peremptory power. In his troubles, as his popularity declined, Henry VIII told Marillac, the French ambassador, that he had a miserable people whom he would quickly impoverish so that none would dare raise a hand against him. As the century passed and the problems of the realm grew, the royal family lived amid the whispers of plots and in the fear of assassination. ‘Marriage with the royal blood’, wrote Francis Bacon at the end of the Tudor age, ‘was too full of risks to be lightly entered into.’ To forestallthe terrors of rebellion, the Tudors would strike first, and queens, bishops, dukes fell under the headsman’s axe. At the heart of the royal insecurity was the fear for the succession. The Tudors were a new dynasty without the reverence that attaches to an ancient line. If the succession was not clear, who could prevent the return of the factions and the anarchy from which Henry VII had rescued England at Bosworth Field?
In 1516 Henry VIII was twenty-four and his Queen, Catherine of Aragon, six years older. Catherine had come to England in 1501 to marry the ailing Prince Arthur, Henry’s elder brother. The marriage had taken place but according to Catherine was never consummated, and since her life proved her a most honest, upright and religious woman there is no reason to doubt her word; within a year Prince Arthur was dead. The young widow remained in her new country, for there were cordial feelings between England and Spain, and the alliance was important for the English crown. In 1509 she was given in marriage to young King Henry, and though she was a homely person whose short, stocky figure thickened with the passing years and he was the most handsome and accomplished of princes, he had no reason to consider himself mismatched. She was sober, capable and devoted, and the daughter of powerful Spain was a prize for any prince. In 1510 her first child, a daughter, was stillborn; in the next six years she gave birth to four sons but none lived longer than a few weeks. The last three babies had been stillborn and this run of misfortune was taken as a fearful omen. On 18th February 1516 the Queen was at last delivered of a child who lived and the rejoicing in the court and country was great indeed. That the child was a female was taken to be of no account. ‘We are both young’, the King told the Venetian ambassador. ‘If it was a daughter this time, by the grace of God the sons will follow.’ Four days later, with the ceremonial and splendour that the King loved, the baby was christened at Greenwich Palace and named Mary after the King’s sister, the Dowager Queen of France.
The little princess was given an establishment worthy of the daughter of a resplendent monarch. Her household numbered fifty, presided over by Margaret Lady Brian who administered the budget of more than £1,000 a year—a large sum for the time. The princess was the centre of her own small world and in the extraordinary manner of princes from the earliest age lived awayfrom her parents. Solicitude for her health condemned her household to incessant wanderings. The fear of the plague, always liable to break out when many were gathered together with little regard for hygiene, was ever present in the minds of her guardians. At the first sign of low spirits or sickness a change of air was recommended; her unwieldy staff with an attendant flock of domestics set out on laborious journeys to Windsor, Richmond, Greenwich, Eltham, Woodstock, or one of the many royal manors that surrounded London. In the course of these flights occasionally father and daughter would rest together at one of the larger palaces, and at the great festivals of the year the royal family was briefly reunited. Despite their long times apart, the parents were affectionate and careful for their daughter. Henry, in his boisterous, jovial way, would himself carry Mary into the presence chamber and invite the admiration of the courtiers and the foreign envoys. And the
In 1516 Henry VIII was twenty-four and his Queen, Catherine of Aragon, six years older. Catherine had come to England in 1501 to marry the ailing Prince Arthur, Henry’s elder brother. The marriage had taken place but according to Catherine was never consummated, and since her life proved her a most honest, upright and religious woman there is no reason to doubt her word; within a year Prince Arthur was dead. The young widow remained in her new country, for there were cordial feelings between England and Spain, and the alliance was important for the English crown. In 1509 she was given in marriage to young King Henry, and though she was a homely person whose short, stocky figure thickened with the passing years and he was the most handsome and accomplished of princes, he had no reason to consider himself mismatched. She was sober, capable and devoted, and the daughter of powerful Spain was a prize for any prince. In 1510 her first child, a daughter, was stillborn; in the next six years she gave birth to four sons but none lived longer than a few weeks. The last three babies had been stillborn and this run of misfortune was taken as a fearful omen. On 18th February 1516 the Queen was at last delivered of a child who lived and the rejoicing in the court and country was great indeed. That the child was a female was taken to be of no account. ‘We are both young’, the King told the Venetian ambassador. ‘If it was a daughter this time, by the grace of God the sons will follow.’ Four days later, with the ceremonial and splendour that the King loved, the baby was christened at Greenwich Palace and named Mary after the King’s sister, the Dowager Queen of France.
The little princess was given an establishment worthy of the daughter of a resplendent monarch. Her household numbered fifty, presided over by Margaret Lady Brian who administered the budget of more than £1,000 a year—a large sum for the time. The princess was the centre of her own small world and in the extraordinary manner of princes from the earliest age lived awayfrom her parents. Solicitude for her health condemned her household to incessant wanderings. The fear of the plague, always liable to break out when many were gathered together with little regard for hygiene, was ever present in the minds of her guardians. At the first sign of low spirits or sickness a change of air was recommended; her unwieldy staff with an attendant flock of domestics set out on laborious journeys to Windsor, Richmond, Greenwich, Eltham, Woodstock, or one of the many royal manors that surrounded London. In the course of these flights occasionally father and daughter would rest together at one of the larger palaces, and at the great festivals of the year the royal family was briefly reunited. Despite their long times apart, the parents were affectionate and careful for their daughter. Henry, in his boisterous, jovial way, would himself carry Mary into the presence chamber and invite the admiration of the courtiers and the foreign envoys. And the
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