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CHAPTER 1
Henry VII: Who Died and Made Him King?
What is arguably the most interesting dynasty in English royal history almost never came to be. Before the Tudors of Wales became the Tudors, Richard III, head of the house of York, sat on the throne. But during one little battle, Henry Tudor and his guys swept in and finished him off with their weapons. When Richard III's bones were discovered under a Leicester parking lot in 2012, they showed evidence of fatal blows. A sword had entered his skull on one end and came out the other after slicing through his brain, and another segment of his skull had been whacked clear away. The king was dead, long live the new king, Henry VII!
But who did this Henry think he was? Primogeniture, the tradition of passing the crown on from father to oldest son, had been all the rage in England for about four hundred years. Richard III had no surviving heirs when he died and the rest of the children on the York side were either freshly dead (the little princes in the Tower) or female (definitely a problem). But how did Henry Tudor enter the picture?
First, let's talk about Henry himself. His mother, Margaret Beaufort (a powerhouse in an itty-bitty package) was pregnant with him at age thirteen, not unusual for that time period. His father was captured during the Wars of the Roses and died in prison, before his son was born. Even as a boy, this kid oozed self-confidence, so much so that Henry VI stated he was one to whom "both we and our adversaries must yield, and give over the domain." Though his mother remarried later, Henry spent a lot of time with his uncle Jasper, and it was Jasper who took him to France when he was a teenager. As someone with a claim to the throne, Henry was safer in France than in Wales.
The Wars of the Roses were a series of civil wars between two sides of the same family. (This is known today in some families as "the holidays.") The house of York was on one side; the house of Lancaster was on the other. This massive family feud carried on for about thirty years. Henry was the last surviving possibility for the Lancastrians, but the Yorkists were currently in charge in the form of Richard III.
Shortly after his dear brother, Edward IV, died (and Edward's son became Edward V), Richard took the throne for himself. He convinced Parliament that his two nephews were illegitimate because their father was betrothed to another woman before he married their mother. At that time, betrothal held as much weight as marriage, so Richard had no trouble declaring the boys bastards (so much for the one being Edward V; now he was just plain old Edward) and imprisoning them in the Tower of London.
Edward, age twelve, and Richard, age ten, have since been referred to as "the little princes in the Tower," who were seen in the grounds occasionally for a few months after their imprisonment ... and then vanished altogether. In 1674, a chest containing the skeletons of two adolescents was found by workmen who were demolishing stairs leading to the White Tower. While the fate of the two princes has never been determined for certain, many believe these remains were the royal boys. If they were, in fact, murdered, and by whom, is one of English history's enduring mysteries to this day.
Usurper or not, Richard III had only been king for a scant two years when Henry Tudor felt the time was right and whipped up an army of fellow twenty-somethings, marching off to meet Richard and his own army in Leicestershire. Richard III, a seasoned military commander, charged down the hill with his men, who greatly outnumbered the Tudor troops. Henry's supporters assembled themselves into a human shield, which Richard et al hacked their way through laboriously with the intent of securing victory! But no dice: Richard was slain in nothing flat and died from the aforementioned wounds. And then, presto — there was Henry VII.
The new king, known to history as a frugal man, indulged in a rare splash-out for his coronation, a lush event intended to cement the image of the new dynasty and keep Richard — who? — from the minds of his subjects. He marketed himself as the "most Christian and most gracious prince, our most dread sovereign lord," well aware that an endorsement from God Himself was good enough for those medieval subjects.
While careful and conservative, Henry VII was charming and elegant as well, a slim man with wavy brown shoulder-length hair and a penchant for speaking fluent French. This sophistication and culture would certainly be seen in his eventual heir, albeit alongside indulgence and gregariousness. The dignity of his reign would later be cemented as propaganda in the form of the imposing terra-cotta bust created by Pietro Torrigiano, made near the end of Henry's life.
Because family feuds are uncomfortable, and thirty years is a long time, Henry VII was clever enough to wrap up the Wars of the Roses by marrying Elizabeth of York, Richard III's niece and the only family member left on the York side. It was an opportunistic move at first: pair up with the girl from the other side of the conflict, relocate her mother to a nunnery, bring peace and happiness to all of England (except, of course, the mother in the nunnery, as well as Richard III's supporters).
Elizabeth's own father was military mastermind Edward IV, the first Yorkist king and father of the little princes, so she was certainly a fine catch from a fine background. Pairing up with Edward's daughter was a smart move on Henry Tudor's part, and the fulfillment of a promise he'd made to her mother, Elizabeth Woodville, who expected Henry to avenge the deaths of her sons, the little princes in the Tower. The Welshman was psyched to do so, and as word of the assumed murder of the princes spread, Richard III was becoming more unpopular by the day. This created the perfect opportunity for Henry to make his move on the battlefield, and then in marriage.
The nice surprise for Henry VII was that his lovely blue-eyed blonde was kind, generous, liked to dance and hunt, and kept greyhounds. This was a refreshing combination in a medieval princess, and he couldn't pass it up. Unlike their successors, Henry VII and his Queen of Hearts didn't have fertility issues. Elizabeth gave birth to their first child, Prince Arthur, just eight months after their wedding. Six children followed, though only three survived into their teens.
The oldest girl, Margaret, was tearfully handed over to James IV of Scotland in marriage, in the hopes that England and Scotland could finally play nicely. Some years down the road, her husband and his army would head south to challenge Henry VIII and his control over that northern land. An arrow through the jaw later, at Flodden Field, James IV was no more, leaving his baby son and future father of Mary Queen of Scots as king of Scotland. Pay attention, because that point will be important later!
Another daughter, the lovely and spoiled Mary, was matched up with the elderly Louis XII of France. Just before she became la reine, she chatted to her brother about what her life would be like after the old king was dead. No dust on her!
She made it clear that she wanted Groom #2 to be Charles Brandon, her brother's gorgeous friend and the duke of Suffolk. Louis XII died only a few months after their wedding, reportedly of "exhaustions in the bed chamber," and Mary didn't waste much time in marrying Brandon. They eventually became grandparents to Lady Jane Grey, another significant fact that will come in handy later in the dynasty.
As for the heir, fifteen-year-old Arthur married a keeper, Catherine of Aragon. Her parents were Ferdinand and Isabella of Castile, so this pairing was golden for the Tudors. But just four months after their wedding, Arthur died suddenly. Less than a year after that, Elizabeth of York succumbed to complications after giving birth to a daughter, who also died soon after. Understandably, Henry VII was heartbroken and ducked out of public view completely for six weeks. He came down with an illness similar to tuberculosis and it nearly killed him. However, he bounced back and got on with the business of raising his new heir, Prince Henry.
In time, the king was encouraged to remarry for diplomatic reasons. Sensing that her daughter, Henry VII's widowed daughter-in-law Catherine of Aragon, might be in his line of vision, Isabella of Castille tried a distraction: "Hey look, over there, something shiny! It's Joan, Queen of Naples!" The king was interested enough to send his ambassadors to get the goods on Joan; he clearly wanted to know what he might be getting into. Aside from needing to know the height of her forehead and the possibility of hair on her upper lip, Henry told the ambassadors to answer the following questions: How was her complexion? Were her arms big or small, long or short? Was the palm of her hand thick or thin? Were her hands fat or lean, long or short? Were her fingers long or short, small or great, broad or narrow? Was her neck long or short, small or great?
Were her breasts big or small? You know, the usual concerns.
The answers were promising: Her complexion was clean, fair, and sanguine. Her arms were somewhat round and not very small, but "of good proportion to her personage and stature of height." Her hands were somewhat full, soft, fair, and clean-skinned, and her fingers were fair and small. Her neck was full and comely, not misshapen, not very short nor very long. However, it appeared shorter "because her breasts were full and somewhat big" as well as "highly trussed."
But it just didn't work out in the end, money and politics and all. There's no word on whether the king gave Joan the "it's not thee, it's me" speech.
Before long, his tuberculosis was back with a vengeance. His breathing was labored, his joints were racked with arthritis, and his final hours were spent beating himself up with guilt over the lives he'd destroyed. This well-organized micro-manager had been planning for his death ever since that first bout with TB, a decade earlier. When the disease finally won, Henry left England in a strong financial position, with a promising heir. What could possibly go wrong?
CHAPTER 2
Henry VIII: The Notorious HRH
Little Prince Henry was merely "the spare" in his royal family. Although he wasn't groomed to be king, he collected quite a few titles before the age of four: Lord Lieutenant of Ireland, Duke of York, Knight of the Garter, All-Around Lovely Chap.
Young Henry was an activity whirlwind: tennis, archery, jousting, fencing, wrestling — there was no shortage of physical outlets for the little prince. During the king's early years, the Venetian ambassador, Sebastian Guistinian marveled that "it is the prettiest thing in the world to see [Henry VIII] play [tennis]; his fair skin glowing through a shirt of the finest texture." One can only assume he was equally awe-inspiring while taking part in other sports, a departure from our image of an obese and sedentary madman.
His education was well-rounded; the kid was immersed in the Classics, math, reading, writing, and French. In later years, he'd stockpile books and devour their contents, donning his glasses when settling down to enjoying his reading time in his bedchamber. Similarly, music (his forte) would follow him to adulthood, much to the benefit of Thomas Tallis, the versatile and prolific composer who enjoyed the patronage of not only Henry VIII but also the rest of the Tudor monarchs to follow.
Ultimately, the spare would not only step up to the plate when the heir dropped out, but he would also rock the monarchy (and the institution of marriage) in an unprecedented way. Five hundred years later, the man is still analyzed, lionized, criticized. On one hand, who goes to such measures simply for a son? What's wrong with girls? Maybe one of them would even amount to something great, who knows? And the whole smashing-up-the-monasteries thing, religious persecution, and battling it out with the Vatican — for what? For England? Maybe. His ego? Perhaps for a little of both: his bloodline.
Henry VIII — tyrant, serial husband, big-boned gastronome — was once a beloved little newborn in the royal Tudor household. As the second son, he was never meant to be king, and yet there he was after the untimely death of his older brother. (The Spanish ambassador reported that, upon Henry's accession, the people were as joyful as if they'd just made a prison break.)
Aside from being the cause of much celebration, this charming boy also needed to become the powerful ruler. Surrounded by friends, women, toadying courtiers, and low-lying enemies, he needed to navigate the waters and somehow pass on his genetic code to the more respected sex — by having boys, and lots of them.
While his father had the kingdom's paperwork well under control, other things vied for the new Henry's attention: the aforementioned activities, theology, and carnal pleasures. He loved showing off the grandeur of his court and the fact that he was young, energetic, and hooked on opulence. His subjects adored rather than feared him. Guistinian, again, offered that Henry was "magnificent, liberal, and an enemy of the French." (Probably impressive for the English, but pas grand-chose for the French.) And Erasmus described him as "a man of gentle friendliness ... more like a companion than a king."
Yet things got messy. The man is a legend after all these centuries partly because of the dichotomy that existed within him. Was he a monster? An egotistical maniac? A product of his time period and environment? His reputation precedes him; Henry VIII is probably the most notorious Tudor of all. And in a dynasty teeming with power struggles and other drama, that's no small feat.
SIZE MATTERS
Henry's weight is often a source of debate. There is the misconception that he had always been a tub of fun, chewing on a turkey leg and washing it down with gallons of mead. The truth is, young Henry was a vision of hotness, a trim and handsome prince who was to jousting what David Beckham became to soccer.
His armor, on display at the Tower of London, shows his weight gain from time period to time period. When he was twenty-three, his waist measured 34.7 inches; by age twenty-eight, it was up to 36 inches. During this time, he was married to Catherine of Aragon. He didn't marry Anne Boleyn until his early forties, and while at that point he wasn't necessarily still at underwear-model standards, he was not yet "fat."
In January 1536, the king was knocked from his horse during a jousting match. To add insult to injury, his armored horse landed right on top of him. That had to hurt. And it knocked him out for two hours to boot. Some historians believe this to be the point when Henry's personality started its downslide. He became angry and paranoid. And when Papa's not happy, ain't nobody happy (to paraphrase).
Anne was executed in May of the same year and King Grouch became less and less active, although he found himself a new sweetheart in Jane Seymour. After her untimely death, Henry mourned by sitting around on his rump and eating massive quantities of food, but refusing to balance out his caloric intake with physical activity. His unhealthy change in size was under way.
In 1539, at age forty-eight, shortly before he married Anne of Cleves, Henry was wearing armor with a waistline of fifty-one inches! And he just kept growing. But we have to remember that the gross and tyrannical Henry that often comes to mind was, for the most part, a later-in-life version of the monarch who started out quite pleasant — appearance- and personality-wise.
Much of the king's drama and appeal (depending on your view) was his all-consuming desire for a son. Since his father's victory at Bosworth Field was not necessarily the be-all and end-all in terms of job security, Henry VIII's claim to the throne wouldn't be airtight until he had at least a few legitimate sons lined up to take his place when the time rolled around.
He called it quits with Catherine of Aragon, had Anne Boleyn cut down to size, finally rejoiced about the fruit of Jane Seymour's womb, and probably just gave up with the rest of them, deep down inside.
But here's the kicker: he already had a son. A legitimate one? No, of course not. But there was no worry about whether he could produce sons because of a certain Elizabeth "Bessie" Blount, euphemistically referred to as "the king's pastime" among the members of his privy chamber. A gorgeous maid of honor to Catherine of Aragon, she carried on with the king for eight years of his first marriage, and gave birth to his first son in 1519.
The boy's name was Henry, fittingly, and we see him referred to as Henry Fitzroy. Let's check out the origin of that name: Fitz is from the French fils (pronounced feese), which means "son." Roy is from the French roi (pronounced something like rwah but it's a tough one if you aren't a native French speaker), which means "king." So Fitzroy is actually "son of the king." Well, bastard son of the king, to be exact.
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "The Tudor Tutor"
by .
Copyright © 2015 Barb Alexander and Lisa Graves.
Excerpted by permission of Skyhorse Publishing.
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