Sanctuary in medieval England was more than just a legal loophole—it was a lifeline, a place of refuge where even queens could seek protection from political upheaval. One of the most dramatic and revealing examples of this practice was Queen Elizabeth Woodville, who twice sought safety behind the walls of Westminster Abbey during the turbulent Wars of the Roses. Her story sheds light on how sanctuary functioned in the late Middle Ages—not just as a religious right, but as a deeply political act.
Let’s explore how sanctuary in medieval England worked, why Elizabeth turned to it, and what her experiences reveal about power, survival, and sacred space.
Transcript of Sanctuary and a Queen: Elizabeth Woodville at Westminster Abbey
Today, we are going to talk about sanctuary and Queen Elizabeth Woodville. Yesterday’s Tudor Minute—I think it was yesterday—was about the death of Elizabeth Woodville. And I was thinking about her time in sanctuary. You know, that’s something that, of course, shows up in all the historical fiction and in all the books about her. She actually even gave birth in sanctuary. So I wanted to talk a little bit about what sanctuary was in the Middle Ages, as well as Elizabeth Woodville’s specific experience with sanctuary at Westminster Abbey.
The concept of sanctuary in the Middle Ages conjures up very dramatic images—desperate fugitives pounding on church doors and clergy throwing open the gates just in time, royal soldiers fuming outside. But sanctuary wasn’t just for common criminals or political rebels. Sometimes queens themselves fled to the safety of the sacred walls—and that’s exactly what Elizabeth Woodville did, twice.
The wife of Edward IV and the mother of the Princes in the Tower found herself holed up in Westminster Abbey, dragging in her children, her belongings, and a frankly absurd amount of treasure. So what exactly was sanctuary? How did it work? And what happened when the Queen of England turned up at the abbey door?
In medieval England, sanctuary was a legal right rooted in religious tradition. A person accused of a crime could claim protection by fleeing to a church or a religious house. Once inside, they were untouchable—for a while. The idea was that the Church offered time and space to negotiate, repent, or, in some cases, escape justice entirely.
The standard term of protection was 40 days, during which time the fugitive could either face trial or agree to leave the kingdom. That was how it was supposed to work, at least. But like many medieval customs—and even laws today—enforcement varied wildly depending on who you were, who was after you, and whether the political situation made you convenient or expendable.
Sanctuary could be respected or it could be trampled. A prime example of that came after the Battle of Tewkesbury in 1471, when Edward IV’s men violated the sanctuary of Tewkesbury Abbey to drag out and execute Lancastrian leaders who were hiding inside. Even the sacred space of the church couldn’t always protect you from royal anger.
So when Elizabeth Woodville fled to Westminster Abbey in 1483, after her husband died, she was relying not just on legal protection, but on the prestige and political weight of the Abbey itself—thinking that people would be less likely to violate its sanctuary. Westminster Abbey versus Tewkesbury Abbey—which one are you going to violate the sanctuary of? That was part of her thinking.
Westminster Abbey wasn’t just any church. It had been a site of royal coronations and burials for centuries. Its abbots were powerful, its privileges firmly defended, and its sanctuary rights particularly strong.
The Abbey precinct included several buildings. Among them was the Abbot’s House complex, which included the Cheyneygates—a comfortable, even luxurious residence that overlooked the Great Cloister.
Cheyneygates wasn’t a deep medieval crypt or anything like that, despite what certain TV dramatizations would have you believe. (I’m looking at you, The White Queen.) This was no dungeon. It was a well-appointed house within a powerful monastic community. Elizabeth wasn’t scuttling off to hide in rags in a basement cellar somewhere—she was seeking political cover, a place where she had strong ties and influence.
Elizabeth Woodville’s first retreat into sanctuary came during one of the most chaotic moments of the Wars of the Roses. In the autumn of 1470, her husband, Edward IV, was forced to flee the country after the temporary restoration of Henry VI, orchestrated by the Earl of Warwick and Margaret of Anjou. This is called the Readeption of Henry VI.
Elizabeth was extremely vulnerable now. She was alone in London, she was pregnant, and her enemies were back in power. On October 1st, she took sanctuary in Westminster Abbey, accompanied by her three daughters and her mother, Jacquetta of Luxembourg. Her older son, Edward—the future Edward V, one of the Princes in the Tower—was likely with his father at this point, taken away for safety.
She knew this was about her survival. Her enemies probably wouldn’t hesitate to remove her entirely if they got the chance. She stayed at Westminster for several months, and on November 2, 1470, she gave birth to a son. The child was christened there with some ceremony, though not the usual fanfare that a royal birth might warrant under better circumstances.
The second flight to sanctuary came more than a decade later—and under even more dangerous circumstances. In April 1483, Edward IV died suddenly. Their oldest son, Edward V, was now the new king, but he was still a young boy. Elizabeth and her Woodville relatives tried to control the succession, but Richard, Duke of Gloucester, moved swiftly. He seized the young king, arrested Elizabeth’s brother Anthony Woodville and her son Richard Grey (from her first marriage), and made it very clear that he was taking charge.
Elizabeth didn’t wait. She gathered her remaining children and fled across the road into sanctuary at Westminster Abbey—again, not just in the main church, but specifically in Cheyneygates, the mansion attached to the Abbot’s house.
Thomas More’s account paints the scene as almost slapstick chaos: carts loaded with treasure, servants rushing around, walls broken through to allow trunks to pass. Thomas Rotherham—who was Archbishop of York and Lord Chancellor at that time, even delivered the Great Seal of England to her—only to regret it the next day and send someone to retrieve it.
She remained in Cheyneygates for months. It wasn’t a dungeon, as we’ve said—though later dramatizations like The White Queen imagine her languishing in some damp cellar. Cheyneygates was spacious, comfortable, even borderline luxurious. One upstairs chamber was still known centuries later as “My Lady’s Bedchamber”—probably hers.
Eventually, she made a wary reconciliation with Richard III and allowed her daughters to leave sanctuary and join his household. This has kept historians speculating for 500 years: if Elizabeth truly believed that Richard had killed the Princes in the Tower, would she have allowed her daughters to join his household?
Countless books have explored that very question, and it only adds to the ongoing intrigue surrounding whether or not Richard III was responsible for their deaths. But that is a different story—I’m not going to talk about that today.
After Richard III’s fall and her daughter’s marriage to Henry VII, Elizabeth Woodville’s fortunes seemed, briefly, to stabilize. In 1486, she secured a formal lease on Cheyneygates—the same residence where she had once taken sanctuary. The lease was for 40 years, granting her the use of the mansion attached to the Abbot’s house, complete with chambers, outbuildings, and all the comforts expected of a former queen.
The language of the lease is revealing. It acknowledged her past generosity to the Abbot during Edward IV’s reign and required her to maintain the property—including clearing out the drain and keeping up the roof. It wasn’t exile; it was a dignified retirement, in theory. Conveniently located across from Westminster Palace, it also allowed her to remain close to her daughter, now Queen Elizabeth of York.
But the peace didn’t last, of course. Henry VII—ever cautious and suspicious of her Yorkist loyalties—soon removed her from court life. Whether it was political caution, personal distrust, or simply her own choice to retreat, the result was the same: she was quietly sent to, or moved to, or left for Bermondsey Abbey. A respectable but isolated residence for a woman who had once been at the very center of power.
She died there in 1492, in reduced circumstances. Her will mentions little wealth or property. From a throne to a cloistered religious house—that old medieval wheel of fortune had spun once again.
Cheyneygates was later renamed the Deanery after the Reformation. Ultimately, it was destroyed in the Blitz in 1941. Today, little remains except old floor plans, a few crumbling photos, and the memories baked into the cloisters of Westminster Abbey.
But Elizabeth Woodville’s story lingers. Twice she fled to that space: first as a pregnant queen consort, abandoned politically while her husband was in exile—and again, thirteen years later, as the mother of a deposed boy king, with her enemies closing in.
Sanctuary wasn’t just a legal technicality for her. For Elizabeth, it was a place of real consequence—a place to give birth, a place to defend her children, a place to plot, panic, and hold fast while all of England’s future played out just beyond the cloister walls.
Related links:
Episode 018: Elizabeth Woodville
Edward IV and Elizabeth Woodville: How One Secret Marriage Changed English History
Crowning Glory: The Fascinating History of Coronations in Westminster Abbey
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).
