Amy Licence en <![CDATA[Does it matter if Richard III’s DNA suggests infidelity in the royal family?]]> <div class="field field-name-field-subheadline field-type-text-long field-label-hidden view-mode-fulltext"><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even"> <p> New DNA research into Richard III’s remains has cast the legitimacy of the royal line into question, all the way down to the present queen.</p> </div></div></div><div class="field field-name-field-node-image field-type-image field-label-hidden view-mode-fulltext"><div class="field-items"><figure class="clearfix field-item even"><img typeof="foaf:Image" class="image-style-fullnode-image" src="" width="510" height="348" alt="The surviving images of Richard come from the Tudor period, and were used as propaganda. Photo: Getty" title="The surviving images of Richard come from the Tudor period, and were used as propaganda. Photo: Getty" /></figure></div></div><div class="field field-name-field-nodeimage-title field-type-text field-label-hidden view-mode-fulltext"><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even">The surviving images of Richard come from the Tudor period, and were used as propaganda. Photo: Getty</div></div></div><div class="field field-name-body field-type-text-with-summary field-label-hidden view-mode-fulltext"><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even" property="content:encoded"> <p> The Plantagenet dynasty was no stranger to scandal. However, dramatic <a href="">new discoveries made by scientists at the University of Leicester</a> now suggest that more than one skeleton has been lurking in the family closet. While it has been proven there is an “overwhelming” likelihood that the body in the Leicester city car park is indeed that of the controversial King Richard III, laying to rest many long-standing uncertainties, these latest findings have unleashed a whole new can of historical worms. With the last medieval King becoming the media’s blue-eyed-boy, quite literally as his DNA proves, it would appear that at least one member of his family was not the son of York he believed. Or Plantagenet, or Tudor, or Stuart. New allegations of infidelity cast the legitimacy of the royal line into question, all the way down to the present queen.</p> <p> Royal legitimacy scandals are nothing new. In the fifteenth century, Richard’s eldest brother, Edward IV, became the focus of unpleasant rumours that led to a dynastic crisis. Although his birth passed without comment, his enemies invented, or exploited, a story that he was the result of an affair his mother had with a French Archer by the name of Blaybourne. Despite having all the appearances of a political smear, timed to discredit the king at the moment of rebellion, the story has lingered. Even in the twentieth century, “proof” of the affair was being offered in a TV documentary fronted by Tony Robinson, based on the reputed separation of Edward’s parents nine months prior to his birth. Yet this evidence only accounted for his father’s movements, not those of his mother, and has been largely discredited.</p> <p> Then, in 1483, following Edward’s death, a new, more damaging, rumour emerged. Bishop Stillington claimed that Edward was a bigamist, having already been pre-contracted to another woman, Eleanor Butler, who had still been alive at the time of Edward’s union with Elizabeth Wydeville. The fact that Edward had married Elizabeth in secrecy and did not make the match public for several months played into Richard’s hands. On the Bishop’s statement, he was able to claim the throne instead of his nephew, Edward’s son. Yet it would appear, now, that the real cuckoos in the royal nest may have gone unnoticed. While Richard’s maternal DNA is intact, there is no match with the paternal line of his modern relatives.</p> <p> Richard had no descendants. His heir died in childhood and his two acknowledged illegitimate offspring, John and Katherine, appear to have left no issue of their own. In order to identify him, the scientists needed to trace his ancestry back to a male who shared his Y chromosome, and match it with his direct descendants in the twenty-first century. They found five men alive today who shared the line of Edward III’s son, John of Gaunt, Richard III’s great uncle. In theory, all these five should share the same Y chromosome as Richard, yet the tests revealed that none of them did. Dr Turi King, from Leicester University, who led the study, offers infidelity as the most likely explanation. According to her research, cases of “false paternity” account for between 1 and 2 per cent of births per generation. However, there is no way of knowing exactly where the event took place, or under what circumstances. It could have been anywhere between John of Gaunt and the modern descendants of the eighteenth century fifth Duke of Beaufort, who provided the DNA samples. That leaves a staggering six centuries of possibilities.</p> <p> But does it matter? It’s not really going to change anything and no one is going to suggest the deposition of the current queen as a result. On a historical level, though, the fascination lies in knowing which side of 1485 the illicit paternity took place. After the battle of Bosworth, where Richard was killed, Henry VII claimed the throne by right of conquest. This trumps any potential “flaws” in his bloodline. Henry’s royal descent came from Edward III through the Beaufort-Somerset line, which had been legitimised in retrospect but barred from claiming the throne. He was also dependent upon his mother for the claim but the act of seizing the crown at Bosworth rendered all this irrelevant. The current queen is Henry’s descendant through his eldest daughter, Margaret, and her great-grandson James I of Scotland. Her claim actually rests on the 1701 Act of Settlement so this latest scandal in her distant family tree will not be ruffling any feathers at Buckingham Palace.</p> <p> So where might the false paternity have occurred? The answer is that we simply don’t know, although there have been a few historic murmurings that have festered into theories over time, including the true identity of the father of John of Gaunt. Edward III’s absence during the time of his third son’s birth, coupled with his arrival on foreign soil, in the city of Ghent, cast suspicion on his conception. Yet it was hardly uncommon for a father to be absent, especially when the mother had already produced several surviving children. In addition, most of these rumours appear to date from the end of John’s life, once he had become unpopular. Casting aspersions on the legitimacy of an enemy was a common but powerful slur, which reputedly used to enrage Gaunt. It was a useful political tool used by enemies of both branches of the Plantagenet family, the Yorks and Lancasters. Another candidate might by Richard of Conisburgh, Richard III’s paternal grandfather. He received nothing from his father in terms of income or estates and was not mentioned in his will or those of his brothers, which has led historians to give credence to the rumours that his mother may have had an affair.</p> <p> Equally, the false paternity might have occurred on either branch of descent, from Edward III to Henry, or from Henry to the present day. Given the statistics, though, the greater likelihood is that the misdemeanour occurred in the line of the more modern Somerset family, which represents the largest percentage of births in the family tree. It may well not have taken place within a royal match; it may have happened more than once. Nor can we assume the circumstances of the encounter; it is just as credible that this occurrence was the product of rape, perhaps more so than a medieval queen committing adultery. In fact, it would be an incredible stroke of luck to identify a single unbroken line of paternal DNA running through six centuries of marriages. This exposes one crucial aspect of historical research and the differing experiences of men and women across time. Until recently, paternity could not be guaranteed. As Richard’s unbroken mitochondrial line highlights, though, the certainty of childbirth lay with the woman. If an illegitimate child was conceived, even within marriage, the mother could not avoid the consequences, while the father’s identity might forever be lost to history. Between the differing experiences of men and women, lies an area of rumour and suspicion to be exploited by their enemies.</p> <p> This new research has also raised an interesting point about Richard’s colouring. It has often been argued that Richard took more after his father, the short, dark-haired Richard of York, while his tall, handsome blonde brother Edward had the genes of Edward III. This has been used to further argue the case for the elder brother’s illegitimacy. Now though, the scientific evidence suggests a 77 per cent chance that Richard was blonde and it is 96 per cent likelihood that his eyes were blue. While the colour of his hair may well have darkened as he left childhood, another possibility arises. Royal portraiture was more symbolic rather than realistic: the surviving images of Richard, which come from the Tudor period, are well known for the narrowing of his eyes and lips and the raising of his shoulder, to paint him as the villain. With external defects considered to correlate with inner vices, Richard’s hair might have also been darkened from the 1520s onwards to depict what were perceived to be his “dark” deeds. When queens were portrayed as blonde and beautiful regardless of their actual looks, the opposite effect may have been employed as a metaphorical criticism of Henry VII’s adversary.</p> <p> If anything, these new findings affirm the humanity of the individuals included on the royal family tree. While the likelihood of infidelity somewhere down the line appears strong, conclusions cannot be drawn as the facts stand, and our modern theories comparing the marriages and affections of past royals rest all too often on anachronistic values. Love matches were not seen as being incompatible with a man pursuing physical affairs, nor was the double standard of gendered behaviour always strictly drawn. These results provide another opportunity to reflect on the inconclusive nature of the study of history, and as a caution in regards to drawing assumptions. Until further research uncovers further truths, it must remain another delicious mystery, nothing more. The Royal Household has declined to comment.</p> </div></div></div> Wed, 10 Dec 2014 12:14:08 +0000 Amy Licence 218321 at <![CDATA[Deadly rival or comic relief: the dilemmas of the spare heir]]> <div class="field field-name-field-subheadline field-type-text-long field-label-hidden view-mode-fulltext"><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even"> <p> Being a second-born royal can be a difficult path to walk – often, it seems to be the sibling’s job to make the mistakes the heir cannot risk.</p> </div></div></div><div class="field field-name-field-node-image field-type-image field-label-hidden view-mode-fulltext"><div class="field-items"><figure class="clearfix field-item even"><img typeof="foaf:Image" class="image-style-fullnode-image" src="" width="510" height="348" alt="Princes Harry and William on Christmas Day, 2013. Photo: Getty" title="Princes Harry and William on Christmas Day, 2013. Photo: Getty" /></figure></div></div><div class="field field-name-field-nodeimage-title field-type-text field-label-hidden view-mode-fulltext"><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even">Relations between historical royal brothers have not always been so harmonious as those between Princes Harry and William. Photo: Getty</div></div></div><div class="field field-name-body field-type-text-with-summary field-label-hidden view-mode-fulltext"><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even" property="content:encoded"> <p> Following months of media speculation, the confirmation that the Duchess of Cambridge is pregnant again, a week in advance of the celebrations for Prince Harry’s 30th birthday, puts the topic of royal siblings firmly back into the spotlight. With the Duchess again suffering from acute morning sickness, her condition necessitated an early announcement, before the traditional milestone of 12 weeks. This places her due date early in spring 2015, meaning that there will be less than two years between Prince George and his little brother or sister; the future king and the spare. The siblings are likely to be close, but their future paths will be very different. This will certainly shape the development of their characters and the decisions they are able to make.</p> <p> Today, the old adage of the “heir and spare” no longer carries such significance as when the threat to infant life of disease and mortality was severe, yet there is still considerable difference between the experiences of the firstborn royal child and its siblings. While Prince Harry is reported as “unable to conceal” his excitement about being an uncle for the second time, relations between historical royal brothers have not always been so harmonious. Some have actively schemed against their elder, coveting their throne and power, while others have adopted a position more in the background, combining royal duties with a colourful private life. If nothing else, the second-born royal child always manages to leave their mark. For many, the position has conferred a degree of freedom, a certain licence, which has allowed some to exploit their unique position of privilege and freedom.</p> <p> Being second-born can be a difficult path to walk. The role is less well defined and without the shadow of looming dynastic responsibility, the younger sibling still has a public profile to fulfil and the family image to uphold. Prince Harry’s notorious playfulness and status as a “party prince”, following from the comparative freedom of his uncle “Air Miles Andy”, highlights the different kind of life that the spare heir might pursue. Seriously, while we might cringe at some of Prince Harry’s youthful antics, particularly the notorious shots of him partying whilst dressed in Nazi uniform or playing naked strip billiards, a few generations earlier he might have been conspiring to overthrow his brother. This is the paradox of the spare heir: the comparative stasis of their position and their high public profile can lead them into dangerous territory. The sons of the first Plantagenet King, Henry II, jostled for the English throne in the twelfth century, causing an irrevocable family breach. His second surviving son, Richard I, inherited the title but he was really cut out to be a crusader, spending as little as six months of his ten year reign in England. He was followed by Henry’s youngest son, King John, who coveted the crown yet whose ineffectual rule resulted in the Magna Carta.</p> <p> A surfeit of sons also caused problems for the descendants of Edward III. He was succeeded by his grandson Richard II in 1377, but Edward’s next surviving heir, John of Gaunt, overthrew his nephew and placed his own son on the throne as Henry IV. This established the Lancastrian dynasty and laid the foundation for problems contributing to the Wars of the Roses. That conflict was characterised by the ambition of the York siblings, particularly by the political scheming of the king’s eldest brother George. This was a classic example of sibling rivalry that took on a deadly political dimension. When Edward IV claimed his usurped descent from Richard II and had himself crowned king, George was not content to sit back and reap the rewards of his new position. Seven years his brother’s junior, George defied him to marry the “kingmaker’s” daughter, escaping to Calais and inciting a rebellion that forced the king to flee the country. The brothers were reconciled, but in 1477, George was arrested after his behaviour became increasingly volatile and he questioned his brother’s legitimacy. For this, he was sentenced to death.</p> <p> Second sons who actually became kings were often markedly different from their elder brothers. The robust, athletic, golden-haired Henry VIII replaced his delicate, reserved brother Arthur as heir in 1502, while the much-admired Prince Henry Stuart’s claim went to his sickly younger brother Charles I, who spoke with a pronounced lisp and could barely walk unaided at the age of three. One of the most famous swaps of the last century saw the suave, urbane Edward VIII abdicate for love of his unpopular mistress, twice divorced Wallis Simpson, propelling his quiet, shy younger brother onto the throne as George VI. It would seem that the circumstances of their upbringing produced a spare whose character was almost the opposite of the heir. Or perhaps it was actually a deliberate, and sometimes gleeful, embracing of everything their older sibling cannot be. With Prince George destined to be head of the Commonwealth, Church of England and armed forces, what public role does this leave his future sibling?</p> <p> Traditionally, second sons have taken on the leadership of the army. While George III’s eldest son flouted him with a morganatic marriage to the alluring Catholic Maria Fitzherbert and threw himself into a life of excess, his brother Prince Frederick was sent to Hanover as a colonel from the tender age of 17. Their younger brother William became the final Hanoverian monarch, in spite of his reputation for being something of a buffoon. With no surviving legitimate heir, his former playboy lifestyle had left him with ten children by the actress Dorothy Jordan, he attempted to give away palaces and urged guests to his riotous dinner parties not to bother to wear clothes. Appointed to the position of Lord High Admiral, he was suddenly in line for the throne at the age of 60 and reformed his habits accordingly. It was too little, too late. The tales of his dissolute years could not be so easily shaken off.</p> <p> It is no different for girls. Even the reputations of Princesses Margaret and Anne have been shaped by controversy, with the Queen’s glamorous younger sister linked with a string of eligible men, while her daughter has a criminal record under the dangerous dogs act, as well as representing Great Britain in the contentious 2014 Winter Olympics in Russia. In the 21st century there is less pressure on the younger royal children when it comes to their choice of career or partner and their recovery from bad press and social scandal might be easier: no one wants the future monarch behaving badly but it matters less if it is at one remove. Perhaps it is even the siblings’ job to make the mistakes the heir cannot risk; perhaps their role might even be to demonstrate the human, fallible face of the royal family. Their love affairs and mischievousness might offer some crucial light-hearted relief for an otherwise formal and fairly anachronistic institution. Consciously or not, they are the foil, the fall guy, to our future monarchs.</p> <p> Prince George’s sibling, due in the spring of 2015, will be the fourth in line to the throne. No doubt, in the context of the close family unit and “hands-on” parenting of Kate and William, many of the extremes of royal rivalry will be avoided. There might be the inevitable squabbles over favourite toys on the nursery floor but their relationship is likely to be close, as that of Princes William and Harry has been, despite of the differences in their characters. With their paths firmly mapped out, as the future king and the essential spare, it remains to be seen exactly how this new royal dynamic will pan out.</p> </div></div></div> Tue, 09 Sep 2014 11:05:48 +0000 Amy Licence 210271 at <![CDATA[Robin Hood: Henry VIII’s hero in green tights]]> <div class="field field-name-field-subheadline field-type-text-long field-label-hidden view-mode-fulltext"><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even"> <p> Dressing up as the medieval social justice warrior was among the young king’s favourite pastimes, and gave him a taste for a kind of role-reversal that was mirrored in his own court.</p> </div></div></div><div class="field field-name-field-node-image field-type-image field-label-hidden view-mode-fulltext"><div class="field-items"><figure class="clearfix field-item even"><img typeof="foaf:Image" class="image-style-fullnode-image" src="" width="510" height="348" alt="Robin Hood and his outlaw band in an 18th-century engraving. Image: Hulton Archive/Getty Images" title="Robin Hood and his outlaw band in an 18th-century engraving. Image: Hulton Archive/Getty Images" /></figure></div></div><div class="field field-name-field-nodeimage-title field-type-text field-label-hidden view-mode-fulltext"><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even">Robin Hood and his outlaw band in an 18th-century engraving. Image: Hulton Archive/Getty Images</div></div></div><div class="field field-name-body field-type-text-with-summary field-label-hidden view-mode-fulltext"><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even" property="content:encoded"> <p> We all have our heroes. When he wasn’t busy wooing another wife or closing down monasteries, one of Henry VIII’s favourite pastimes was to dress up as Robin Hood. In fact, early in his reign, the roguish outlaw, famous for his proto-Marxist ideology of taking from the rich in order to feed the poor, was at the centre of a popular national cult. The young Henry, standing over six foot tall, auburn haired and dazzlingly handsome, liked little more on a May morning than to don his hose of Lincoln green and gallivant about the countryside. What the legend represented, though, and its timing, sheds light on Henry’s choice of favourites, as he frequently departed from tradition to promote his intimate servants according to merit rather than birth. Wolsey, Cromwell and even Anne Boleyn, might owe their advancement to the dashing outlaw.</p> <p> Traditionally set late in the twelfth century during the reign of Richard the Lionheart, stories of Robin Hood’s exploits had survived over three hundred years in ballads and songs. He was a stock figure of medieval literature, appearing in “Robin Hood and the Monk” in 1450, “Robin Hood and the Sheriff of Nottingham” in 1472 and “A Gest of Robin Hood” in 1475. A multitude of records and manuscripts attest to his popularity during the end of the fifteenth century. By the time of Henry VIII’s birth, in 1491, Hood was established as part of the May Day festivities, represented as the May King in pageants to celebrate the arrival of the silly season.</p> <p> 1 May was traditionally a day when the social order was turned on its head. Gender roles and the social structure were reversed in a glorious Bakhtinian carnival, celebrating the formal start of summer. In common with Twelfth Night and our modern April Fool’s Day, it was an opportunity to let off steam at the parish May Ales, by dancing round the maypole and gathering in greenery to make garlands: servants became masters, men dressed up as women and girls were crowned queen. The day also had erotic associations, with one later Puritan writing that three out of four maids returned from the celebrations deflowered. So far so bucolic for merry England.</p> <p> The young Henry adored dressing up. With his father’s carefully gathered money burning a hole in the new royal coffers, he planned elaborate disguises, with himself and a select band of courtiers appearing in costume, their identities interchangeable and concealed. Even though the figure of the King was unmistakeable, Henry loved the notion that his true self might be temporarily concealed and through a mask or visor, he might flirt with anonymity and be admired for his personal merits rather than his birth. In 1510, he burst into his wife’s chambers dressed, like his men, as huntsmen in green, insisting that they all dance. The most famous of all though, came on May Day 1515, when Henry and Catherine of Aragon rode to Shooter’s Hill with a guard of 200, all equipped in Lincoln green, to shoot arrows and dine on venison in a flowery arbour. Among the cast were Lady May, Maid Marian, Friar Tuck and Little John. It was paradoxically a noble court comprised of figures outside the very laws Henry had sworn to uphold. This romantic nostalgia did not prevent his minions from continuing to dispense savage justice to the convicted thieves and rebels of the sixteenth century.</p> <p> Yet Henry’s fanciful affection for the noble figure outside the law influenced him beyond his leisure hours and defined his servants’ careers. This belief in the merits of lowly-born men encouraged him to promote certain able courtiers whose origins may previously excluded them from getting close to the King. He had no reservations in giving the top jobs to the son of a butcher and the son of a blacksmith, who had been a self-confessed “ruffian in his youth.” Through the advancement of Thomas Wolsey and Thomas Cromwell, Henry was moving away from the traditional gene pool by which Kings selected their intimates and proving that he could see the merit of hard-working talented individuals regardless of their parentage. These dramatic rises to power, after which Wolsey’s wealth ended up rivalling the King’s own, were underpinned by Henry’s love of disguise, where any man could play the role his mask assigned him, so long as he had the ability.</p> <p> Wolsey’s father is traditionally identified as a butcher, a cattle-dealer and possibly a casualty at the Battle of Bosworth. From Ipswich School, the boy won a place at Magdalene College, Oxford, and entered the church, before coming to the King’s attention in his thirties. With policies directly opposing the conservatism of the old counsellors Henry had inherited from his father, Wolsey adapted to meet the desires of the war-hungry young man, quickly advancing to Lord Chancellor. His magnificent creation of Hampton Court, more impressive than many royal Palaces, gave rise to John Skelton’s lyric “Why come ye not to court, to the King’s court, or Hampton Court?”</p> <p> The father of Thomas Cromwell was at different times, a blacksmith, merchant and inn-keeper. During the nineteenth century, his birth place on Putney Hill was still standing, described as an “ancient cottage called the smith’s shop”. Leaving home for Europe, Thomas fought as a mercenary before returning to London, becoming a merchant, entering Parliament and rising to the positions of Principal Secretary and Lord Privy Seal. Both men were part of Henry’s personal policy to promote those of ability regardless of their rank; just as with the Robin Hood pageants, his servants were given an illusion of equality with high-ranking peers. All could enter the stage and play their assigned parts, so long as they continued to please. Once they failed to dance to the King’s tune though, the masks came off. The whole process, in fact, the court itself, was an elaborate extension of the deceptive equality Henry presented by dressing himself up in Lincoln green.</p> <p> Both Wolsey and Cromwell fell as a result of Henry’s love life. Wolsey was unable to procure the divorce the King required from Catherine of Aragon in order to marry Anne Boleyn; Cromwell’s disgrace came as he attempted to extricate the King from the disastrous match with Anne of Cleves. Ultimately though, their careers were a form of play, an extension of the carnival customs of Merry England, Boy Bishops, May Kings and Queens, who reigned for a day over their own courts, dispensing justice and presiding over entertainments. When they had served their purpose, Henry’s mask came off and the game was over. Wolsey forefeited Hampton Court but the gift was not enough; he was charged with praemunire, serving the Pope over his King, and died on the way to face charges of treason in 1530. Cromwell was executed without trial in July 1540.</p> <p> Perhaps the most significant example of Henry’s policy was his advancement of Anne Boleyn. At the heart of the May Day ceremonies, a virginal girl was chosen for her purity and beauty, and crowned for a brief period of rule that saw her wishes obeyed. Little more than a figurehead, she was central to this bucolic play, in which lay the fairy-tale transformation of her status. In the Robin Hood legend, the motif of social mobility allows for King Richard I to visit the outlaws and the ideals of loyalty and natural nobility found in the outlaws to be foregrounded against the birth of figures like King John and Guy of Gisbourne. In the 1520s, Henry decided to raise Anne above the position of mistress and make her his wife. Yet he already had one.</p> <p> Catherine of Aragon, Henry’s partner in the Robin Hood pageants of his youth, had to go. To depose an anointed Queen in the 1530s was a radical move, regardless of the legality of her marriage. Henry’s grandfather had caused a stir by marrying the daughter of a Knight, so when Henry decided to make Anne Boleyn his queen, he was aware that it would not prove a popular choice. The carnival tradition of role reversal was enacted in Henry’s courtly devotion to his mistress and the coronation of a woman whose great-grandfather had been a merchant. Just like Wolsey and Cromwell though, the game only lasted so long as it suited the key player. Anne lost her head three years later.</p> <p> As with many occasions of social role reversal, the figure of Robin Hood was sometimes co-opted by those wishing to cause trouble. Disguise could be liberating, and this figure of national folklore could represent a darker impulse to the summer celebrations. In 1492, the Star Chamber heard of men acting riotously while dressed as the outlaw and his band, and in 1509, the city of Exeter banned the performance of Robin Hood plays because they led to bad behaviour, as did the Lord Warden of the Cinque ports in 1528. The carnival elements of the legend may have appealed to Henry, but his game was also a dangerous one for those who sought to benefit from its fragile role-reversal.</p> <p> The cult was less popular after the Reformation, although the story of Robin’s exploits never lost their appeal. As Henry VIII aged, the Lincoln green hero of his youth seemed less relevant. The King lost interest in disguising his identity and enacting stories of chivalry and romance. With the real-life stories of his social climbing favourites ending in tragedy, such legends may have left a bitter taste. With his waistline expanding and his ulcerous leg needing constant treatment, there would be no more riding into the glen for this gargantuan greensleeves.</p> </div></div></div> Thu, 05 Jun 2014 15:44:01 +0000 Amy Licence 202283 at <![CDATA[Why did Anne Boleyn have to die?]]> <div class="field field-name-field-subheadline field-type-text-long field-label-hidden view-mode-fulltext"><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even"> <p> Henry VIII didn’t have to execute his second wife to be rid of her – retirement abroad or into a convent was customary for rejected queens. So why did he choose to send for the swordsman?</p> </div></div></div><div class="field field-name-body field-type-text-with-summary field-label-hidden view-mode-fulltext"><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even" property="content:encoded"> <p> <img alt="A 16th century portrait of Anne Boleyn by an unknown artist, now in the National Portrait Gallery. Image: Wikimedia Commons" src="/sites/default/files/images/Anne_boleyn.jpg" style="width: 510px; height: 669px;" /></p> <p class="rteright"> <em>A 16th century portrait of Anne Boleyn by an unknown artist, now in<br /> the National Portrait Gallery. Image: Wikimedia Commons</em></p> <p> Anne Boleyn fans get twitchy every May. From the start of the month, the countdown begins, tracing her unexpected arrest, the gathering of witness statements, the trials with their foregone conclusions, to her dramatic execution by French swordsman on May 19. Every year, roses are still lain on her memorial slab in the Chapel of St Peter ad Vincula in the Tower of London. Emotions run high.</p> <p> Anne’s death was, and still is, shocking. The first English queen to be executed, she set a precedent which Henry followed six years later by sending her young cousin Catherine, his fifth wife, to her death on the block. There is a touching story of the teenager requesting the block be sent to her in prison the night before, so she could practise lying her head on it. Yet Catherine, for all her youth and inexperience, still garners less sympathy than Anne, whose sudden fall from grace is seemingly inexplicable, considering the lengths Henry went to in order to make her his wife. Described by some as a murderer, a serial killer and a psychopath, Henry had ensured his marriage to Anne was declared invalid five days before her death, yet the French swordsman was already on the way from Calais. So why did Anne have to die?</p> <p> Anne caught Henry’s eye some time in late 1525 or early 1526. By this time, the king had been married to the Spanish Catherine of Aragon for over fifteen years and, after six pregnancies, only a single child had survived, and that was a daughter: Mary. Henry had fathered one illegitimate son and bedded Anne’s married sister before the sophisticated beauty arrived at the English court. Educated in the Netherlands and France, the dark-eyed Anne was intelligent and stylish, in contrast to the much older Catherine, then past her fortieth birthday. In anticipation of more children, Henry instigated the divorce proceedings that would result in his breach with the Roman Catholic church, the displacement of an anointed Queen and his own excommunication.</p> <p> All this for Anne. As if to make his point, Henry probably married her twice, first at the end of 1532, and again the following January. She quickly fell pregnant but the child she bore in September 1533 was not the longed-for son, but a daughter, Elizabeth. She had at least one other miscarriage in the following years, before falling pregnant again in the autumn of 1535. In spite of the efforts of various historians to claim they were virtually doomed from the start, Henry and Anne’s marriage still seemed strong as they celebrated the arrival of 1536. Then, in January, Henry suffered a fall while riding and, shortly after, Anne miscarried a male child. The King was diverted by Jane Seymour, but none of this guaranteed Anne’s fall and as late as April, the royal pair were planning a joint trip to Calais. They appeared to quarrel at the end of the month, with one observer noting the Queen holding her daughter, apparently begging with Henry through an open window. Then, on 2 May, Anne was arrested and taken to the Tower. The swordsman may have been summoned as early as a week later, given that he had to cross the Channel, making it clear that her death was planned. On May 14, the marriage was declared null and void, but the following day, Anne was charged with treason, adultery and incest. It was a foregone conclusion. She met her death within four days.</p> <p> So why did Anne have to die? No other English Queen had been treated in this way. When Catherine had stubbornly opposed divorce, she was sent away from court and Henry went ahead and remarried anyway. Even anointed Queens could be accommodated, no matter how bitterly they complained. Other options were available, such as retirement into a monastery, or Anne could have lived out the rest of her natural life in the courts of Europe. Adultery and incest were not verdicts that carried the death sentence. In any case, the charge of “incontinent living” has been disproved by the research of Alison Weir as, on the majority of dates, Anne or her supposed lovers, were elsewhere. If Henry believed Anne guilty, this gave him the perfect excuse to dismiss her and few would have blamed him. If she was at the heart of a political coup, masterminded by Thomas Cromwell, or the Seymours, or too vocal an advocate of religious reform, the execution was still an unprecedented step. Someone wanted her out of the way, but not just out of sight. There had to be no comeback. It seems that there was one main reason that Anne had to die and that was that Henry himself wanted her to.</p> <p> Servants to the crown came and went. Even exceptionally able men like Wolsey, More and Cromwell owed their survival to the favour of the King. Once that had been withdrawn, their lives were forfeit and the same was true of Anne. Henry had raised her to her position, as the apocryphal story goes, and he could cast her down again. She had transgressed boundaries of class, birth, culture and gender, making a heady and dangerous rise in which she was secure so long as she had the king at her side. The change came quickly. At some point in early May 1536, Henry made the decision to abandon her and the promoted mistress became a social upstart, a whore and witch, an incestuous adulteress and a traitor. She had to be defined as the inverse of what he had made her. Henry had placed her on a precipice and then stood back. This was personal.</p> <p> Despite the best efforts of <a href="">G W Bernard</a> to suggest Anne probably committed adultery, most modern historians are of the belief that she was guilty of little more than indiscretion. She exploited the flirtatious traditions of courtly love to make suggestive remarks to at least one male companion, Sir Henry Norris, insinuating that he was in love with her and hoped to marry her if she was widowed. Imagining, or “encompassing” the king’s death was, in fact, treasonous at the time. It was poorly judged but, if Anne had retained Henry’s support, it would probably never have come to light, or she could have explained it away as a misguided convention. Most damning in terms of the adultery charge were the comments made by her lady-in-waiting, Lady Worcester, who cast aspersions on the queen when her own immorality was exposed. Technically, a queen’s adultery was also considered treason, as it threatened the line of succession. However, various slanders had been levelled against Anne before but with Henry’s support she could ride them out. A decisive tipping point had been reached that May. Either Henry chose to believe the new rumours or he used them for his own purposes: either way, he wanted her dead.</p> <p> Various explanations have been put forward for Henry’s brutality. It has been suggested that he was despotic from the start, and this exaggerated with age, or that he suffered from the genetic disorder McLeod’s disease, which can trigger irrational behaviour. Equally, his fall from his horse that January might have taken his character in a new, darker direction. He was an absolute monarch, in the mould of his forebears and his disapproval was death, literally, for Anne. There is no doubt that Henry wanted her dead. Otherwise she wouldn’t have died. But what lay at the heart of this was his sense of autocracy. Anne Boleyn had been his project, from the moment he had spotted her at court and desired her, to the titles and gifts he had heaped upon her, the rules and hearts he had broken, to her magnificent coronation. She may have exploited his desire for her but ultimately, any power she held over him had been by his permission. It had been an elaborate game of love, according to courtly conventions and Henry had tired of it. The notion that Anne wielded any sort of real control in the relationship was an illusion that he had granted her out of genuine affection. At court, he had been her defender, her loyal knight and protector. His repudiation of her in 1536 was based in his belief of her ingratitude and a personal desire for revenge.</p> <p> Henry was ruthless in his personal relationships. His treatment of Catherine of Aragon and Catherine Howard, just as with Wolsey, More and Cromwell, shows a similar behavioural pattern. Once-beloved favourites were rejected suddenly, almost overnight, being sent away from court with little warning, never to be seen again. Once he had made up his mind, he never went back. He could no longer tolerate their existence and had a need to close the door upon them. As a king, he could close the ultimate door, without any judicial reprisals. The greater the love he had felt for them, the greater the suffering he needed to inflict upon them. Without resorting to modern psychology to diagnose a sixteenth-century king, it appears that Henry had a need to punish Anne, to exact a complete revenge on her that owed less to her reputed crimes than to his own monocracy. Thus, as he had dictated the path of her rise, he had to end it decisively. He had controlled and shaped her as a mistress and queen; she was his subject, his plaything, and he could not resist imposing the ultimate authority.</p> <p> Cromwell prepared the case against the Queen but the questions of treason, politics and religion held little sway against the personal. Henry may have genuinely loved Anne but in May 1536, he had tired of the game and withdrew the illusion of power he had permitted her. If she had not already realised how just how far he had been in control the whole time, she was left in little doubt as she knelt on the block that May morning.</p> </div></div></div> Tue, 27 May 2014 13:01:00 +0000 Amy Licence 202081 at <![CDATA[Juggling babies and books: how to be a mother and a writer]]> <div class="field field-name-field-subheadline field-type-text-long field-label-hidden view-mode-fulltext"><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even"><p>The problem of the pram in the hall.</p> </div></div></div><div class="field field-name-field-node-image field-type-image field-label-hidden view-mode-fulltext"><div class="field-items"><figure class="clearfix field-item even"><img typeof="foaf:Image" class="image-style-fullnode-image" src="" width="510" height="348" alt="New Statesman" title="New Statesman" /></figure></div></div><div class="field field-name-field-nodeimage-title field-type-text field-label-hidden view-mode-fulltext"><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even">Photograph: Getty Images</div></div></div><div class="field field-name-body field-type-text-with-summary field-label-hidden view-mode-fulltext"><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even" property="content:encoded"> <p>Eighty-five years have passed since Virginia Woolf delivered a series of lectures to young women students at Cambridge, which formed the basis of her famous feminist essay “A Room of One’s Own.” To aid her argument that women required a distinct physical space in order to write fiction, to attain distance from the demands of the patriarchal family unit, she created the character of Judith Shakespeare. The bard’s fictional sister was just as innately talented as the famous playwright but restricted by a lack of education and the social expectations of her day. Even though it is still not a level playing field, the twenty-first century has witnessed the proliferation of many talented Judiths in all fields of the arts. Examination statistics indicate that young women today are consistently outperforming their male peers at school, in a reversal of the conditions that saw Woolf herself denied a formal education. However, what if Woolf had chosen not to focus upon Shakespeare’s sister, but looked instead at his mother? What if Mary Arden had been an unfulfilled creative genius, her mind brimming with characters and storylines as she went about the business of raising her family?</p> <p>It may seem anachronistic today to resurrect the old debate about female creativity and motherhood. No one now doubts the abilities of women to achieve the highest accolades in literary and artistic fields. Since Woolf illustrated the extremes of the debate in her 1927 novel To The Lighthouse, women know they don’t have to belong to one camp or the other. They do not need to choose between being the “artist” (Lily Briscoe) or the “mother” (Mrs Ramsay.) In fact, many push themselves to do both simultaneously, succumbing to expectations that women will achieve at every level in their professional and private lives. Luckily though, the pressure to accomplish this effortlessly, without complaint or hiccup or smudged mascara, is being challenged. Feminist writer Debora Spar’s new book attacks the myth of the Wonder Woman, saying that women can’t have it all and shouldn’t expect to. Of course this is something of a first world problem. I’m not trying to claim writing mothers as a persecuted minority, or overlook the fathers that write and raise healthy, happy children on their own. Likewise, I’m aware that there are many more significant discussions to be had regarding literacy, class, ethnicity and expectations. I’m simply interested in returning to the scenario presented by Woolf in the 1920s and widening it a little to examine whether this debate is ever really redundant.</p> <p>Woolf attempts a compromise by suggesting her heroine, Mrs Ramsay, is an artist by dint of her creative nature. As a mother, nurse, wife and hostess, she constantly brings people together and forms the glue of family life. She personifies the Angel in the House as Woolf’s own mother did, before her premature death at forty-nine, worn out by caring for others. Post-Impressionist Mark Gertler said a similar thing about his own mother, Golda, a warm East End Jewess whom he described as the only “modern artist.” Yet while there is an art to living, a real value in creating a warm, nurturing home, it isn’t really a substitute for producing the discernible “works” that the literary or artistic mind craves. Thus, it is incumbent for writing mothers today to find their own personal balance, through the careful allocation of resources and the support of partners, family and friends. Woolf didn’t have children and her arguments didn’t include the dilemma of the creative mother with several young ones to care for. The descendants of her Cambridge audience may have absorbed her message but they are still treading a fine line between meeting the needs of their families and seeking artistic fulfilment. Back in 1898, the promising young artist Edna Clarke Hall, commented on her struggle to carry on painting after her marriage, that “a women’s responsibilities lie equally with their children and in the development of the powers in herself which are her true expression.” This is just as true, in 2013, as it was then.</p> <p>So how do women do it? Having written and published four books, plus a number of articles, reviews and running a blog since the birth of my first son in 2010, this is a question I am often asked. My answer is that I have become a very focused, opportunistic writer; I compose on the kitchen table whilst my toddlers rampage about me, writing a paragraph here and there before I head off to change a nappy or play a game of Thomas the Tank Engine. (Ironically, I always have to be Emily, never Thomas.) I don’t have the luxury a room of my own but somehow I have managed to find a writing “compartment” inside my head. Things get stored in there and ripen, until the time that I can dash to the keyboard and bang out a few hundred words. It isn’t easy and it wouldn’t be possible without the support of my husband, who will take the boys out for a few hours on the weekend or over to the park when he gets back from work. I think I’m very lucky in this respect and it made me wonder about the decisions other writing mothers make; the sacrifices, allocating and balancing time, the ambition and possibly, the guilt. Managing the transition from Judith Shakespeare to Mary Arden is not easy. The lives of Woolf and her sister, the post-modern artist Vanessa Bell, provide an answer to the comment “women can’t write, women can’t paint,” voiced in To The Lighthouse. Still rightly revered as a giant of modernism, Woolf’s reputation is wider spread than Bell’s, whose life encompassed motherhood as well as art. Even though Vanessa’s life was made easier by the presence of nannies, she was a devoted parent and this necessitated some juggling when her three children were small. A century ago, childcare was shared between the mother and hired help, in varying proportions from the middle classes upwards. Today, child minders and nurseries play invaluable roles in the lives of working mothers, particularly for those who are single. Also, the nature of writing, the flexible, freelance aspect to it, means that it is often relegated to the status of a hobby that pays well and squeezed in around the shared workload of partners or needs of others. Sometimes it feels like a luxury, a guilty pleasure to write, although the anticipation of remuneration helps.v Woolf’s writing evokes the image of her and her sister as young women, dressed in their late Victorian gowns, standing at an easel or desk in their converted Bloomsbury nursery. Woolf, a major figure of literary modernism, was first published by her brother-in-law’s firm, Duckworth and company, before beginning the Hogarth Press with her husband Leonard. The changing nature of self-publishing and cheap, widespread access to the internet has facilitated women’s writing in a way that was unthinkable to Woolf’s contemporaries. Writers now can access an unprecedented level of electronic texts, records and resources and for researchers like myself, social networking sites provide an interface without which our work would be lonely and not half as rich. Woolf’s room of one’s own is now unquestionably a virtual one.</p> <p>Undoubtedly the greater control women have over their sexuality and reproduction today has facilitated many careers. I have always felt deeply saddened by the lives of women such as Ida Nettleship, first wife of Augustus John, whose Edwardian education at the Slade School of Art nurtured a promising talent. After marrying in 1900, she bore five sons before dying in childbed within seven years, exhausted, despondent and disconnected from her artistic youth. Ida’s abilities as an artist, like those of her friend Edna, were simply not valued in comparison with her sexual and maternal potential.</p> <p>Women’s determination to carve out spaces to write also springs from an increasing conviction that female fulfilment is important, and significantly different from work for work’s sake. Also there is the grudging recognition that women might have something to say, although novels by women, particularly those with female protagonists, are rarely selected by male readers. I know exactly what one writer means when she describes writing as her “medicine,” and speaks of the need to do “what burns within” and give expression to “an essential part of who I am.” This isn’t to be confused with selfishness. Writing has a place in women’s lives which is advantageous for their children, who witness maternal fulfilment as well as setting the examples of dedication and hard work. In the words of one novelist: “writing has given me the freedom to be the mother I wanted to be.” Woolf’s debate of 1928 focused on the Judith Shakespeares of her world; the women like her who strove to write and paint in the face of opposition from those wishing them to fill more conventional roles. Factor children into this equation and it remains relevant even when we may think this battle should already have been won.</p> </div></div></div> Sat, 05 Oct 2013 22:46:35 +0000 Amy Licence 198381 at <![CDATA[In the Night Garden is secretly teaching our toddlers Chaucer]]> <div class="field field-name-field-subheadline field-type-text-long field-label-hidden view-mode-fulltext"><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even"><p>And they love it.</p> </div></div></div><div class="field field-name-field-node-image field-type-image field-label-hidden view-mode-fulltext"><div class="field-items"><figure class="clearfix field-item even"><img typeof="foaf:Image" class="image-style-fullnode-image" src="" width="510" height="348" alt="" /></figure></div></div><div class="field field-name-field-nodeimage-title field-type-text field-label-hidden view-mode-fulltext"><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even">Iggle Piggle, Makka Pakka with his Og-pog, The Tombliboos and Upsy Daisy. Photo: BBC/Ragdoll</div></div></div><div class="field field-name-body field-type-text-with-summary field-label-hidden view-mode-fulltext"><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even" property="content:encoded"> <p>On weekdays at 6.20pm, CBeebies, the BBC’s channel for the under-4s, screens the popular show <em>In the Night Garden</em>. Toddlers across the UK watch Iggle Piggle, Upsy Daisy and their friends having adventures in fairy-tale woodlands filled with sunshine and flowers. Described by the BBC as representing a “magical place that exists between waking and sleeping in a child’s imagination,” the programme is both enjoyable and educational. The explanatory webpage emphasises its playfulness and confidence-building repetition, plus its use of words, rhyme and music, which create a “happy world” of “loveable characters” and “nursery rhyme nonsense.” Pre-schoolers love to sing along with the characters and add to their collection of the show’s merchandise, from talking toys to clothing, play-doh sets and lunch boxes. Parents can be reassured by the BBC’s admission that the “tone of the programme is deliberately literary” although it is perhaps more literary than they realise. What these tots are actually getting is a dose of the conventions of medieval poetry. Specifically, Chaucer’s dream visions.</p> <p>Chaucer is best remembered today for his unfinished collection of stories <em>The Canterbury Tales</em>, written at the end of the fifteenth century. It is vibrant with humour, irony and brilliant characters. But this is only a portion of his work. He also made a translation of the French dream vision <em>The Romance of the Rose</em> and wrote several of his own versions of the genre. In these, characterisation takes a back seat in favour of more early forms of allegory, where figures were less individuals, than representations of abstract virtues and vices. Chaucer’s poems, <em>The Parliament of Fowls, The Legend of Good Women, The Book of the Duchess </em>and<em> The House of Fame</em>, follow strict conventions, like a tick-list, of details relating to structure, setting and characters. And, funnily enough, CBeebies’ <em>In the Night Garden </em>contains many of them too.</p> <p>The programme begins with a sleepy-eyed toddler, lying in bed, having the palm of their hand stroked soothingly. “The night is black and the stars are bright and the sea is dark and deep” begins the song, almost hypnotically. Just as the toddler drifts off, so dream poetry often begin with the narrator lying down restlessly and hoping for the onset of sleep. As “the day began to fail and the dark night” arrives, as in <em>The Parliament of Fowls, </em>the boundaries blur between the conscious and waking worlds. Here, Chaucer’s narrator often meets a guide, who helps him navigate through this dream world. For CBeebies’ sleepy toddlers, there is the blue, fluffy figure of Iggle Piggle, perhaps child-speak for “Little Pickle.” Presented like a toddler’s drawing of a man, with his little shock of red hair and matching blanket, he is the “everyman” bridge between the worlds.</p> <p>Iggle Piggle journeys to the realm of dreams in a boat. He drifts away on the dark waves, with a little light at the top of his mast showing the way through the gloom. This is timeless literary convention, a common metaphor for the process of sleep, and puts distance between the real world and the imagined. We recognise it as a journey, a temporary measure before we enter the dream proper. Iggle Piggle’s boat never lands. We don’t see him beach it on a distant shore and climb out. This is where the magic begins. Chaucer might supply us with a sudden capsize: “the steering oar did suddenly drag him overboard in his sleep” but the BBC’s explanation is far more toddler-friendly. As we watch, the stars turn into white flowers, which bud and open, like unfolding dreams. A symbolic barrier has been crossed, like falling asleep or dying, passing mysteriously into another realm. This is the world of the Night Garden.</p> <p>Iggle Piggle finds himself in a landscape of bright colours. Friends await him in an idealised garden where the sun always shines, large stylised flowers bloom and others cluster in bright balls, like gems. It is an eternal, temperate summer, as the dream convention demands; the sun is “clad all new again,” almost in an inversion of the winter of Narnia. Chaucer’s gardens have “no awkwardness of hot or cold” in their “summer sunlight” and “blue, bright, clear” air. His woodland is lush and green, with trees “fresh and green as emerald” and sweet grass “embroidered” with flowers. The BBC’s landscape is reminiscent of this, with “blossoming boughs beside a river” and “ flowers white, blue, yellow and red,” peopled by a cast of unusual imaginary figures. Yet it is Upsy Daisy whom Iggle Piggle most wants to see: “of all the flowers in the mead, love I the white and red I see, such as men call daisies.”  There is no doubt in the children’s minds that she is his BFF, his best friend forever.</p> <p>Iggle Piggle and Upsy Daisy’s love affair is a chaste one. They hold hands and even sometimes give each other cloth-mouthed kisses but theirs is a courtly love in the best of medieval traditions. In appearance Upsy Daisy is very feminine, the opposite to Iggle Piggle, with her pink and orange hair and clothes contrasting with his blueness, the epitomic symbols of masculinity and femininity. She is aptly named. Chaucer reverences the humble flower as “the eye of day, the empress and flower of flowers all,” “a daisy is crowned with white petals light,” suggestive of the character’s sticking up coronet of hair. Chaucer’s idealised women, often the Goddess Flora, are the “flower of flowers,” colourful, bright and full of life. Upsy Daisy is also accomplished and affectionate; she sings, dances and kisses flowers, causing them to grow, as Chaucer’s Flora does. The narrator of <em>The Book of the Duchess</em> watches “her dance so gracefully, carol and sing so sweetly.”</p> <p>Upsy Daisy looks like, and is, a child’s doll. The heroines of Chaucer’s dreams are also similarly mannequinesque, with “golden hair and wide bright eyes.” One is even strangely boneless and unreal; her neck is “smooth and flat without hollow or collarbone” and “every limb rounded, fleshy and not over-thin,” while another is “a feminine creature, that never formed by nature, was such another seen.” They are as animate as the toys that people the Night Garden. Iggle Piggle’s little fabric heart, however, has been won. Quick to swoon in situations of intense emotion, such as a sneeze, he recalls the guide of <em>The Book of the Duchess, </em>eager “to worship her and serve as best I then could,” who declares his love but “she never gave a straw for all my tale.” The toys play with the ball, symbolic of the to and fro of romance. They are the lovers of medieval legend, forever enclosed within their perfect garden but childlike, safe and innocent. And, just as in <em>The Parliament of Fowls,</em> they have their own Cupid, the dumpy brown Makka Pakka, reminiscent of a little Renaissance putto.</p> <p>Upsy Daisy’s bed is a potent symbol. Seemingly with a life of its own, it is always rushing through the landscape to music, coming to rest among the daisies. A bright yellow, it recalls Venus’s “bed of gold” as described by Chaucer. Unsurprisingly, it is an entirely chaste bed, given over to sleep alone, although its playful trickery reminds us of the illusion and deception of dreams. Only Upsy Daisy is allowed to occupy this bed, as her sleeping and waking, in fact her existence as a dream-woman, are functions of Iggle Piggle’s subconscious.</p> <p>Just like the dream visions, <em>In the Night Garden </em>never deviates from its structure. The beginning of the end is signalled by the BBC’s own parliament of fowls, a multi-coloured collection of birds signing in harmony. These are a common symbol for Chaucer, ranging from a “sweet” or “angelic” chorus in most poems, to gathering on St Valentine’s day in order to select a mate. The “lays of love” they sing in <em>The Legend of Good Women </em>“upon the branches full of blossom soft” could describe their serenading of the toys in the sunshine as well as signalling the approach of bedtime to their young audience. After this, all the characters come together to sing. As in Chaucer’s poems, the landscape is peopled with other gods and goddesses, mysterious and allegorical figures. From the giant Haahoos to the tiny Pontipines, to the train-like Ninky Nonk and flying Pinky Ponk, we are reminded of dream-like discrepancies in perspective and alternative, child-like ways of viewing the world.</p> <p>Together, the toys sing and dance under a gazebo, decorated with their images and flashing with coloured lights. It’s a bit of a love-in. As the BBC’s website declares, all characters “interact and love each other… unconditionally.” Chaucer’s poems contain descriptions of various temples to Venus, made of glass, with long pillars and ornamented with images. Women, in <em>The Parliament of Fowls</em> “danced they there, that was their duty, year on year.” It is a happy, utopian vision, attractive and inclusive to children, who sing or sway along with the familiar moves.</p> <p>After the song, the vision is ended by sleep. The characters stop playing, say good night and close their eyes. Only Iggle Piggle is left awake, although ironically, as the narrator, he is actually asleep in the external “reality” of the structure. He still clutches his red blanket, a constant reminder throughout of his dormant state and imminent return home. The cessation of the dream world signals to the audience that he is about to awake and that the program will end. The credits roll over the image of him in the boat again and the watching toddlers, symbolised by the child falling asleep at the start, “wake” again from its spell. That is when the real bedtime arrives and the hard work for the parents begins. With any luck, someone they “know is safe and snug and drifting off to sleep.”</p> </div></div></div> Wed, 11 Sep 2013 10:26:41 +0000 Amy Licence 197774 at <![CDATA[Was the downfall of Richard III caused by a strawberry?]]> <div class="field field-name-field-subheadline field-type-text-long field-label-hidden view-mode-fulltext"><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even"><p>The king&#039;s actions in the summer of 1483, when he unexpectedly put aside his twelve-year-old nephew and became King of England, are considered to be out of character. Could a food allergy have triggered the series of events that lead to the fall of the Ho</p> </div></div></div><div class="field field-name-field-node-image field-type-image field-label-hidden view-mode-fulltext"><div class="field-items"><figure class="clearfix field-item even"><img typeof="foaf:Image" class="image-style-fullnode-image" src="" width="510" height="348" alt="" /></figure></div></div><div class="field field-name-field-nodeimage-title field-type-text field-label-hidden view-mode-fulltext"><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even">Aneurin Barnard as Richard III in the recent BBC adaptation of Philippa Gregory's novel "The White Queen". Photo: BBC</div></div></div><div class="field field-name-body field-type-text-with-summary field-label-hidden view-mode-fulltext"><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even" property="content:encoded"> <p>Thanks to the efforts of two famous Philippas, one of England’s most controversial medieval kings has been catapulted to the forefront of discussion. Ricardian Philippa Langley, who campaigned to exhume her hero’s bones from a Leicester car park and novelist Philippa Gregory, author behind <a href="" target="_blank"><em>The White Queen</em> TV adaptation</a>, have brought the events of the Battle of Bosworth into homes across the nation. With Richard III’s sympathetic portrayal by Welsh actor Aneurin Barnard and Langley’s forthcoming book on the dig, co-authored with Michael Jones, this fresh interest gives no sign of waning. Yet despite the debates, burning questions about the man remain unanswered.</p> <p>Many theories have been offered to explain Richard’s actions in the late spring and early summer of 1483, when he unexpectedly put aside his twelve-year-old nephew and became King of England. Even his devotees will admit that there are several areas in which he appeared to act out of character. One of the most contentious is <a href="" target="_blank">the fate of the Princes in the Tower</a>, with some unable to accept that a man bound by the motto “loyaulte me lie” could order the murders of his brother’s young sons. Viewers of <em>The White Queen</em> recently saw Gregory’s own personal theory about the substitution of the younger boy and the culpability of Henry VII’s mother Lady Margaret Beaufort. When it comes to understanding Richard’s actions, there will never be as dramatic an answer as that which the discovery of his body provided about his scoliosis. We are not about to unearth the lost Richard III diaries, so his true motives can only be guessed at, across a divide of five centuries.</p> <p>It is possible, though, to map various interpretations over the known facts of the events of 1483. Following the premature death of his brother, Edward IV, Richard intercepted the young Edward V en route to London, imprisoned and executed the boy’s guardians, rounded on his friends, declared his uncrowned nephew illegitimate and accepted the throne himself. This may have been the actions of a man whose ambitions drove him from the start or reactions to perceived threats by those he considered his enemies. One of the turning points came in mid June, when a Council meeting at the Tower ended in the impromptu execution of the staunchly loyal Yorkist Lord Hastings. This scene, in fact, the entire character of Hastings, was omitted from <em>The White Queen </em>TV series, which is perhaps indicative of the ambiguity of his role and incompatible with a sympathetic portrayal of the king. Perhaps though, there was a very simple explanation indeed, which only hindsight and modern medical understanding can unravel.</p> <p>The initial account of the meeting comes from chronicler Thomas More, whose bias against Richard is known, but who was active in the household of John Morton, Archbishop of Canterbury, present at the meeting. William, Lord Hastings, had been a close friend of Edward IV; he was loyal to the family and in particular, to the next generation. As late as 20 May, Hastings had been appointed Master of the Mint and Richard confirmed him in his role as Chancellor. When he attended the Council meeting of 13 June then, it appears to have come as a complete surprise to all present when Richard turned against him. It may not have been something Richard himself planned.</p> <p>At this point, Richard had the reins of power in his hands, but only temporarily. After Edward V had been crowned, he would take more of a backseat and the boy’s maternal Wydeville relations would come to the fore. The dowager Queen Elizabeth, the “White Queen”, was safe in sanctuary at this point, her brother Anthony in prison at Pontefract and the coronation set to go ahead on 22 June. But something that day happened which changed everything. According to More, Richard entered the Council meeting smiling and remarked that he would like some strawberries from Archbishop Morton’s garden. He then left, to return around 90 minutes later a changed man, fretting, frowning and chewing his lips. Into his mouth, Shakespeare places the accusation of witchcraft, with his arm “like a blasted sapling, wither'd up” at the bidding of the ex-Queen and Hasting’s mistress. He then turned dramatically on the Lord, ordering his immediate execution. Traditionally, the “bewitched” arm has been seen as an excuse for the removal of someone who would have opposed Richard’s ambition but this owes a lot to hindsight. Remembering that we can never fully understand the workings of the medieval mind, Richard may have genuinely believed himself to be the victim of witchcraft and that his life was in danger. Whatever the Protector’s intentions were at that time, the culprit may actually have been his own breakfast.</p> <p>More’s account may hold the key. It is possible that the dish of strawberries produced a genuine allergic reaction which caused Richard’s arm to wither and other physical symptoms to develop. Food allergies and intolerances have only been understood in recent years, with increasing recognition of the erratic way these can develop and their dramatic results. The allergic reactions caused by the proteins in strawberries can produce tingling limbs, breathing difficulties and red, puffy, itchy skin. These symptoms usually occur within two hours of eating the fruit, which is compatible with the timescale of the meeting. Symptoms begin with swelling of the lips and tingling in the mouth and More’s account has Richard fretting, frowning and “knawing at his lips”. Internal distress, breathing difficulties following the closing of bronchial tubes and congestion can follow. Sufferers also experience itching, with limbs becoming red, puffy and blighted. According to NHS information, this can affect one side of the body and is consistent with Richard being afflicted in one arm only. Nor may he have experienced any previous adverse reactions to strawberries. Food allergies can emerge even after an individual has eaten a particular dish for years but when the body’s tolerance level is reached, the symptoms are triggered. Before the advent of modern production and storage, fruit was seasonal and therefore, a rare treat, even for the rich. It is quite possible that Richard had a latent allergy to strawberries which emerged with the first crop that June, causing the sudden physical responses in his body.</p> <p>How would a medieval mind have explained this sudden dramatic affliction? Fifteenth century people of all classes were deeply superstitious and believed that magic could be used to good and evil ends. Elizabeth Wydeville and her mother Jacquetta had both been accused and cleared of sorcery in 1469-70 although Richard’s own brother Clarence also claimed that they conspiring against him through the medium of magic in the 1470s. It cannot be ruled out that, anticipating attacks from the Wydeville clan, Richard believed himself to have fallen victim to poison or enchantment. He stated that witchcraft had “wasted his body”. Perhaps he genuinely believed it had.</p> <p>The fear Richard appears to have felt on 13 June was a decisive turning point. It changed the tone of his Protectorship and upped the ante in terms of violence. At this point, Anthony Wydeville and his fellow prisoners Grey and Vaughan were still alive. If Richard had not consumed the fruit and suffered the reaction he did, believing himself the victim of a conspiracy, he may not have believed their deaths were necessary. Edward V’s coronation was still planned to go ahead on June 22 and the Princes in the Tower were seen playing in the Castle grounds around this time.</p> <p>This Council meeting may, in fact, have been the beginning of the end for Edward V. As Hastings is dragged away in Shakespeare’s version of the scene, he foresees the doom of Richard’s regime: “miserable England! I prophesy the fearful'st time to thee, that ever wretched age hath look'd upon.” The seeds of discord were sown as a result of Richard’s misinterpretation and treatment of Hastings. Buckingham and Stanley witnessed the event and the latter may have even suffered minor injuries whilst attempting to defend his friend. Buckingham would rebel in autumn 1483 and Stanley’s troops turned against the King decisively at Bosworth. Historian and author David Pilling suggests that the execution of Hastings may well have caused Richard’s previously loyal adherents to see him in a new light and fear for their own safety. If nothing else, the meeting sealed the fate of Edward V and of his Wydeville uncle Anthony. Michael Hicks, author of several books about the period, states that this meeting was the point where the crisis broke. Richard’s interpretation of witchcraft caused him to react with a level of violence that transformed a tense situation into a crisis.</p> <p>The truth of this matter will never be known. With so much of Richard’s motivation and action seeming inconsistent during this volatile time, the possibility of an allergic reaction could explain the sudden escalation in fear and violence that Hasting’s death represents. That in turn, led Richard to act brutally against his relatives, incurring the mistrust of his friends. Could it be that the humble strawberry was the catalyst that brought down the House of York?</p> </div></div></div> Sat, 31 Aug 2013 08:23:53 +0000 Amy Licence 197526 at <![CDATA[Forgotten by history: the royal babies you've never heard of]]> <div class="field field-name-field-subheadline field-type-text-long field-label-hidden view-mode-fulltext"><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even"><p>Amy Licence reminds us of the royal children who shaped the course of history, only to recede into obscurity.</p> </div></div></div><div class="field field-name-field-node-image field-type-image field-label-hidden view-mode-fulltext"><div class="field-items"><figure class="clearfix field-item even"><img typeof="foaf:Image" class="image-style-fullnode-image" src="" width="510" height="348" alt="Portraits of Henry VIII and Catherine of Aragon in the National Portrait Gallery" title="Portraits of Henry VIII and Catherine of Aragon in the National Portrait Gallery" /></figure></div></div><div class="field field-name-field-nodeimage-title field-type-text field-label-hidden view-mode-fulltext"><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even">Portraits of Henry VIII and Catherine of Aragon. If their first-born son had lived, he would have changed the course of history. Photograph: Getty Images</div></div></div><div class="field field-name-body field-type-text-with-summary field-label-hidden view-mode-fulltext"><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even" property="content:encoded"> <p>Finally, the nation’s patience has been rewarded. On Monday 22 July at 4.24pm, the Duchess of Cambridge was delivered of a son, weighing 8lb 6oz. The news was broken four hours later, announced by Kensington Palace and spread across the world within seconds. For the first time in over a century the monarchy has had three generations of heirs. Almost at once, speculation regarding the future of this new prince began. The role which he will fill, and the path unfolding before him, appear far more fixed than those of his contemporaries, born on the same day. His education, career, religion and even his marital prospects, have already been mapped out. Yet the lives of royal babies of the past have rarely run smoothly. Many of those born in anticipation of the throne never achieved their lofty destinies, while others born in obscurity rose to take their place.</p> <p>When it comes to royal babies, some were born great, some achieved greatness and some had greatness thrust upon them. Expectations have always been high when it comes to the line of succession. Since historical records began, these important infants have arrived under a wide variety of circumstances. While some were born in times of peace, others were delivered during episodes of civil warfare or national depression. A few became the casualties of political conflict, feted and anointed, groomed for a kingship they never enjoyed.</p> <p>Two examples of the fickleness of royal fate are Edward of Westminster and Edward V, who both lived and died during the turbulent fifteenth century. Familiar to fans of Philippa Gregory’s historical novels, these boys were the eagerly anticipated sons of the medieval houses of Lancaster and York respectively. Edward of Westminster was born in 1453, after his parents’ eight-year marriage was suspected of having been barren. Longing for a son and heir, his mother, Margaret of Anjou, prayed to the saints to intercede and grant her wish by securing the dynastic line. Edward should have inherited the throne after his father, Henry VI, but died in battle at the age of seventeen, attempting to reclaim his kingdom. The opponent he fought, Edward IV, had a son of his own. After the birth of three daughters, his wife Elizabeth Wydeville, the “White Queen”, finally presented him with a male heir while in sanctuary. The little boy, also named Edward, was celebrated and seen as a symbol of new hope, but he would not live long enough to enjoy his father’s title either. He would become known to history as the elder of the Princes in the Tower and would disappear in mysterious circumstances before his coronation.</p> <p>History also provides examples of royal births which illuminate the pressures experienced by queens, whose role required them to deliver the future, in a literal and metaphorical sense. Henry VIII’s marital exploits are well known, but the birth of his first son, early in his reign, is less well remembered. Following his marriage to Catherine of Aragon, in 1509, Henry began the quest to father a son which would last for the next 28 years. It was to be far more difficult to achieve than he could ever have imagined. Early in 1511, Catherine delivered a boy whom they named Henry. When the news was proclaimed, London went into celebration. Days of public rejoicing and partying followed, with bells ringing, wine flowing, cannons at the Tower booming and bonfires burning in the streets. The boy was given a magnificent christening, with jousts, pageants, feasts and tournaments: it was the second most expensive occasion of Henry’s reign, outshone only by the legendary Field of Cloth of Gold.  A special gallery was built for Catherine and her ladies to watch the proceedings and it seemed as if the future of the Tudor dynasty was secure.</p> <p>However, tragedy struck. Before the child was two months old, he succumbed to one of the infant illnesses of the day. Had he lived, the little prince would have become Henry IX of England. Although it is not possible to rewrite history, the implications of his imagined survival help us understand the impact of his premature death. Had this child lived, the well-known story of Henry’s six wives almost certainly would not have happened. Perhaps the course of the English Reformation would also have played out differently. There would have been no Edward VI, no Mary I or even Queen Elizabeth. The imagined reign of Henry IX is another historical “whatif” which provides a fascinating alternative path for English history; save for one small twist of fate, perhaps even an infection that may easily be cleared up by antibiotics today, it may have become established historical fact. The life and death of this tragic prince truly did shape the future of his country.</p> <p>Henry would not father a legitimate heir until 1537, after he had divorced Catherine and her successor Anne Boleyn. Having won Henry’s love partly on the promise of presenting him with a healthy boy, Anne anticipated her own first confinement in 1533. Henry’s physician, astrologers and astronomers were confident that a son would arrive. Advanced notices were drawn up, declaring the arrival of a prince, to be dispatched across the nation and beyond. When Anne gave birth to Elizabeth in September 1533, the planned celebrations were cancelled and the notices hastily altered. A queen’s ability, or inability, to reproduce defined her power and determined her country’s future. Throughout history, the fertility, pregnancies and labours of queens have shaped national politics as well as their own personal relationships.</p> <p>Celebrations for the birth of the Prince of Cambridge will continue this week but not every royal baby’s arrival has been welcomed by its future subjects. In 1688, the birth of James, son of James II and Mary of Modena, proved the innocent catalyst for his parents’ loss of the throne. The prospect of a male heir being raised as a Catholic was unacceptable to many at the time and the media played a significant part in spreading this dissent. By the seventeenth century, a proliferation of small presses flooded the market with pamphlets, chapbooks and newspapers, making the spread of information more immediate. Ballads written to honour the royal birth sat alongside seditious anti-Catholic material. The satirical cartoons of the Georgian era allowed criticisms of the royal family to spread further, amongst the illiterate, turning the tide further against the Stuarts. When James II was deposed, months after the birth, his infant son went into exile and spent the remainder of his life as the “old Pretender,” trying to regain the throne. It was claimed instead by William of Orange.</p> <p>No such controversy surrounds Monday’s birth. The future line of succession is clear for the Prince of Cambridge and the baby’s timely arrival coincides with a modernisation of the monarchy, with the Duke and Duchess setting the tone as modern parents. Their son is the most immediate heir to the throne born in a new millennium, eagerly anticipated by its family and subjects. As the latest in a line of royal babies, stretching back centuries, its life will be the next chapter in the story of the Commonwealth.</p> </div></div></div> Tue, 23 Jul 2013 11:20:27 +0000 Amy Licence 196687 at <![CDATA[The White Queen: romance, sex, magic, scowling, social snobbery and battles]]> <div class="field field-name-field-subheadline field-type-text-long field-label-hidden view-mode-fulltext"><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even"><p>The BBC&#039;s new Sunday night drama set in the Wars of the Roses might not quite tick all historical boxes, but it&#039;s likely to become required Sunday night viewing.</p> </div></div></div><div class="field field-name-field-node-image field-type-image field-label-hidden view-mode-fulltext"><div class="field-items"><figure class="clearfix field-item even"><img typeof="foaf:Image" class="image-style-fullnode-image" src="" width="510" height="348" alt="" /></figure></div></div><div class="field field-name-field-nodeimage-title field-type-text field-label-hidden view-mode-fulltext"><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even">Rebecca Ferguson as Elizabeth Woodville in the BBC's "The White Queen". Photograph: BBC/Company Pictures & ALL3MEDIA/Ed Miller</div></div></div><div class="field field-name-body field-type-text-with-summary field-label-hidden view-mode-fulltext"><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even" property="content:encoded"> <p>The forest floor is covered in snow. Into the clearing stumbles a lone soldier, his breath heavy as he drips a trail of blood. He pauses, panting and looking around nervously through the foliage. The camera descends from above, hot on his tail as he stumbles, shedding his helmet and clutching his wound. Then it begins; the music, low and discordant at first like a heartbeat, building to the rhythm of the rider in pursuit, becoming faster, louder. He falls and through the trees, his foe appears, helmeted astride a white horse, his sword drawn to his victim’s scream of terror. Elizabeth Woodville’s first husband is dead, killed by the man who would become her second.</p> <p>Thus begins the story of <em>T</em><em>he White Queen</em>, which kicked off this Sunday on BBC1 and runs for ten episodes. Rarely has a series been so eagerly anticipated than this retelling of a Fifteenth Century romance that changed the course of a country’s politics. Fans of Philippa Gregory’s bestselling trilogy of novels, which tell the story of the Wars of the Roses through the eyes of its women, have been awaiting this day since plans were first announced to bring her characters to life. This lavish £25m collaboration between the BBC and STARZ, starring the enchanting Rebecca Ferguson as Elizabeth Woodville and Max Irons as her lusty King, should not disappoint them. Filmed in the medieval city of Bruges, it is as beautifully shot as it is located. Yet perhaps, as expected, it is a little more Romeo and Juliet than accurate medieval protocol.</p> <p>The magnetism between Elizabeth and Edward is quickly established. Their first meeting, beneath the legendary Whittlebury oak, is touching and immediate. Small details add to the anticipation; her mother’s good luck charm, her son biting into a plum, the other waving on the King’s approach. Historical purists might object. It is unlikely to have happened like that in real life. Far from being a “way-side hussy”, Elizabeth had probably already encountered Edward in the Lancastrian court circles of their fathers, but this is an adaption of a novel for Sunday night viewing and the romantic legend makes for better television.</p> <p>The on-screen attraction between the star-crossed lovers is real and believable. As Ferguson explained in a recent BBC interview, she and Irons “just clicked” with “amazing chemistry straight away”. Almost as convincing are the heavy-handed doubts of the Woodville men, whose early snarls and cynical warnings anticipate the image we have of Elizabeth “wading through blood” for this marriage, as her mother warns her. At the start, her male relations have the feeling of caricatures, deliberate created as foils for the new young king, but as the episode progressed, they were prevailed upon by the wisdom of women to wear white roses. Alongside Jacquetta, played by the impressive Janet McTeer, “commoner” Elizabeth states she is a match for any man and the audience believe her. Through this first episode, it was the pairing of mother and daughter which really stole the show. In a trilogy which presents an alternative perspective of the era through female eyes, these two were radiant.</p> <p>Almost too radiant. Of course, it was partly the magic at work. In real life, accusations of witchcraft were made against Jacquetta at the instigation of the Earl of Warwick, depicted here in best shouty mode by the rugged James Frain. Yet Jacquetta was cleared by Parliament in January 1470 and no further evidence exists that she or her daughter attempted to practise the dark arts against their foes. However, the sorcery, and Jacquetta’s reputed descent from the goddess Melusine, adds another thread to the narrative which allows for the foreshadowing of future tragic events. Thus the first episode compounds the promise of future conflict, with Elizabeth’s vision of a woman in red with blood on her hands, and the need to protect her sleeping sons, whose future brothers would become known to history as the Princes in the Tower. The dark, misty scenes beside the river when the two women cast their threads, provides a balance to the romantic “boy fogged in lust” shots of the pair in the garden, or the domestic scenes of the family playing blind man’s buff.  Sorcery also gives the audience an alternative explanation of why Elizabeth is a “match for any man,” when, according to the standards of the day, she was not.</p> <p>Charming as they are, Elizabeth and her mother as depicted in this episode are perhaps a little too clever, too confident and assured, for the reality of a protocol-conscious Fifteenth Century. Sometimes they even come across as a little smug. Initially, their cunning and womanly wisdom makes the Woodville men, Baron Rivers (Robert Pugh) and Anthony (Ben Lamb) a real life sophisticate, appear naïve, even a little crass. It is clear who wears the braies in the Woodville family. The capitulation of Rivers with the line “sometimes woman you even scare me” was rather a clumsy reinforcement of Jacquetta’s marriage to, as Warwick put it, a “grubby little squire”.</p> <p>It was in the exchange with Duchess Cecily (Caroline Goodall) however, that Jacquetta, as her daughter’s mouthpiece, really overstepped the historical mark. The disapproving Duchess, who was known in real life as “proud Cis,” is too easily overcome by her social inferiors when they whip out her apparent “secret” affair with a French archer. Lost for words, she is silenced within minutes, almost cowed by them. While contemporary notions of “courtesy” dictated extreme forms of submission to the queen, this is a Cecily straight from the pages of a novel rather than the actual proud aristocrat who asserted her own right to rule.</p> <p>But then again, there is nothing wrong with that. To attempt to map these fictional constructs on to their real counterparts is perhaps to miss the point. Novelists have no moral obligation to present the truth, it is their prerogative to exploit events for the purposes of entertainment. They are free to select and emphasise certain characteristics and ignore others, to merge and shape the past at will in order to structure a balanced narrative of highs and lows. They can even, horror of horrors for historians, alter the past if they wish to. If we get too hung up on playing a game of spot the inaccuracy, we may be in danger of missing out on a very enjoyable piece of Sunday night escapism. That is, so long as we can overlook the clanky old clichés such as “the wheel of fortune rises and it falls,” “the king has married from another house” and “the boy is fogged with lust”. Perhaps the charm of the episode might even allow us to embrace them.</p> <p><em>The White Queen</em> contained exactly what it promised; romance, sex, magic, scowling, social snobbery and battles. The opposing sides have been drawn up, of Lancaster and York, establishing a narrative we can anticipate unfolding to more of “Kingmaker” Warwick’s tight-lipped objections and Anthony Woodville’s bristling pity. James Frain, recently lauded for his performance as Thomas Cromwell in <em>The Tudors</em>, may well emerge to steal the show alongside Margaret Beaufort and the other York brothers, only briefly glimpsed in this first episode. Trouble clearly lies ahead. In author Philippa Gregory’s words, “these aren’t like normal family quarrels. If you move against somebody, its death for you or him – or her.” It is the Romeo and Juliet style of this first episode that was a particular strength and should ensure the continuing high viewing figures commanded by <em>The Tudors </em>and <em>The Borgias</em>, filling the old<em> Downton Abbey </em>slot as required Sunday night viewing. With this introduction giving us a glimpse of the other cast members waiting in the wings,<em> The White Queen</em> promises to develop into a more complex and satisfying drama.</p> </div></div></div> Mon, 17 Jun 2013 08:22:55 +0000 Amy Licence 195797 at <![CDATA[Passive Pawn or Lady Macbeth: Who was Richard III's queen?]]> <div class="field field-name-field-subheadline field-type-text-long field-label-hidden view-mode-fulltext"><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even"><p>Dead by the age of 28, Anne Neville didn’t leave much of a paper trail. Who was this woman who stood so close to the king, yet seems so distant today?</p> </div></div></div><div class="field field-name-body field-type-text-with-summary field-label-hidden view-mode-fulltext"><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even" property="content:encoded"> <p><img alt="" src="/sites/default/files/images/51243971.jpg" style="width: 510px; height: 924px;" /></p> <p><em><span style="font-size: 12px;">Anne Neville. Image: Hulton Archive/Getty Images</span></em></p> <p>In some ways it seems strange to think of Richard III having a wife. Rather like Shakespeare’s abandoned spouse, it sounds like a poem written by Carol Ann Duffy to celebrate female love and loss. But this is largely because the domestic aspect of Richard’s life is comparatively unexplored and his wife, Anne Neville, has received little critical attention.  She has also suffered, like her husband, from literary misrepresentation. Yet she was a constant presence at his side and, as I theorise in my new book, potentially played a far more significant role in his seizure of the throne than has been imagined. Anne was not a wife of the “second best bed” variety - in fact, she was the joint recipient of Richard’s crown.</p> <p>This is the woman who shared his home and bed, who bore his child and deputised for him on their Yorkshire estates; the woman who had known him as a teenager, practising his archery skills under her window, who had seen his boyish body transformed by the painful condition that bent his spine into a breathless curve. As his wife, she was probably the person who knew him best, so what exactly did she know? When it came to the unanswered questions of Richard’s reign, particularly his motives and actions in the summer of 1483, how far did he confide in her? Did she know the fate of the Princes in the Tower, the cousins of her own little boy? Did she condone her husband’s seizure of the throne? Who was this woman who stood so close to the king, yet seems so distant today?</p> <p>While researching <em>Anne Neville; Richard III’s Tragic Queen</em>, I was forced to seek some answers. This wasn’t easy; dead by the age of 28, Anne didn’t leave much of a paper trail, despite having been married first to a Prince of Wales, then to a King. Reading about Richard’s life, you get a sense of a shadowy figure at his elbow much of the time, who did not commit her feelings to paper and inspired few surviving descriptions. Anne is something of a historical void and it has been customary for romantic fiction to fill it with anachronistic interpretations, designed to suit the sensibilities of a modern audience. This works well in novels but it is no use when it comes to non-fiction, where this caricature is also rearing its one-dimensional head. Because Anne was female and the teenage subject of an arranged marriage, she has been cast as the pawn of great men, the victim of their schemes and the fickle turns of fortune. But take a look at her contemporaries, the warlike Margaret of Anjou and Isabella of Castile, famous for their ambition and drive. Why shouldn’t the Anne-shaped void beside the King be filled in the same way?</p> <p>Born in 1456, the second daughter and final child of Warwick "the Kingmaker", Anne couldn’t have had a better model of ruthless ability to follow. Instrumental in the toppling of one king, in order to replace him with Anne’s brother-in-law, Warwick then reversed this process, dethroning Edward IV and restoring Henry VI when it suited him to do so. He was the most powerful English magnate, rumoured to have the king in his pocket. Which king? Well, both of them. He died in battle when Anne was just 14 yet his memory must have been lasting; it would be no surprise if his daughter felt a strong grievance against the family he had hated, the ambitious Wydevilles with whom he struggled for the final decade of his life.</p> <p>In 1483, those Wydevilles were poised to take over the reins of power. When Edward IV died unexpectedly in April, his son by Elizabeth Wydeville was only twelve years old. The day was appointed for his coronation but the boy-king was never crowned. Historians have long disagreed over the motives of his uncle, Richard, who declared the king and his brother illegitimate, eliminated his enemies and assumed the throne. Yet perhaps they have been looking in the wrong place. Richard had given every appearance of loyalty until this time; of course, loyalties can change and appearances can be deceptive, but what of that shadowy figure at his side? With the accession of the boy king, Edward V, Anne was about to see the victory of her former enemies. Only 14 years had passed since Warwick had beheaded Queen Elizabeth’s father and brother and another brother, Anthony Wydeville, had prevented Warwick’s family from boarding their ship when trying to flee the country in 1470. Anne’s elder sister Isabel had been heavily pregnant at the time and lost her first child, Anne’s niece, on the journey.</p> <p>After Warwick’s death, Richard had become the inheritor of the Earl’s titles, estates and role in the north; perhaps he and his wife of 12 years feared reprisals. At the very least they might expect Richard’s role to be curtailed and the reallocation of their properties and lands. In the days and weeks following Edward IV’s death, it is not impossible to imagine them plotting together about the best way to secure their future and that of their young son. Anne may even have egged Richard on, Lady Macbeth-like, urging him to action. Instead of being the passive “stand by your man” figure of so many novels, tossed about by cruel fortune and grieved by his villainy, she may instead have been a shaper of her own destiny, as a proud, ambitious, typical aristocrat of her day. Anne may even have masterminded the whole thing, the brains behind the coup, the female kingmaker.</p> <p>Of course, there is no evidence to suggest this. But equally, there is no evidence to suggest the opposite. A quick glance at Anne’s contemporaries in the field of English politics - Queen Margaret of Anjou, Elizabeth Wydeville and Queen Mother Margaret Beaufort - instantly reveals alternative models of female strength. Perhaps it is as their foil that Anne has traditionally been portrayed as so weak. One thing we do know about Richard’s wife is that she deputised for him at least once, during his absence in France, representing the public face of his “good lordship.” A strong ambitious Anne is far more realistic given the necessity of survival and the protection of inheritance. She had already been married to the enemy, in the form of the Lancastrian Prince Edward of Westminster, then lived through uncertain times in which she lost her husband, father and father-in-law. She was taken prisoner, brought before Edward IV and kept in the custody of her sister, which she escaped in order to make a marriage of her own choosing. When she became queen, she was a fully grown woman of 26, and it seems she was in good health almost her entire life, as there are no records of her illness until three months before her death. In spite of this, in the popular imagination, she has remained stuck as a docile teenager, mistakenly reputed to be sickly and ill, to better suit a romantic narrative. How wrong we could be.</p> <p>Then there are the Princes in the Tower. Following the publication of Josephine Tey’s popular novel <em>The Daughter of Time</em>, the finger of blame has been firmly pointed at Margaret Beaufort, who reputedly killed the boys to secure the succession of her own son, Henry VII (although he did not manage to invade successfully for another two years). But what about Anne? She arrived in London in early June 1483, around the time of the last sighting of the Princes, and she had every reason to ensure that her husband’s coup went unchallenged and that her own son would inherit. She would also have had access to the Tower and we know she followed tradition by staying there with Richard on the night before their coronation, early in July. If Margaret could do it, why not Anne?</p> <p>Personally, I don’t think Anne did kill the boys, but the fact that she has never been accused of the crime is typical of the way she has been infantilised by the process of history. She must have been too sickly and insipid to carry out such a deed, surely? Queen Anne has not been overlooked by history, she had been as miscast as her husband is in Shakespeare’s play. Yet she was bred with the anticipation of a high status match, if not actual queenship, and what Fifteenth Century noblewoman wouldn’t have embraced the opportunity to wear the crown? It is time to reconsider our preconceptions and place Anne back firmly centre stage as a main player, if not a driving force, in the life and “usurpation” of Richard III. </p> </div></div></div> Tue, 11 Jun 2013 08:48:43 +0000 Amy Licence 195658 at