Reading medieval and early modern sources, one acquires the distinct impression that gossiping, bragging, and complaining about corporal punishment in childhood education was as much of a societal fixture as punishment itself. In the 12th century, Peter Abelard described how his relationship with Heloise blossomed after he maneuvered his way into serving as her private instructor:
When [her uncle] had thus given her into my charge, not alone to be taught but even to be disciplined, what had he done save to give free scope to my desires, and to offer me every opportunity, even if I had not sought it, to bend her to my will with threats and blows if I failed to do so with caresses? Under the pretext of study we spent our hours in the happiness of love, and learning held out to us the secret opportunities that our passion craved. Our speech was more of love than of the books which lay open before us; our kisses far outnumbered our reasoned words. Our hands sought less the book than each other's bosoms -- love drew our eyes together far more than the lesson drew them to the pages of our text. In order that there might be no suspicion, there were, indeed, sometimes blows, but love gave them, not anger; they were the marks, not of wrath, but of a tenderness surpassing the most fragrant balm in sweetness.
Never ever to be outdone (ever), Martin Luther reminisced in 1537 about the process of learning Latin:
Once I was beaten at school fifteen times before noon!
And of course no discussion of medieval schoolroom violence is complete without the rumor William of Malmesbury repeats about John "Not Duns" Scotus Eriugena: his unhappy students turned the tables and stabbed him to death. With their pens.
But does this carry over to royal children? In the 11th century, Queen (later Saint!) Margaret of Scotland took charge of her children's education, particularly in behavior and virtue:
She frequently called them to her, and carefully instructed them about Christ and the things of Christ as far as their age would permit. [...] Thanks to their mother’s religious care, her children surpassed in good behaviour many who were their elders.
And how did she accomplish this?
She charged the Governor who had care of the nursery … to whip them whenever they were naughty, as frolicksome childhood often will be.
Margaret's children, Turgot of Durham concludes, turned out absolutely wonderfully from this instruction. Of course, he was writing Margaret's vita specifically for her daughter Matilda, so one must be a tad cautious towards hyperbole. Nevertheless, that does reinforce the idea that royal discipline through beating was not only practiced but acceptable enough to be a practice of a saint in her own daughter's eyes.
Because of course, when a chronicler is...less of a fan...of his subject, corporal punishment can become a source of neurosis:
I have read that when [Æthelred the Unready] was ten years of age, hearing it noised abroad that his brother was killed, he so irritated his furious mother by his weeping, that not having a whip at hand, she beat the little innocent with some candles she had snatched up...On this account he dreaded candles during the rest of his life.
William of Malmesbury is again with the gossip here ("I have read"), and one presumes Queen Ælfthryth did not in fact nearly beat her son to death with candles. Nevertheless, there had to be a core plausibility of royal mother beating royal son in order for William to find the story worth relating with so mild a disclaimer.
The notion that medieval/16th century royal children were somehow exempt from learning via the standard method of correction for error in medieval schools and homes arises out of what John Guy has called the "romantic fiction" of a whipping boy. This in turn comes from misinterpreting two principles of medieval education for nobles and royals. The first was the practice, which was institutionalized in England by Edward II's day, of fostering and educating princes in a group of similarly-aged boys. The second was an understanding that observing the punishment of another served as reinforcement/correction for the watcher as well. But this was not some special privilege of a future king. Vicarious punishment of souls in purgatory and hell was a bog-standard element of later medieval church art, sermons, and popular drama--it's how medieval people understood punishment to work psychologically.
You may have read that Barnaby Fitzpatrick, which is a terrific name, was actually appointed whipping boy for Edward VI (Henry VIII's son) because he was too fragile or too royal to be beaten himself. It's absolutely true that Fitzpatrick was a companion--borderline best friend--to Edward, but he was standing in the way of nobody's whip. Richard Cox, Edward's tutor in English and grammar, recounted some princely misbehavior in 1544 of which he had particularly fond memories:
I took my morris pike and at will I went and gave him such a wound that he wist [knew] not what to do...Me thought it the luckiest day that ever I had in battle.
Cox went on to serve as almoner to Prince Edward, and then under King Edward, he held various high positions at Oxford and overseeing attempted Reforms with a Protestant sway. He sweated out Queen Mary's reign on the Continent, and took right back up as Bishop of Ely at Queen Elizabeth's personal decision. In other words, that battle he was so proud of--a royal whupping--proved no stumbling block in his career.
Further Reading: