I just finished a six-week course on the Tudor dynasty, offered (free, with some payment options) by the University of Roehampton in London. The course covered British history from 1485 to 1603, roughly the period from Henry VII through Elizabeth I. It was a fascinating look at a tumultuous period, including the English Reformation, Henry VIII and his six wives, the religious conflict that continued even with the Reformation, and how all three of Henry’s surviving children occupied the throne.
It was a good introduction to reading The Bastard Princess, a historical novel by British author Gemma Lawrenceabout the life of Elizabeth from childhood to her half-sister Mary becoming queen.
It is one compelling novel.
The story begins in 1603, the last year of Elizabeth’s life. She’s looking backwards at her family, her times, what she accomplished, and, most of all, how she learned to survive. Lawrence writes the account in the first person, reading almost like a journal or diary, and that perspective provides a sense of immediacy, urgency, and individuality. The Elizabeth that emerges from these pages is a girl who loves her father, understands early on how easy it is to make a misstep that can lead to imprisonment or death, and quietly mourns her mother, executed when Elizabeth was a young child:
“They said my mother had never my father; she had never been the Queen. They said she had done bad things. And then…they stopped talking of her at all. Her pictures and portraits disappeared from the walls…
Gemma Lawrence
“I was no longer to be called My Lady Princess or Your Highness. I was now just the Lady Elizabeth, the King’s bastard daughter. It was though I had never had a mother. But I remembered her…”
We walk with Elizabeth in her gardens, sit with her in her rooms, listen as she considers all that has happened and is happening, and become shocked when she falls in love with her stepmother’s husband. We see her learn from her tutors and how she teaches herself the art of survival. The story captures our attention and doesn’t let go. It shows Elizabeth as a highly intelligent, highly observant young woman.
Lawrence, an independently published author living in Cornwall in the U.K., is the author of a considerable number of historical novels. Her series include The Story of Catherine Howard, The Chronicles of Matilda, Lady Anne, and Elizabeth of England, of which The Bastard Princess is the first of eight.
Gemma Lawrence has told an enthralling story here. The Bastard Princess gives us an Elizabeth who is flesh and blood, always conscious of who she is, and always watchful of those who might both help and harm her.
I
was in high school when I first read Josephine Tey’s The
Daughter of Time, originally published in 1951. Tey’s detective,
Inspector Alan Grant, is laid up in the hospital, and avoids boredom by reexamining
what is likely the most serious charge ever laid against a British sovereign –
the murder of the young princes in the Tower of London by Richard III,
the last of the Plantagent kings. Tey’s mystery is fascinating and rather
pointedly suggested that history could well be?
But
then, what academic would take a mystery novel seriously?
Four
years later, an American historian named Paul Murray Kendall did academically
what Tey had done novelistically. He wrote a
biography of Richard III that relied exclusively on contemporary sources
instead of the later accounts like that of Sir Thomas More (Shakespeare used
More’s account for the basis of his play Richard
III.) What Kendall discovered was that there was a world of difference
between what Richard’s contemporaries said and what later (and rather obviously
biased Tudor) accounts said.
In
1998, film writer Philippa Langley stopped briefly at a Waterstone’s bookstore
in Edinburgh, to find something to read while on holiday. She saw an old book,
thought it looked interesting, and bought it. She later said she spent less
than minute picking it out. The book was Kendall’s biography of Richard III.
Her
selection changed history, figuratively and literally. After reading the book,
she became convinced that Richard’s reputation has been deliberately blackened
by writers seeking to flatter the Tudors, not to mention the Tudors themselves.
Richard had been turned into a monster, while contemporaries had a very
different perspective.
Portairt of Richard III ion the Nationakl Portrait Gallery, London
Langley
would play a critical role over the next 14 years in what became one of the
marvels of modern archaeology – the discovery of “Skeleton X’ during a dig in Leicester
in central England, the skeleton confirmed as that of Richard III. In fact, she
played a critical role in the questioning, badgering, motivating , fundraising
and undertaking the dig at the site of Greyfriars Friary.
Or
at least it was thought to be the site; no one was quite sure. The friary, which
contained Richard’s tomb, had been destroyed during the dissolution of the
abbeys, monasteries and convents by Henry VIII after the English Reformation
(Henry was less interested in theology and church matters and more interested in
the divorce the Pope wouldn’t grant and the wealth that the various Catholic
institutions held in England). The story was that at the time of the friary’s
destruction, an angry move had destroyed the tomb, exhumed Richard’s remains, and
tossed them in the nearby Soar River.
Mike Pitts
The
story of the discovery and confirmation of Richard III’s skeleton is
wonderfully told in Digging
for Richard III: the Search for the Lost King by Mike Pitts, first published in 2013
and updated and expanded earlier this year to cover the reburial earlier this
year. Pitts was well-suited to write the story – he’s the editor of British Archaeology Magazine and
the author of several archaeological works, including Hengeworld,
the account of the discovery of a large prehistoric temple in Somerset.
Digging for Richard III is a full and
fascinating account of how the king’s remains were discovered – the role of
Philippa Langley, the assembling of the team at the University of Leicester,
how Richard III societies around the world contributed to the funding of the
project, and how the goals of the archaeological team often conflicted with
those of Langley and her supporters. The team was trying to identify the site of
the friary, with the finding of Richard III’s remains somewhere down the list
of objectives. In fact, the archaeological team didn’t really think finding
Richard’s remains was all that likely.
Facial reconstruction from the skeleton's skull by the University of Dundee
This
was a project that did not go as archaeology projects usually go. As Pitts
quotes the members, typically a team will find a few pottery shards “you can’t
even sell on eBay.” In the case of the
dig at Leicester, what was labeled “Skeleton X” was found the very first day of
the dig. But it was simply a skeleton, until a forensic specialist began to dig
the skeleton out of the compacted dirt and discovered it had scoliosis, or a
severe curvature of the spine. Just like the reports of Richard III. Four
months later, DNA testing with descendants of the king confirmed it was indeed
Richard III.
The
findings sparked an international sensation, and, no surprise here, the
inevitable lawsuits. All kinds of organizations and cities wanted Richard’s
remains (think tourist dollars). There were online votes and lobbying, with
Queen Elizabeth II giving a dignified nod to the cathedral at Leicester, a few
short miles from where Richard was born and the nearby field where Richard died
in the Battle of Bosworth in 1485. This past spring, Richard was reburied in
the cathedral.
Not
all archaeological projects happen as thrillingly as this one, but Pitts tells
a great story. It’s all about Richard III, yes, but it is also how forensic
science, DNA testing, and good old intuition played critical roles in finding
the body of a long-lost king.
At
the reburial service, actor Benedict Cumberbatch read a poem written for the
occasion by Carol Ann Duffy, Britain’s Poet Laureate (you can watch the reading
here). This is the
poem:
Richard
My bones, scripted in light, upon cold soil,
a human braille. My skull, scarred by a crown,
emptied of history. Describe my soul
as incense, votive, vanishing; your own
the same. Grant me the carving of my name.
These relics, bless. Imagine you re-tie
a broken string and on it thread a cross,
the symbol severed from me when I died.
The end of time – an unknown, unfelt loss –
unless the Resurrection of the Dead …
or I once dreamed of this, your future breath
in prayer for me, lost long, forever found;
or sensed you from the backstage of my death,
as kings glimpse shadows on a battleground.
Related: Highlights of
the reburial service earlier this year.
For
decades during the reign of Elizabeth I of England, two men circled around the
queen, competing for influence and power, vying with each other, plotting
against each other, and often working with each other in common cause.
William
Cecil, Lord Burghley (1520-1598), was Elizabeth’s chief advisor, served in
multiple high offices including Secretary of State and Lord High Treasurer,
member of Parliament, leader of the Privy Council. and diplomat. Robert
Dudley, Earl of Leicester (1532-1588), had known Elizabeth since they were
children, was a suitor for her hand in marriage, a rumored lover of the queen,
leader of the English army during the Dutch revolt against the Spanish in
1586-87, and known to be Elizabeth’s favorite.
The
two men vied for influence and power. They used every asset at their disposal.
Including
gardens.
As
historian Trea Martyn explains, in Queen
Elizabeth in the Garden: A Story of Love, Rivalry, and Spectacular Gardens,
the queen loved gardens. She had spent much time in the garden growing up at
Hatfield House, and she had even been given permission to walk in the garden
when her sister Mary imprisoned her in the Tower of London. And gardens, and
the trees, plants, and flowers they contained, had a very different meaning in
Elizabethan England than they do today. The names of plants and flowers could
hold double meanings (William Shakespeare knew that). Gardens were places of
rest and repose, but they could also be places where a romantic, and often
dramatic, rendezvous could unfold.
And
if Elizabeth loved gardens, then Cecil and Dudley would attempt to outdo each other
to give her the most spectacular and memorable experience.
William Cecil
Dudley’s
estate (given to him by Elizabeth) was Kenilworth Castle in
Warwickshire; the story of what Dudley and Elizabeth was popularized (and
somewhat embroidered) by Sir Walter Scott in his novel Kenilworth.
Cecil’s estate was Theobalds
in Hertfordshire.
It’s
difficult to grasp what the two men achieved with their gardens, partially because
of what they were able to do. Dudley added a lake and staged an elaborate
pageant that included mermaids; Cecil did a total makeover of his gardens with
the aim of pleasing the queen at every turn.
Robert Dudley
These
aren’t the only gardens that feature in Elizabeth’s story (and Martyn’s book),
but they are the most prominent, and Martyn goes into incredible detail to
describe them. In the process, she provides an unusual look at Elizabethan power
politics (and romance) played out against the backdrop of international
conflict, religion still established itself in England, and power politics
among the courtiers.
Today,
Theobalds exists as a park; the palace was destroyed during the civil war in
the 1640s. Kenilworth, too, fell victim to the same civil war; the
Parliamentarians blew up the northern wall to disable the castle’s military
use; in the process, they destroyed the gardens. The famous lake was drained
and turned over to soldiers for farming.
Queen Elizabeth in the Garden is a fascinating
account of a familiar period, and yet told with an unusual angle that adds
color and detail not previously recognized.
Top photograph: a recreation of the overall plan of Kenilworth Castle.
Bottom photograph: What the palace at Theobalds looked like.
