Mary Tudor: England’s First Queen
by Anna Whitelock
Bloomsbury, £20
Mary Tudor has been used to personify all that is worst in Roman Catholicism. Intolerance in her burning of heretics. Lack of compassion in her execution of Lady Jane Grey. Treachery in her marriage to Philip of Spain. She is also seen as aloof from the public, kneeling in false piety while hypocritically harbouring deep resentment towards her half-sister Elizabeth. But historian Anna Whitelock wishes to present a different Mary, a courageous woman who overcame many setbacks to become a hard-working queen.
Mary’s first setback was being born female. Royal females were there to form alliances, and Henry VIII betrothed her initially to France (the Dauphin) and then to Spain (Charles V). The historic rivalry between Europe’s two great powers gave England the potential to play a pivotal role in the balance of that power – and was to endure in Mary’s personal life, even to the year of her death.
The second setback was Henry’s inability to produce a male heir. This meant Mary became illegitimate when the king married again. Furthermore, she was denied communication with her mother, Catherine of Aragon, as Henry tried to force both of them to recognise his new queen.
Mary and Catherine did manage to send letters to each other – at times through the services of Chapuys, the Imperial (Spanish) ambassador. In fact, Chapuys was more than a messenger – he became an adviser and helped her draft letters. He even passed on a letter by her addressed to Charles V, urging the emperor to provide a “prompt remedy” (ie military action) against Henry.
Was Chapuys a sympathetic listener, doing his best to help a young woman in distress? Or was his an interference beyond all diplomatic protocol? And what of Mary? Was she justified in seeking help or did this begin her compromise with Spain, resulting eventually in her losing public trust? Whitelock does not ask these questions – she presents the events as she sees them, thankfully free of heavy authorial direction.
One instance of authorial direction, though, is in the prologue. Mary is described as having “immense courage and resolve”. Resolve I would agree with, but not courage. Yes, she stood up to her father during his divorce (though relenting in the end), would not budge against Edward VI on her religion, and after Edward’s death took the crown she believed rightfully was hers against apparently superior forces. But all her actions can more plausibly be attributed to stubbornness, arising from her pedigree. She, the daughter of royalty on both sides, was not going to be told what to do by Edward, a boy and the offspring of Jane Seymour, or be passed over as queen by the daughter-in-law of the Duke of Northumberland.
Stubbornness can also be attributed to perhaps her worst decision – marriage to Philip, son of Charles V. A delegation from the House of Commons implored her not to, rightly fearing he had Spain’s rather than England’s interests at heart. Yet she would not change her mind. One thing she could never do was defy Charles, a father figure. No courage there.
In her epilogue Whitelock again abandons authorial direction by pointing out the successes of Mary’s reign. She rallied Londoners to her defence against Wyatt’s rebels. She also showed it was possible for a woman to become ruler. But is that really so? It was Elizabeth who showed that a woman could rule – not her half-sister. Mary was a disaster. She won power through popular support, yet five years later had squandered all that goodwill and, in the process, the religion she fervently clung to came to be seen as both alien and pitiless.
Nonetheless, this account of Mary’s life is hugely gripping. Short chapters drive the narrative along, with occasional asides into non-political aspects, for instance when Mary washed the feet of the Maundy Thursday poor. A good read then – mostly. I can understand the desire to portray Mary sympathetically but that should not mean glossing over her (many) personal and political failings.
Richard Woulfe
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