just William Parr’s mistress—she was his wife in every legal sense Parliament had granted. Her a new title: Marchioness of Northampton, was one of the highest-ranking noble positions for a woman outside of royalty. And in Edward VI’s court, she played a role not unlike that of a queen consort. She hosted, she entertained, and she accompanied her husband to major political functions.

It was a dramatic reversal for a woman who, just a few years earlier, had been banished from court with threats of death hanging over her lover’s head. Her husband’s political star was also in ascendance. William Parr was a staunch Protestant and a close ally of John Dudley—and John Dudley, at this point, was the de facto ruler of England as Edward’s health began to decline.

It was Parr who signed the ill-fated “Device for the Succession”—the document that would bypass Henry VIII’s daughters and install Lady Jane Grey on the throne. And Elizabeth supported it. Her family, the Brookes of Kent, backed Lady Jane Grey’s claim, as did her cousin, Thomas Wyatt the Younger, who had inherited not only a family name but also a taste for risky rebellion.

For a brief nine days in July 1553, the Protestant elite believed they had won. Elizabeth and William were on the winning side—until they weren’t. When Mary Tudor gathered her forces and claimed her crown, the entire Protestant court faction collapsed like a paper stage set. Parr was imprisoned in the Tower. His titles were stripped. Mary ordered him to return to his first wife—yes, Anne Bourchier—who had eloped over a decade earlier and had never returned to court. But legally, Parliament or no Parliament, she was still his wife.

Elizabeth, now back in royal disfavor, was cast out once again. Her marriage was declared invalid, her household was dismantled, and her cousin, Thomas Wyatt the Younger, really did not help matters.

In January 1554, Wyatt led a rebellion against Queen Mary’s plan to marry Philip of Spain. The uprising was an absolute shambles, but the symbolism stuck: the Brooke family were rebels—now guilty by association, if not in deed.

While there’s no firm evidence that Elizabeth was involved in the rebellion, it’s hard to imagine that she wasn’t at least sympathetic. She had supported Jane Grey. She had backed the Protestant reforms. And she had every reason to despise and fear Mary’s regime.

Remarkably, both Elizabeth and William survived the reign. Mary didn’t execute them—though she might have wanted to. Perhaps their proximity to Elizabeth Tudor, the heir-in-waiting, made them a little too risky to murder. Instead, they vanished into obscurity, stripped of their titles and influence, waiting for the political tides to turn. And when Elizabeth came to the throne in 1558, turn they did.

In November 1558, the death of Queen Mary transformed the fortunes of many who had been lurking on the margins. Elizabeth Brooke once again emerged from exile—with impeccable timing. Elizabeth Tudor was now queen, and she did not forget her old household companions.

One of her first acts was to restore William Parr to his title as the Marquess of Northampton, and, critically, to recognize his marriage to Elizabeth Brooke as valid. With that act, Elizabeth was not just welcomed back into court—she was elevated to a position of real influence.

Contemporaries commented that her closeness with the new queen rivaled that of Robert Dudley, Elizabeth’s longtime favorite and true love. Ambassadors, always sniffing out court factions, began courting Elizabeth’s support.

The Spanish ambassador noted that she was one of the few whose opinions seemed to hold real weight. The Swedish ambassador sent her gifts in hopes of gaining favor while Eric of Sweden was negotiating a marriage. She had gone from political exile to court power broker almost overnight. And this time, she wasn’t just the consort to a powerful man—Elizabeth had political currency in her own right.

She had survived Henry, Edward, and Mary. She had known Jane Grey, Catherine Parr, and Princess Elizabeth in their most precarious years. She understood court politics better than most men on the Privy Council, and she had the social finesse to thrive in Elizabeth’s complicated inner circle.

There are hints that she and Robert Dudley had their rivalries. Elizabeth was witty, poised, and politically sharp, and she had no need to flirt her way into influence. Her reputation was already made. Unlike Robert Dudley, she wasn’t angling for the Queen’s romantic affection. She was there to solidify her own family’s place in the new regime.

But power didn’t insulate her from suffering. By 1564, Elizabeth began showing signs of serious illness. The diagnosis was breast cancer—a condition not well understood, and certainly not treatable in any real sense. Still, she clung to hope. She traveled to the Netherlands with her brother and sister-in-law, hoping to find a miracle cure from the famed physicians of the Low Countries.

Doctors across Europe were consulted. Treatments were tried—some probably more harmful than helpful. Queen Elizabeth even stepped in, arranging for the personal physician of the King of Bohemia to treat her friend. But it was no use. Desperation began to seep in. One of the foreign doctor’s assistants, a man named Griffith, took advantage of her vulnerability and tried to seduce her—an act that landed both him and his employer in prison.

Elizabeth Brooke, Marchioness of Northampton, died on April 2, 1565. She was only 38 years old. Despite her debts and physical decline, she died as a favored member of the Queen’s inner circle, mourned personally by Elizabeth I.

Five years later, her widowed husband remarried. His new wife—whom we’ve done an episode on—was the young Swedish noblewoman Helena Snakenborg, who had repeatedly caught his eye because she looked so much like his Elizabeth.

Helena Snakenborg came over as part of the ambassadorial group sent to negotiate Eric of Sweden’s proposed marriage to Elizabeth I. Of course, it didn’t work out for Eric. Helena Snakenborg stayed on, and she’s a fascinating woman too, so you should check out that episode I did on her.

Conclusion: Two Lives, One Name

The two Elizabeth Brookes never shared a stage, but their stories run in eerie parallel. Each of them was defined by a relationship with a powerful man—one with a poet, the other with a nobleman turned politician. Both endured public scrutiny, private humiliation, and the cold legal reality that even a well-born woman had little control over her own name, her own body, and her own future.

The elder Elizabeth Brooke lived out her days estranged from Thomas Wyatt, a man who turned her into a literary villain even as he immortalized other women in verse. She died in relative obscurity—never reconciled with her husband, never entirely cleared of the scandal that stained her name. Her reputation was shaped not by her own voice, but by the words of a man who made her into a cautionary tale.

Her niece, Elizabeth Brooke, went further. She didn’t just survive scandal—she wielded it. She bent the rules, endured disgrace, and came roaring back into the center of power. She helped shape Protestant politics during Edward’s reign, weathered the terror of Mary’s regime, and stood beside Elizabeth I as a trusted confidante in the early years of the Virgin Queen’s reign. Even she could not escape the limits of her body, and she died young and in pain, seeking miracle cures that never came.

In the end, the two Elizabeth Brookes lived very different lives, but both were shaped by the same court, the same family connections, and the same risks that came with ambition in Tudor England.

One was remembered mostly through the writings of her estranged husband. The other left behind a trail of letters, gossip, and political maneuvering. They weren’t queens themselves, but they were close to the center of power—and their stories help make sense of how women worked within the rules of Tudor politics, playing the game of status, survival, and reputation at a time when a single misstep could mean absolute ruin.

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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