by Tracy Borman
In fact, this was to be a fleeting high point in their relationship. Even as Mary rode through the streets of London in celebration of her triumph, accompanied by Elizabeth as a demonstration of the unity of the Tudor dynasty, the seeds of discord were already being sown. Naturally introspective and lacking her father’s ability to charm and enthrall the crowds, Mary progressed through them, responding awkwardly to their cheers and appearing distant and aloof. When a group of poor children sang a verse in her honor, it was noted with disapproval that she “said nothing to them in reply.”2 By contrast, Elizabeth, who had inherited Henry VIII’s gift for public relations in abundance, attracted the most attention as she gracefully inclined her head and waved her hand, making every member of the crowds that thronged the streets feel that she had saluted him or her personally. As the procession gained ground, she drew loud cheers and used her instinct for the theatrical to attract more still. “Her Grace, by holding up her hands and merry countenance to such as stood far off, and most tender and gentle language to those that stood nigh … did declare herself thankfully to receive her people’s good will,” remarked one bystander.3
Elizabeth’s popularity was enhanced by her appearance. With her “comely” face, long, flowing red hair, “fine eyes,” and youthful exuberance, she enjoyed by far the greater share of beauty between the two sisters. The Venetian ambassador remarked how much she resembled her mother.4 Like Anne, Elizabeth was not recognized as a conventional beauty, but she knew how to make the best of herself, and she had that same indefinable allure that drew men to her. She was also taller than her sister, who was described as being “of low rather than of middling stature.” Although she was only in her midthirties, Mary appeared much older. The turmoil and sadness of her youth had aged her prematurely, and the sombre, tight-lipped expression she wore did nothing to lift her lined face. “At present, with the exception of some wrinkles, caused more by anxieties than by age, which make her appear some years older, her aspect, for the rest, is very grave,” remarked the Venetian ambassador. Her appearance was not helped by the fact that she had lost nearly all her teeth in her twenties. Among her most noticeable features were her eyes, which were so piercing that they “inspire, not only respect, but fear, in those on whom she fixes them.” In fact, Mary’s tendency to stare intently at people was due more to her severe shortsightedness than an intention to intimidate, but her gruff voice, which was “rough and loud, almost like a man’s,” did not make her any more appealing.5
Although she loved fine clothes and paid a great deal of attention to her wardrobe, Mary lacked the sense of style that came so naturally to her half sister. She would adorn herself in richly decorated gowns of bright colors that clashed with her red hair rather than complementing it. Even the Spanish ambassador was forced to admit that if she dressed more stylishly, then “she would not look so old and flabby.”6 By contrast, Elizabeth dressed with understated elegance, favoring simple gowns of white or green that set off her coloring to perfection. While Mary was embarrassed by her sexuality and preferred to hide her emaciated figure in heavy, high-necked gowns, Elizabeth flaunted hers with a knowingness beyond her years, exuding a sex appeal that many men at court found irresistible.
Despite their differences, the sisters made a convincing show of unity in these critical early days of the new reign. With every prospect that Mary would rule for a long time, and perhaps even beget an heir, Elizabeth had reason to court her favor. She also sought to benefit from her half sister’s experience as the first queen regnant for more than four hundred years. Not since Matilda had claimed the throne in 1141 had England seen a woman rule in her own right. That episode had spelled disaster, plunging the country into a prolonged civil war. The subsequent examples of Isabella, wife of Edward II, and Henry IV’s queen, Margaret of Anjou—both of whom had tried to seize power—provided further proof of how disastrous it was for the country when a woman was at the helm. Little wonder that Henry VIII had been so desperate in his pursuit of a male heir. When this heir himself had lain dying and his councillors had tried to justify preventing Mary from inheriting the throne, they had protested “the inferiority of the female sex,” which was a flimsy argument, given that they had subsequently named another woman as heir.7
Most of Edward VI’s subjects shared these prejudices. Even though there was no law forbidding a woman to reign, in contrast to France, it was not seen as desirable. Quite apart from Matilda’s unfortunate example, there was the fact that women were generally regarded as the weaker sex, entirely dependent upon and subservient to fathers, husbands, and brothers. They could manage affairs of a domestic nature, but not affairs of state. Queens were there to produce heirs, not to rule. Even those who had proved themselves capable of understanding and dealing with greater matters faced the seemingly impenetrable barrier of male prejudice. “A woman is never feared or respected as a man is, whatever her rank,” explained Mary, queen dowager of Hungary, to Charles V, when resigning her regency.
To many men, the very concept of a woman ruling over them was not just abhorrent, it was unnatural. “To promote a woman to beare rule, superioritie, dominion or empire above any realme, nation or citie, is repugnant to nature, contumelie to God, a thing most contrarious to his reveled will and approved ordinance, and finalie it is the subversion of good order, of all equitie and justice,” railed the Protestant preacher John Knoxe. Women, he argued, were “weake, fraile, impacient, feble and foolish: and experience hath declared them to be un-constant, variable, cruell and lacking the spirit of counsel and regiment.”8
Despite the almost universal hostility to female rulers, Mary had at least ascended the throne on a wave of popularity. Also in her favor was the example provided by her maternal grandmother, the formidable Isabella of Castile, who had been one of the greatest rulers in Spanish history, combining the apparently conflicting duties of military leadership and producing heirs with staggering success. Mary’s mother, Catherine of Aragon, had been an immensely popular queen, albeit a traditional consort rather than a ruler in her own right. If Mary had wished, she could have drawn upon these strengths and shattered the perceptions of female rule by setting herself up as a powerful figurehead, providing decisive leadership for her country. But in truth, she was every bit as conservative in her attitude toward women’s place in society as her male courtiers. Therefore, although she undoubtedly had the courage and capacity for hard work to make a success of her new role, she lacked the vital ingredient of political confidence, convinced that her sex was a fatal impediment to her ruling effectively.
Nevertheless, she went through all the due ceremonies inherent in establishing a new sovereign’s position. First was the task of establishing her government and household. Her sex caused further complications here. Traditionally, officials in both the king’s privy chamber and his council had been of equal importance, and in some cases interchangeable. With the accession of a queen regnant, who must be attended by female servants, this could no longer continue. All the much-coveted positions in Mary’s privy chamber were awarded to women. At a stroke, this effectively neutralized the household department that had long been the most politically important, because, unlike their male counterparts, women could not serve their sovereign in both a personal and a political capacity.
Mary set the tone of court life by appointing ladies of irreproachable character, such as Susan Clarencieux and Jane Dormer, who served her with the utmost loyalty and had no ambition to interfere in matters of government. All the Queen’s ladies were staunch Catholics, and coupled with their high morals, they made her privy chamber a sober and devout retreat, which was very much to the taste of their royal mistress. The later contrast to Elizabeth’s glittering court filled with glamorous attendants could not have been greater. Upon first arriving in England, a member of Philip II of Spain’s entourage would remark: “The Queen is well served with … many ladies, most of whom are so far from beautiful as to be downright ugly,” complained one of Philip II’s entourage,
“though I know not why this should be so, for outside the palace I have seen plenty of beautiful women with lovely faces.”9
The presence of the thirty or so women who surrounded the new queen was a constant in Mary’s life. Very much a woman’s woman, she revelled in their company and valued their advice, and was so jealous of their affection that she disapproved of their leaving her service to marry. Neither did she wish them to meddle in matters of government, and she made it clear that they should restrict their activities to household affairs. In both these respects, she anticipated the attitude shown by her half sister—much more extremely—when she became queen.
As well as her household attendants, Mary also had to appoint her councillors. This was no easy task, for there were two opposing forces in government, and she could not risk alienating either. The first was her inner circle of supporters, who had proved loyal during the uncertain years leading up to her accession. The second comprised the men who had held power during her brother’s reign, and who had been responsible for the coup that had placed Lady Jane Grey upon the throne. The latter had apologized profusely to Mary, assuring her of their allegiance. Although she still did not trust them, she could not afford to dismiss them because most had considerable influence in their localities. She therefore created a council which, compared to those that had served her father and brother, was large and unwieldy, bringing together staunch Catholics and reformers. Although there were inevitably tensions among such a large and diverse body of men, all were united by their loyalty to the Tudor regime.
Mary’s government and household thus established, the next priority was to organize the ceremony of her coronation. This was not a simple task, for there was no guidance for the anointing of a woman as a ruler in her own right. The only precedents to draw upon were those for the coronation of a queen consort. In the event, it was decided to proceed with all of the ceremonials that would have been accorded a male ruler. Thus Mary eschewed the traditional white worn by queen consorts to their coronations, and donned the blue of kings. She also wore the customary gold trelliswork cap and gold garland, both embellished with jewels and pearls, which her male predecessors had worn—although these proved too heavy for her delicate frame, and she had to hold them up with her hands as she rode beneath the canopy of state.
An impressive array of knights, councillors, peers, and ecclesiastics accompanied her procession, together with an unprecedented number of ladies—one report estimated as many as seventy. Elizabeth was given a place of honor, along with her former stepmother, Anne of Cleves. The two women shared an open chariot richly arrayed with crimson velvet and cloth of silver. It was pulled by six horses bedecked in the same gorgeous material. Elizabeth and Anne were also given new dresses made from a similarly rich silver material, so the whole sight must have been quite spectacular to the onlookers who thronged the processional route. When Elizabeth and her former stepmother alighted at the Abbey, they walked together directly behind the new queen. Once inside, everything proceeded according to the council’s carefully laid plans. Mary received the full anointing of a male sovereign, “on the shoulders, on the breast, on the forehead and on the temples.”10 She was now England’s first crowned queen regnant.11
Even though her coronation had been an undoubted success, strengthening Mary’s image as queen, there remained some complex legislative problems as a result of her sex. All the monarchical powers were based upon a male ruler, and it was not clear whether they could or should apply to a woman. This uncertainty could not continue, so in April 1554, Parliament passed “An Acte for declaring that the Regall power of thys realme is in the Quenes Maiestie as fully and absolutely as ever it was in anye her mooste noble progenytours kynges of thys Realme.”12 Put simply, the act determined that there would be no distinction between male and female with regard to the powers of the crown. This would potentially benefit not just Mary but every subsequent queen regnant. Mary herself, though, failed to exploit the powers it gave her, and it was only when Elizabeth ascended the throne that its full potential was realized.
But Mary was no pushover. One contemporary observer described her as having “a terrible and obstinate nature,” and at least initially, she set about the task of governing with determination and conscientiousness.13 Keen to get to grips with matters of state, she would spend long hours forgoing both food and sleep as she pored over official documents, deliberated over appointments, and tried to solve problems that would have tested the most experienced politician. She also displayed a fierce resolve to return England to the Roman Catholic fold, and would pursue this ambition with increasingly blind fanaticism over the ensuing years. But although her upbringing had given her this sense of purpose and courage, it had not given her the skill of leadership. Mary had none of the guile and shrewdness necessary to succeed in the fickle world of Tudor politics, and she ceded much of her authority to her councillors. “Respecting the government and public business, she is compelled (being of a sex which cannot becomingly take more than a moderate part in them), according to the custom of other sovereigns, to refer many matters to her councillors and ministers,” observed the Venetian ambassador.14 She was also dangerously single minded, governed by principle rather than pragmatism—the exact opposite of her half sister.
If Mary was blind to these faults, she was painfully aware of what she perceived as her essential weakness as a woman. Within weeks of her accession, she told the Imperial ambassador that she “knew not how to make herself safe and arrange her affairs.”15 As a result, her response to the challenge of carving out a position for herself as England’s first queen regnant for centuries was to resort to the conventionally female strategy of seeking a husband. Desperate to relieve herself of at least some of the burden of government and to relinquish, as Ambassador Renard put it, “those duties which were not the province of ladies,”16 she made it clear that her first priority was to marry. Her councillors assumed that she would consult them on such a weighty matter, but Mary had already made up her mind. The bond she had forged with her cousin Charles V during childhood had been strengthened by the natural affinity she felt for Spain because of her late mother. Although Charles had broken their early betrothal by marrying his cousin, Isabella of Portugal, he now had a son of marriageable age.
At the time of Mary Tudor’s accession, Philip of Spain was twenty-six years old, some eleven years her junior. He had already been married once, at the age of sixteen, to Maria Manuela, Princess of Portugal, who had died giving birth to his son, Don Carlos, two years later. Already inclined to favor Philip because of his connection with her mother’s homeland, and having precious little experience with men, Mary is said to have fallen desperately in love with him upon first seeing his portrait. She was now even more determined that this was the man she would marry, and would brook no opposition from her council. Neither—fatally—did she appreciate the strength of feeling among her xenophobic people, who had enough to deal with in reconciling themselves to a female ruler, let alone one who had allied herself to a foreigner. “The English … are most hostile by their nature to foreigners,” remarked the Venetian ambassador.17 Clearly this official, who had spent little time in England compared to Mary, understood it better than she did herself.
Her councillors were also well aware of the anti-Spanish feeling, but realizing that it was futile to attempt to dissuade the Queen from her choice, they determined to carve out a marriage settlement that would significantly restrict her intended husband’s powers. Although it was agreed that Philip “should have and enjoy jointly together with the said most noble Queen his wife the style, honour and kingly name of the Realm,” his role was confined to simply “aiding” Mary, rather than ruling over her, as would be the expected prerogative of any other husband. A number of specific limitations to his authority were then spelled out, including the inability to control appointments to office and to take his wife out of the realm without her express consent. Neither was he to drag England into his father’s wars with Franc
e. Even her royal jewels were denied him. In short, from the council’s perspective, it was imperative to safeguard Mary’s identity as queen regnant from her position as Philip’s wife.
Philip himself and his Spanish advisers clearly saw the situation very differently. They expected him to provide the masculine leadership so lacking in Mary’s sovereignty. He would not just advise her; he would rule for her and “make up for other matters which are impertinent to women.”18 It seems that Mary herself believed that this would be the case, for she made no secret of her desire for guidance from her new husband. She also hoped above all that the marriage would provide her with that other essential prerequisite of sovereignty: an heir.
Once the marriage settlement had been agreed to in January 1554, the council published it in order to allay the suspicions of the people, who feared that England would become a mere hand puppet to the might of the Spanish empire. But these fears remained: a fact of which, in her excitement at the prospect of Philip’s arrival, Mary was blissfully unaware. Her councillors were acutely conscious of them, however, and put further safeguards in place by including terms specific to the forthcoming royal marriage in an act, which also confirmed the equality of male and female power. Although this allowed Philip to “ayde your highnes, being his wife, in the happye administracion” of her realms, it went on: “that youre maiestye as our onely Quene, shal and may, solye and as a sole quene use, have, and enioye the Crowne and Soverayntye of, and over your Realmes, Dominions and Subiectes … as your grace hath had … before the solemnization of the sayde mariage.”19