Tudor childhood was a complex, structured experience shaped by religion, duty, and survival, rather than the modern idea of carefree innocence. In 16th-century England, children were baptized within hours of birth, swaddled in linen, and raised in homes where they were expected to contribute from a very young age. Far from being ignored or treated as miniature adults, Tudor children were deeply loved, carefully named, and guided through a series of responsibilities that prepared them for adult life.
From early schooling and stern discipline to imaginative play and shifting religious expectations, the realities of Tudor childhood reveal a society where even the youngest members were vital to the household and community.
Transcript of Growing Up Tudor: What Childhood Was Really Like in the 1500s
So today, we are going to talk about childhood in Tudor England. This is inspired by a book I just got called Tudor Children by Nicholas Orme, and I highly recommend you check it out if you’re interested and want to take a deeper dive. This is just going to be a surface-level look at childhood in Tudor England. So let’s get right into it.
It is a chilly February morning in 1547, in the village of North Petherton in Somerset. A clerk scratches a name into the parish register: John, son of Robert Hill, baptized this day. The baby is just a few hours old, and already his name is part of the public record. He’s been swaddled tightly like a little cloth burrito, with only his red, round face peeking out.
His mother lies nearby—exhausted, but alive—which is something not to be taken for granted. A midwife tends to her quietly. The father has chosen two local men as godparents—Robert’s business partners, perhaps—and a woman from the next cottage over: a fitting spiritual mother.
There’s no portrait of this baby, no family Bible with his birth recorded in gold leaf. No cot in a separate nursery. But this child, like tens of thousands born in the Tudor period, has already entered the complex web of expectations, religion, and community.
We tend to imagine Tudor children as either miniature adults—because that’s how they’re often painted—or as long-lost lambs, wandering barefoot through a brutal world that didn’t see them as people. The truth, as it usually does, lies somewhere in the middle. And that middle is where we are headed today.
So let’s get started with birth and infancy. To be born in Tudor England was to step into a world that mixed superstition, survival, and sacred duty. Childbirth was a women’s event, attended by midwives, female neighbors, and—if you were lucky—an experienced matron who knew how to handle a breech birth or tie off a cord with a linen thread that had been boiled three times.
Men were generally kept out unless things went very badly wrong. Newborns were swaddled for the first few months of life, tightly bound with bands of linen—supposedly to help their limbs grow straight. They were often left in cradles for long stretches, with someone checking in periodically to feed them or change the cloth.
And though modern parenting guides would be horrified, it wasn’t uncommon for babies to be left alone while mothers worked—especially in working households where there was no such thing as maternity leave.
Also, a related episode: years and years ago, after I had just had a baby of my own, I did an episode on pregnancy and childbirth in Tudor England. I think that was around 2014 or so. If you want to dive deeper into that, I’ll add the episode in the show notes so you can go back and listen to one that’s just dedicated to pregnancy and childbirth.
Naming and Baptism Rituals
So, let’s move on—let’s talk about names. Naming a baby was very serious business. Many babies were named after the saint whose feast day they were born on—hence all of the Johns and Marys.
Baptism usually took place within days of birth, if not hours, because infant mortality was high and the Church taught that unbaptized babies couldn’t enter heaven. A stillbirth or death before baptism brought not only grief, but also spiritual uncertainty.
It’s actually an interesting little factoid that midwives were given the power to baptize in cases where, say, the mother had died but the baby had survived for a couple of hours—or had been born alive but was clearly not going to make it. Midwives were allowed to perform the baptism to ensure the infant could go to heaven.
Godparents were hugely important—not just spiritually, but socially. In poor families, a well-chosen godparent with a little local influence could open doors later in life. And for wealthier families, godparenting was a form of political alliance. When Princess Elizabeth was christened in 1533, her godparents included Thomas Cranmer and the Duchess of Norfolk. This wasn’t just spiritual guidance—this was part of a strategy.
Of course, not all babies survived long enough for this to matter. Orme’s research points to parish records that show multiple baptisms for the same parents within just a few years—child after child, often buried before their first birthday. And yet, for all the risk, these babies were deeply, deeply loved. Cradles were decorated. Mothers sang lullabies. Fathers commissioned tiny memorial brasses. They weren’t forgotten souls—they were family.
In fact, for patrons at the corresponding level who get monthly mini-courses, the one we did this month was on the Reformation and the massive changes under Edward VI—and how common people adapted to that.
One of the things we talked about in that course was how, for the average person before the Reformation, being raised in a world where purgatory was just part of life—where it was simply taken for granted—was actually a source of comfort. When you lost loved ones, you could still do something for them. You could support them by saying masses for their souls and by asking saints to intervene. So, the relationship didn’t really end—it just changed a little. Your loved ones who had passed on were still very much active parts of your life.
During the Reformation, all of that changed—and it was deeply disconcerting to people. If you’d grown up believing that a child who had died was in heaven, actively interceding on your behalf—and that you could, in turn, intercede for them by lighting candles in their name or giving money in their name—then having that belief system stripped away created real grief.
I think it’s an important thing to reflect on. When we talk about high infant mortality, it’s easy to assume people weren’t as emotionally attached to their children—but of course they were. They had rituals that kept them connected, that helped maintain that child’s place in the family, even after death.
And when those rituals were taken away during the Reformation, it was more than a theological shift—it was a deeply personal and emotional loss. That’s part of why there were uprisings like the Pilgrimage of Grace and the Prayer Book Rebellion. So, that’s a bit of a tangent, but patrons who took that course last week might recognize some of those themes.
Childhood in the Household
Once a child passed through the dangerous hurdle of infancy—and that was by no means guaranteed—they began to integrate into the rhythms of the household.
And in Tudor England, a household wasn’t just mom, dad, and the kids. It could include extended family, servants, apprentices, and sometimes even live-in employees, especially if the family ran a business.
Children were not the center of attention. They were expected to blend in, contribute when possible, and learn by observation. In elite homes, children might be tended by nurses or rockers who cared for infants, and by governesses who began early lessons—usually starting with manners and religion.
But even there, the idea wasn’t to coddle. Childhood was preparation for adulthood, and the work started early. Young noble boys might be handed over to other aristocratic households by the age of seven to begin training in service. Girls were often placed in noble homes to learn courtly behavior and household management skills that would serve them in marriage.
For children of the working and middle classes, home life was a mix of labor and learning. A five-year-old would be expected to help with sweeping, fetching water, minding younger siblings, or assisting in simple craft work. A child in a cloth-making family might help with carding wool; a child on a farm might collect eggs or shoo chickens from the garden. These weren’t chores tacked on as character-building exercises—they were necessary contributions.
Discipline was firm. Physical punishment wasn’t just accepted—it was actually encouraged. The whole “spare the rod, spoil the child” idea wasn’t just a phrase people used; it was seen as a moral duty. A parent who didn’t correct a child with a switch was considered to be failing in their role. And it wasn’t just parents—schoolmasters, neighbors, employers all had the right to discipline. Tudor childhood was public.
Clothing also marked a child’s growth and role. Both boys and girls wore gowns when they were small, usually until the age of six or seven. Then boys would be “breeched”—a rite of passage that involved receiving their first pair of breeches. It was a big moment, sometimes marked with small gifts or new shoes.
Girls’ clothing stayed largely the same until marriage, growing longer and more elaborate with age, but always reflecting their status—modest for poor girls, rich with embroidery or imported fabrics for the gentry.
Children weren’t treated as adults, but they also weren’t protected from adult responsibilities. In many ways, childhood was a training ground. It wasn’t some kind of sacred timeout the way we might see it more today.
Education and Schooling
What about education and schooling? If you picture a Tudor schoolroom, you might imagine rows of grim-faced boys chanting Latin verbs while a stern master prowls with a birch rod in hand—and honestly, you wouldn’t be that far off.
Education in Tudor England varied wildly depending on gender, class, and geography. Some children never saw the inside of a schoolroom. Others might be reading Cicero by age eight. The structure was patchy, but the Reformation brought a surge in new schools and grammar education, especially for boys. Girls’ education was less consistent, often informal and home-based, but not non-existent—especially among the merchant classes and the gentry.
For most children, the first step was the petty school, often held in a church porch or even someone’s home. These weren’t public schools the way we think of them today. They were often run by the parish or a local entrepreneur who could read and write well enough to teach the alphabet. The main goals were learning to read—usually through the Lord’s Prayer and the alphabet—memorizing basic prayers, and understanding moral lessons.
Next came grammar schools—more formal, often endowed by local gentry or merchants hoping to bolster their souls and reputations. These focused on Latin grammar and classical authors—Virgil, Ovid, Cicero were the staples. The curriculum was rigid, the days were long, and the expectations were steep. Boys might be there from 6:00 a.m. to 5:00 p.m., with a break for dinner and maybe a little bit of play. Discipline was relentless. Orme notes rules from one school where boys were punished for whispering, idling, even arriving late from church.
It wasn’t all drudgery, though. Some boys—especially those with ambition or well-placed patrons—used grammar school as a stepping stone to university, the Inns of Court, or even a royal appointment. People like Thomas More, Thomas Wolsey, and William Cecil all rose through the grammar school pipeline. For middling families, education could offer real social mobility.
Girls, meanwhile, were much more likely to be educated at home, often with the help of literate mothers, chaplains, or even private tutors. Reading was considered important for piety, especially when the Bible in English became available. Girls were expected to read the Bible, Books of Hours, and moral instruction, but writing was seen as much less essential.
That said, elite women like Lady Jane Grey, Elizabeth I, and Anne Askew were highly educated—fluent in multiple languages and deeply engaged in the religious debates of the day. Education for girls wasn’t impossible; it just wasn’t a given.
Instructional materials were simple: hornbooks with the alphabet printed on paper and mounted to a wooden paddle, primers for prayers and reading practice, and eventually more advanced Latin texts.
There weren’t textbooks the way we know them today, and certainly no printed workbooks or worksheets. So, the Tudor school was not a very joyful place—but it was taken seriously. It wasn’t about fostering creativity or critical thinking; it was about forming obedient, literate Christians. And for those who endured it, education could be both a burden and a ladder.
I actually did another episode—maybe 10 years ago—called Tudor Tutors, and it was about education in the Tudor period too. So, I’ll also put that in the show notes if you want to dig into that.
Leisure and Play
What about leisure time? Was there ever any play or anything like that? Despite all the discipline and early responsibilities, Tudor children did find time to play—and they didn’t need store-bought toys to do it. Nicholas Orme’s book makes it clear that play was a regular, visible part of childhood, especially in the early years before a child entered service or apprenticeship.
Some games have barely changed over the centuries: blind man’s buff, hopscotch, tag, leapfrog. Boys rolled hoops, spun tops, and played at mock battles with wooden swords. Girls played with dolls—sometimes carved from wood, sometimes just bundles of cloth—and staged imaginary households. Even the simplest object could become a game: cherry stones were used like modern-day marbles, animal bones might be used like dice. Seasonal games abounded, especially during May Day or Shrovetide, when children were given license to be loud and silly.
That said, adults didn’t always approve. There were always people yelling at kids to get off their yard, right? Church officials sometimes issued complaints about noisy games in churchyards, especially on Sundays. Certain games were considered un-Christian or disruptive, but others were tolerated—even encouraged—so long as they reinforced social norms.
Role-playing games where children mimicked adults were common. A girl might pretend to be a cook or a nurse. A boy might act out being a priest or a soldier. Tudor society didn’t draw a sharp line between play and training. Pretending to churn butter wasn’t just cute—it was practice.
Toys were mostly homemade, except in wealthier households. There weren’t toy shops as such, but merchants might sell miniature utensils, whistles, or carved animals at fairs or in towns. Wealthy families could afford imported toys—German dolls were popular, as were miniature sets of armor—but most children made do with what they had: stones, sticks, cloth scraps—whatever could be transformed by imagination.
And there was never quite enough time to play. As soon as a child was old enough to be useful, leisure time shrank. Play was tolerated, but it was never prioritized. Here’s what was prioritized: religion and moral instruction.
Religion and Moral Instruction
In Tudor England, religion wasn’t a Sunday activity—it was the framework that shaped a child’s entire worldview from the moment they were baptized. Whether Catholic or Protestant—or, for many children, caught in the confusing churn between the two—faith wasn’t optional. It was survival, identity, and community all rolled into one.
Children learned to pray before they learned to write. The Lord’s Prayer, the Apostles’ Creed, and the Ten Commandments were usually among the first things memorized. These were drilled daily—at home, in church, and in school. Hornbooks included not just the alphabet, but these essential texts.
Discipline wasn’t just about obedience—it was about sin. A disobedient child wasn’t just naughty; they were in spiritual danger. The book points out that sermons and religious literature often used stories of children as moral examples. Sometimes this was to inspire—like tales of a pious child martyr who endured suffering for their faith—but more often it was to terrify.
A popular genre included stories of children who lied, skipped church, or disrespected their parents—and were struck down by divine punishment. One child who missed a Sunday service was supposedly swallowed by the earth. Another dropped dead after stealing a loaf of bread. These weren’t bedtime stories for a peaceful night’s sleep—no, no, no. These were cautionary tales.
Church attendance was mandatory. Children were expected to behave. Many churches enforced seating plans, and misbehavior could be punished by the parish authorities. Singing hymns, standing for prayers, reciting catechism responses—children participated actively. And while they might not have grasped the theological debates of the day, they knew whose name to pray for on the throne—and which way the wind of faith was currently blowing. Religion wasn’t just something they learned—it was the air they breathed. And one misstep could, in theory, cost them their soul.
So when my daughter was younger and I would take little toys—wooden toys, coloring books, that sort of thing—for her to play with during church, that would’ve been seriously frowned upon in Tudor England. I probably would’ve been seen as, you know, a negligent parent—encouraging her to learn sin by not paying attention to the service. All because she was coloring in a coloring book. So, yet another reason I’m glad I wasn’t a parent in Tudor England.
Adolescence and Transition to Adulthood
What about adolescents? Of course, in the Tudor world, childhood didn’t last long. By modern standards, it ended early—and often abruptly. Most children were expected to enter some sort of work or service by their very early teens. Sometimes, it happened even earlier. By the age of 10 or 12, many boys were apprenticed to craftsmen or sent into other households to begin training for a trade. Girls might be placed in service—either as household servants or companions to wealthier families’ daughters.
These arrangements were about more than just employment. They were about learning discipline, acquiring skills, and understanding one’s place in the hierarchy of society. You weren’t just washing dishes or sewing seams—you were being shaped into a proper adult. And you were also making contacts—people who might be able to help you later in life, securing better positions or opportunities.
Among the nobility and gentry, this process was a little more polished. Boys might be sent to another noble household to make connections, like little mini courtiers in training. Girls might learn music, embroidery, languages, and dance—all part of preparing for marriage. It was expected that these young people would internalize the values and etiquette of their hosts so they could someday run their own households with similar order and grace.
Legally, adolescents mattered. By age 14, boys could be held criminally responsible. By 12, girls could be married—though this was rare in practice. Puberty marked the beginning of new obligations. They might not have been fully adult yet, but no one would call them children anymore.
Leaving home was often permanent. A child who entered service might not return, except to visit—especially in families with many children and limited means. This wasn’t seen as a tragedy; it was the expected flow of life. So childhood in Tudor England wasn’t an age—it was a stage. And it ended when you became useful somewhere else.
We often hear that childhood didn’t exist in the past, or that Tudor children were treated like little adults. But the book I read—Nicholas Orme’s Tudor Children—complicates that idea. Tudor children weren’t ignored or unloved. They were seen, heard, disciplined, instructed, and remembered. They were simply expected to grow up fast. They lived in a world where death was common, work was necessary, and religion was non-negotiable.
But they also played games, told jokes, misbehaved in church, and begged for toys at fairs. Their lives weren’t soft—but they weren’t invisible, either. The Tudor view of childhood wasn’t about protecting innocence; it was about preparing for survival. Childhood wasn’t sentimental. It was functional. But within that function, there was still room for affection, play, and joy—even if it didn’t come with the softest blankets and sweet bedtime stories.
So when we look back on the lives of Tudor children, we don’t find a lost world. We find similarities to our own—worries, dreams, and small rebellions—just in rougher clothes.
Related links:
Nicholas Orme’s Tudor Children
Episode 024: Pregnancy and Childbirth in Renaissance England
Episode 102: Education in Tudor England
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).
