Rejected Princesses: Tales of History's Boldest Heroines, Hellions, and Heretics

by Jason Porath

  Her clothing is primarily blue and white, in a nod to the colors of the Israeli flag.

  The account covered in the open ledger is taglit—the Hebrew word for “birthright” (and the name of a program financing Jews worldwide to make a trip to Israel, as Gracia did). As the “client” in her ledger, she’s scratched out the Hebrew word for “sister” and written in “daughter,” indicating where she was putting her efforts. The ledger is opened, of course, to page 18.

  Sayyida al-Hurra

  (C. 1482–1562, MOROCCO)

  The Pirate Queen Who Ruled the Mediterranean

  To this day, no one knows Sayyida al-Hurra’s real name.

  Which might initially sound a bit odd—you’d think an Islamic pirate queen who ran Morocco for 30 years and repeatedly repelled Spanish invasions would be a little memorable—but the fact is, nobody dared use anything but honorifics when speaking of or to her. Not only was she a governor (Sayyida), but she was also the last woman to hold the title of al-Hurra (thought to mean “sovereign woman”).*

  Sayyida came to power against a backdrop of conflict. Born in the kingdom of Granada, she was forced to flee as a child when the Spanish monarchs Ferdinand and Isabella drove the Muslims out of Europe with bloody force. Swearing revenge, she escaped to Morocco, which was itself in a precarious position, its borders being nibbled away by all surrounding kingdoms. But Sayyida’s family integrated quickly: her father became ruler of the independent region of Chefchaouen, and Sayyida eventually married the sultan of Tetouan, al-Mandari II.

  Sayyida took to the realm of politics swiftly. A highly educated woman, fluent in both Arabic and Spanish, Sayyida helped her husband not only in ruling Tetouan but also in military operations against the Spanish and Portuguese. The gender dynamics between Sayyida and her husband were totally atypical for the time—they shared diplomatic responsibility instead of he, as husband, having complete control. There are records indicating that, if anything, Sayyida was more in charge of the military than the sultan himself. On several occasions, he even implored her to soften her approach. A neighboring governor, referring to Sayyida’s bellicose personality, dubbed her “The Iron Lady of the Arab-Muslim World.”

  She earned two more titles after her husband died in 1518—al-Hakimat Tetouan (“ruler of Tetouan”) and Barbarossa Tetouania (“Barbarossan pirate of Tetouan”). Upon taking the reins from the late sultan, Sayyida befriended Barbary pirates. This was no minor relationship: piracy not only became the foundation of much of Tetouan’s economy but was also one of the chief tactics in her wars against the Spanish and Portuguese. Sayyida rebuilt Tetouan for this purpose, with massive docks to house her fleets, winding roads to trap invaders, and walls to stymie her enemies. Before long, Tetouan was one of the key seats of power in the region.

  Sayyida’s piracy paid off handsomely. Tetouan flourished from the influx of stolen goods, and the Spanish and Portuguese, with their expansionist efforts stopped in their tracks, were forced to negotiate with her. Sayyida’s policy of taking captives—including the wife of the governor of Portugal—compelled the Spanish and Portuguese to forge numerous bilateral agreements for the release of their people.

  In one of her crowning achievements, she remarried, to the Moroccan sultan Ahmed al-Wattassi—and made him travel to her for the privilege. This was unheard of, and the first time in Moroccan history that a marriage ceremony took place in the bride’s home. Then, instead of moving to be with her husband, Sayyida stayed in Tetouan to continue her reign.

  In 1542 a group of individuals (including her stepson, by some accounts) deposed her, and from there, her story is lost to the mists of time. She died 20 years later in her father’s province of Chefchaouen.

  Matilda of Tuscany

  (1046–1115, ITALY)

  Defender of the Pope

  Most women could not make kings kneel before them. Then again, Matilda of Tuscany was not most women.

  From the time she was a young girl, Italian-born Matilda had a singular, clear interest: kicking butt for God. While her mother and sister busied themselves with sewing and housework, Matilda started training with spears, battle axes, and swords. Which isn’t to say she eschewed more sedentary pursuits—she spoke four languages and was hugely literate at a time when most rulers could not even write their names, and her skill with embroidery was widely celebrated. Of course, said celebration was largely from the court of William the Conqueror, owing to her sending him a handmade flag to commemorate his, well, conquering—but still.

  This military preoccupation served Matilda well, considering the turbulence of the age. Conflicts between the Roman popes and the German-led Holy Roman Empire—struggles that boiled down to “church versus state”—led to nonstop warfare across Europe, to which Matilda’s family was hardly immune. She would see her mother tossed into prison and her father murdered by poisoned arrow.

  By the age of six, Matilda was formally in control of the family holdings. She relinquished full control only when she entered an arranged marriage at the age of 23. That state of affairs, along with the marriage itself, was temporary.

  The husband in question was the unfortunately named Godfrey the Hunchback, whom Matilda haaaaated. According to one (likely apocryphal) story, she showed up to their wedding night with her hair newly shorn, wearing a frumpy nightgown, and basically told him, “God says we gotta do it, so let’s get this over with.” Although later legends would portray her as a virgin (more on that in a bit), she did consummate her marriage to Godfrey. However, they never had any children who lived past childhood.

  Their marriage got even worse when they ended up on opposing sides of a war. The event that finally pushed Matilda to take up the sword was brazen even by the standards of the time: on Christmas Eve, a bunch of German assailants attacked the pope, beat him up, and unsuccessfully tried to drag him to Germany.

  Let’s repeat that: The pope got jumped. At the Vatican. On Christmas Eve. By people who tried to kidnap him.

  Eleventh-century Europe was a rough place.

  So Matilda started fighting for Pope Gregory VII, and her husband for the pope’s enemy, Henry IV. The couple separated, and Godfrey was assassinated shortly thereafter (not by Matilda’s hand—he’d ticked off another entirely different set of powerful people). In the absence of an heir, Matilda regained control of her family’s wealth and land. She promptly used them to raise armies to fight for her pope.

  Her support came just in time, because Gregory VII had just tossed gasoline onto the fire by excommunicating Henry IV. This was the 11th-century equivalent of dropping a nuclear warhead: basically, if Henry IV did not repent, in the eyes of his pope-friendly subjects, he would be an illegitimate ruler within a year. The official word of God made it clear to Henry’s subjects that it was their right—nay, duty—to start smashing everything in sight.

  Things got more and more heated. The pope tried getting to Germany to negotiate a replacement for Henry IV, and Henry IV tried to stop him—only to be thwarted time and time again by Matilda’s forces.

  Eventually, Gregory VII holed up in Matilda’s fortress at Canossa, largely considered to be invulnerable. This brought Henry to his knees, literally. He approached Canossa, asking Matilda to put in a good word for him with the pope.

  She made him wait outside. In rags. For three days. In one of the coldest winters on record.

  This would be such a landmark event that the phrase “come to Canossa” became synonymous with “caving in.” Even though Henry’s repentance was nothing but lip service—even receiving official absolution, he continued opposing the pope militarily—he never lived down his defeat.

  In the decades to come, Matilda steadfastly held out against the increasingly overwhelming power of Henry’s forces. Even after Gregory VII passed away and she was virtually the only defender of his successor, she held strong, refusing every compromise that might end the conflict. Her finances became so dire that she melted down 709 pounds of gold and silver in her treasury to keep
up the war effort. She even married a man less than half her age—a marriage arranged by the pope—to shore up support.

  Her persistence paid off. Although she did rack up some significant military victories (notably ambushing and massacring some of Henry IV’s troops in the middle of the night), in the end she just outlasted everyone. Henry IV, the “antipope”* Henry had backed as an alternative to Gregory VII, Pope Gregory VII himself, and Gregory’s successor all died, while Matilda soldiered on. Once the entire generation of people waging the conflict had passed, Matilda accepted a compromise of sorts from Henry IV’s appropriately named successor Henry V and laid down her sword. In return, Henry V dubbed her Imperial Vicar Vice-Queen of Italy.

  By this point, Matilda was a legend. Her image had been bandied back and forth by both sides. The papist forces held her up as a virginal “daughter of God,” while her enemies claimed that she was the pope’s mistress. Some biographers extended her legend back to her childhood, claiming she was leading an army of 400 archers by the time she was 15 (possible, but unlikely). Others were not such fans. Henry IV’s biographer, Bishop Benzo of Alba, described her as os vulvae, which roughly translates to “cunt face.”

  Her fiery spirit stayed with her to the end of her days. At age 69, while she was in Mantua being treated for gout, the townspeople rose up against the local magistrate in rebellion. Annoyed by this sudden clamor, she threatened to lead an army against them if they didn’t quiet down. They did.

  Moll Cutpurse

  (1584–1659, ENGLAND)

  London’s Queen of Thieves

  Quick, pop quiz! A woman in Shakespearean-era England, on trial for stealing, theft, cross-dressing, and pimping, shows up to her trial blindingly drunk, still wearing men’s clothing. Does she:

  A. Get a hefty fine?

  B. Have her hand branded to indicate she’s a thief?

  C. Become the main character of a popular stage play?

  D. All of the above?

  The answer is D. Meet Mary Frith, alias Moll Cutpurse.

  Moll was a notorious character from a young age. As early as age 16, she was caught stealing and then set to be shipped off for reformation of her character. Once the ship left port, she jumped overboard and swam to shore.

  Once settled back in London, she became known as the “Roaring Girl,” a play on the term “roaring boys”—bar-brawling drunks who were the soccer hooligans of their day. Early in her career, she stole purses from passersby while they were distracted by her accomplices (hence “Cutpurse”), but later in life she grew into a sophisticated elder stateswoman among thieves.

  As London’s unofficial queen of thieves, Moll’s range of services expanded tremendously. Not only could she arrange escort services for anyone who asked—male or female—she could also retrieve stolen items. Should some ne’er-do-well (say, an escort hired through Moll) relieve you of a precious heirloom, Moll could get it back to you. For a price, of course.

  As the years passed, her personal life became more colorful. In addition to her everyday male uniform, she began wearing an array of daggers, swords, and (presumably for contrast) flowers. Her house—maintained by three maids—was awash in mirrors and home to numerous parrots and mastiffs. Legend has it that each of the dogs even had its own bed and that Moll would tuck them in each night after feeding them hand-prepared meals.

  However, Moll’s most infamous stunt was likely her daring ride across London in men’s clothing. In this case, “daring” is literal—she was challenged to parade herself across the city in full defiance of ordinances against female-to-male cross-dressing. Not only did she do just that, but she did so atop the famous “counting horse” Marocco, a performing animal that could dance, play dice, and, of course, count.

  Now, how much of all this is actually true? Probably not much. We know from her numerous court cases that she was indeed constantly in trouble with the law. We know she regularly took the stage during performances of the play about her own life (The Roaring Girl) and played the lute—amusing the crowd and angering the authorities. The rest, though? Folklore. Much of it stems from her “autobiography,” a document roughly as trustworthy as Moll herself.

  • ART NOTES •

  Moll is here situated onstage at the Fortune Theatre, a contemporary of the Globe Theatre (where Shakespeare’s works were performed). She’s joined by a mastiff, an exotic bird, and Marocco the counting horse (in glasses, so you know he’s smart), all fighting the authorities.

  She’s got flowers tucked in her cap, as was the style of the time, and is, of course, dressed in men’s clothes. Strewn about her are the cut purses from which she derived her name, and you can see T-shaped scars on her hand—from the punishment for her thievery.

  Nellie Bly

  (1864–1922, UNITED STATES)

  and Elizabeth Bisland

  (1861–1929, UNITED STATES)

  The Journalists Who Raced Around the World in 80 Days

  The idea was simple: beat Phileas Fogg.

  At the close of the 19th century, the mild-mannered hero of Jules Verne’s Around the World in 80 Days loomed large in the public imagination. With the European colonization of much of the world, such a speedy circumnavigation of the globe—once a flight of fancy—seemed increasingly possible. The only thing left was for someone to actually do it.*

  Two someones, actually.

  Nellie Bly (real name: Elizabeth Jane Cochrane) was famous before she ever began the trip: two years earlier, she’d faked insanity to be admitted into an asylum on Blackwell’s Island (now known as Roosevelt Island in New York City). There for 10 days, she reported on filthy conditions, abuse bordering on torture, and inmates who found themselves admitted owing to no more than an inability to speak English. Her work resulted in increased oversight and a massive increase in the mental health budget by the government.

  She went on to write more stunt pieces. She exposed a corrupt lobbyist, ending his career. She trained as a boxer. She bought a baby to expose the white slave trade. She identified a rapist carriage driver who’d bought off the police. She became so popular that imitators began edging in on her turf. And then, in 1889, she came up with her biggest stunt yet: she was going to go around the world in less than 80 days.

  She just didn’t know she’d be racing against someone else.

  Elizabeth Bisland was the polar opposite of Bly. A statuesque, genteel woman from a desperately poor background in Louisiana, she’d made her name in journalism through sheer force of will. Arriving in New York City with just $50, she worked for four newspapers simultaneously, writing for 18 hours at a stretch. Living by the idea that “after the period of sex-attraction has passed, women have no power in America,” she put more stock in work than fame—making her one to never refuse an assignment.

  And so, when her editor came to her with the challenge of beating Nellie Bly in a race around the world, despite her misgivings about the piece being mere fluff, Bisland had her bags packed in 30 minutes.

  Nellie traveled impossibly light: she took one small gripsack. That was it. She wanted to combat the notion that women needed tons of luggage.*

  But for all the effort Bly put into countering that stereotype, she was stymied in combating the idea of feminine frailty: new to traveling by boat, she was seasick three times the first night. She landed in England and was quickly off to France, where she met Jules Verne. In a necessarily brief meeting, Verne was outwardly kind, but in private he disparaged her.*

  Quickly becoming accustomed to the fast-paced travel, Bly nevertheless managed to have the occasional bit of fun. In the Suez Canal, she played assistant to a local magician, despite knowing how his tricks worked. When a stuffy Englishman—a trait/nationality pairing she was to find increasingly common and frustrating—demanded to know why she didn’t just expose the magician’s trick, she replied that she wanted to see the poor hardworking man get his money.

  Bisland’s trip did not start nearly as auspiciously. Heading west while Bly went east, the fir
st leg took Bisland on a special mail train through the Midwest. There she found herself at the mercy of a train conductor calling himself “Cyclone Bill.” Bill would fling them through mountain passes so fast that sparks would fly from the wheels and the sides of the train would lift into the air and then slam down. Ignoring pleas to slow down, Bill got them to Ogden, Utah, on time, wandered into a bar, and was never seen again.

  After that, things went fairly smoothly. Bisland made it to the West Coast, and then to Japan and Hong Kong, without incident. Stressed to make the best time possible, she lamented her inability to see the sights. She wrote of her fleeting glimpses of kabuki plays, Sikh policemen, and, unfortunately, giant rats. By Christmas, she’d made it as far as Singapore.

  By this time, the competing newspapers sponsoring the two women were ramping up their publicity. The New York World, Bly’s patron, opened up a contest asking readers to predict Bly’s arrival time to the second—a game that attracted seemingly every lunatic amateur numerologist in America. Bisland’s sponsor, Cosmopolitan magazine (yes, that Cosmopolitan), spent most of its efforts trying to rope its competitor into a bet over who’d arrive first. It was unsuccessful.

  Bly, still blissfully unaware that she even had a competitor, bought her only souvenir from the trip: the world’s most ill-tempered monkey, whom she named McGinty. Over the course of the journey, this foul hellbeast would fight shiphands, maul a stewardess, and generally make enemies wherever it went.

  In Asia, Bly suffered a number of misfortunes. First, her ships were delayed owing to mechanical failures and weather. Second: she had a stalker. A lovesick sailor followed her around the boat for days, blind to her indifference (and deaf to her claims to be engaged to the ship’s captain). Things came to a head when he proposed to jump overboard with her and drown them both. The captain, thankfully, intervened, and her suitor gave her no trouble after that.*