Is there anything more British than politely dying of a mysterious illness while sweating profusely and refusing to make a fuss about it. Enter: The Sweating Sickness of 1485 – or as I like to call it, the Tudor’s very own bout of medieval man-flu, except it killed you quicker than a court summons from Henry VIII.
It was, by all accounts, a curious little pestilence. The disease appeared just as Henry Tudor swanned back into England from France, having defeated Richard III at Bosworth and pinched the crown like a magpie nicking a brooch. Now I’m not saying he brought it with him, tucked into his codpiece like a sweaty souvenir – but the timing was suspicious. You march in, claim the throne, and within days half the kingdom is drenched in feverish perspiration and dropping like plague-ridden dominoes. Coincidence? Hmm.
In truth, the sweating sickness made a dazzling debut, like a socialite with halitosis – all drama, no explanation. It came, it sweated, it killed, it left. No origin story, no helpful rat, no time for a sonnet. If the Black Death was a slow-burning tragedy, the Sweating Sickness was a Tudor TikTok trend: here today, gone in 24 hours, leaving chaos, panic, and a very damp bed behind.
Symptoms: Or, How to Die Wet
The medical trajectory of this affliction was, in technical terms, absolutely bloody ridiculous. One minute you were healthy and ploughing your field; the next you were dripping in sweat, muttering nonsense, and being politely nailed into a coffin by teatime. The whole thing lasted about 12 hours. You didn’t linger in bed moaning for weeks – which, as a British person, frankly robs you of the only good bit about being ill.
You’d start with dread. Not metaphorical dread – actual dread, the kind you’d get upon realising the inn you’ve just entered is called The Leper and Spleen. This was followed by a raging fever, intense thirst, and an alarming amount of sweating. Think sauna. Then double it. Then imagine Henry VIII’s underpants during a jousting match. That’s about right.
Then you either died or, in a twist that feels medically lazy, just got better. No one knew why. No one knows now. If you survived, congratulations – you were alive, confused, and very, very clammy.
Who Caught It? Only the Important People
Unlike your standard peasant-plague – which generally wiped out anyone within rat-sniffing distance of a midden – this particular disease had ambitions. It targeted the rich, the educated, and the upwardly mobile. Oxford students keeled over. Courtiers collapsed in corridors. Henry VII’s personal entourage was ravaged.
It was like the disease had a grudge against the middle and upper classes. Frankly, I sympathise. The poor were mostly spared – presumably because they couldn’t afford to sweat.
This gave rise to an amusing reversal of the social order, where the gentry were hoofing it out of town like panicked deer, while the thatchers and dung-collectors went about their business, shrugging, “Just a bit of summer, innit?” Glorious.
What Was It? Nobody Knows. Still.
Scientists have floated theories: hantavirus, anthrax, ergot poisoning, a viral haemorrhagic fever, or, my personal favourite – a divine joke. A sort of celestial wet slap from God to remind us that you can win a throne, but you’ll still sweat yourself to death if you eat shellfish out of season.
It didn’t behave like any known illness. It struck randomly. It left no obvious traces. It didn’t spread in the usual medieval way, via flea, rat, or the communal goblet of mead. It wasn’t even very contagious, unless you were rich and unlucky.
And then, sometime after 1551 – after five grand performances – it simply disappeared. Like a Tudor boy band. No encore. Just gone.
Paranoia in Hose and Doublet
The Tudors were understandably spooked. This was the age of bloodletting, astrology, and the occasional public boiling – so you can imagine how they handled a new disease that required neither leech nor poultice but simply dropped people like flies in a Turkish bath.
Henry VIII, not exactly known for his chill, fled cities in a panic whenever rumours of sweat appeared. His court would bolt to remote country houses, accompanied by terrified nobles and enough food to survive a siege. This became known as ‘sweat season’, which sounds like an Elizabethan gym membership, but was actually national dread in breeches.
Legacy: All Steam, No Substance
The sweating sickness has become one of history’s great medical mysteries. No pathogen. No cure. No comeback tour. We know less about it than we do about how Anne Boleyn managed to keep her French hood on during execution – and that’s saying something.
Yet for something so lethal, it’s almost comical in retrospect. It didn’t reshape the economy like the plague. It didn’t leave haunting nursery rhymes. It just terrified the Tudors, made everyone soggy, and vanished.
Personally, I think it was invented by monks who wanted an excuse to stop gardening.
So there you have it – the Sweating Sickness of 1485. The only disease in history that could take you from hale to hellish in half a day, and do it while turning your doublet into a wet flannel.
If it ever comes back, I shall be ready – with talcum powder, a fan, and a handwritten apology to Richard III.
Wording 
Anti-perspirants would have made a killing!
ba dum tish….