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Have I really let about two years pass without a discussion of a Tudor biography? Yes? How awful. Let's catch up, with some chatter about Alison Weir's Mary Boleyn, Henry VIII's mistress – and the sister of his second wife, Anne Boleyn, executed after a few years of married life, since by that point Henry VIII wanted to make the ending of that marriage very, very final.
If you're unfamiliar with Alison Weir, she's a biographer who in the last couple of decades has made a nice career out of writing biographies of British royals, primarily from the Tudor period. Her works are usually competently written and well footnoted. But all of this time spent in Tudor archives has created one slight problem that has appeared in previous books: Weir has developed a hatred for Anne Boleyn, which keeps spilling over into other works, and makes it particularly difficult for her to write an unbiased biography of her sister.
Weir does try, and, more so than in her other books, provides alternative viewpoints or explanations, giving due weight to previous scholars and novelists (I suspect she's received several questions about The Other Boleyn Girl, book and movie, given the number of times this book is mentioned here.) Nonetheless, the hatred – almost venom – for Anne Boleyn slips through here, more than once. For instance, in a chapter where Weir takes some pains to point out that the rumors regarding Mary Boleyn's escapades in France may be greatly exaggerated, she claims that Anne Boleyn lost her virginity in France, to Henry's great disappointment – based on one single comment from an enemy's of Anne.
As I've noted previously, it must be difficult to read contemporary sources and not start hating Anne Boleyn – many of her contemporaries had excellent reasons for at least disliking her, if not outright hating her, and they did not hesitate to write these opinions down. Our primary source for her life is the hostile letters from one Eustace Chapuys, the ambassador from the Holy Roman Empire and Spain to the English court, who (correctly) saw Anne Boleyn as a pro-French and thus political enemy, and also saw her as the personal enemy of Catherine of Aragon, a woman he admired very much. His opinion is thus understandably biased – but it is the most detailed opinion that we have, and thus, influential.
But Weir's careful attempts to give an unbiased portrayal of and defend Mary Boleyn against the accusations of contemporaries and historians alike only highlight her bias towards Anne Boleyn. And, in her zeal to defend Mary Boleyn – a historical figure that, as Weir rightfully points out, we can know very little about – she does something odd: she makes Mary Boleyn seem bland.
Yes, bland. Mary was the mistress of at least one and more probably two kings (although Weir rushes to defend her against the charge that she also slept with the king of France, and makes a credible argument that this may not have been true, whatever Mary's later reputation.) She married twice, once to a prominent courtier, and later to a considerably less prominent courtier, a marriage so unworthy of the king's sister-in-law (as she was by that time) that she was banished from court. Her daughter, Katherine Carey, though given the name of Mary's first husband, may well have been Henry VIII's illegitimate daughter (Weir concludes that the evidence for this is suggestive, but not conclusive – possibly Mary herself was not sure.) Her children became prominent and trusted members of Elizabeth I's court, allowing her son Henry, Lord Hunsdon, to create a large and horrifically overdecorated tomb in Westminister Abbey of very dubious taste. (Er. That bit is my opinion, not Weir's.) Mary watched her sister take her place in the king's affections, and watched her sister's fall – and although we cannot know if she witnessed the executions of her sister and brother, she certainly knew of them.
How bland could she have been?
Well, apparently, very bland.
It's partly because we have very few documents surviving about Mary Boleyn -- contemporaries were more dazzled, or appalled, by her sister, and in any case many documents from the period have vanished from time. And partly because this biography, so determined to defend Mary Boleyn from questionable charges, strips her of most of the stories that made her seem such a fascinating figure.
Which is not to say that the book doesn't have its interesting moments. The Tudor obsessed will probably be most fascinated with the detailed chapter called "Hiding Royal Blood," where Weir carefully examines the debatable fertility of Henry VIII, partly to determine who fathered Mary Boleyn's children. She notes that contrary to popular opinion – fostered partly by Henry VIII himself, desperate to have sons – Henry VIII did father a number of children: at least six with Katherine of Aragon (four died shortly after birth, one was born dead, and Mary, the sixth, lived to maturity); four with Anne Boleyn, with one living daughter and three miscarriages (Weir convincingly argues here, and elsewhere, that the pattern suggests that Anne Boleyn was rhesus negative, which in Tudor times generally caused miscarriages and/or infant mortality); one with Jane Seymour; and one acknowledged illegitimate son with Elizabeth Blount.
In this book, Weir makes a strong argument that Henry VIII also sired two more children: Mary's daughter Katherine Carey, and Etheldreda, daughter of a laundress. In the first case, Henry and Mary had excellent reasons for keeping the paternity of Katherine Carey secret – even if Mary had known for sure, and she might not have. In the second case, Etheldreda's mother was, as you might be guessing from her job description, not exactly of the noble class, and hardly a liaison that the king would be bragging about. Nonetheless, Henry VIII provided for Etheldreda financially and ensured she had some sort of education, enough to allow her to work for and become close to Elizabeth I later.
It is highly unlikely, as Weir notes, that Henry VIII would have done this for a random daughter of a laundress (in fact Henry VIII did not provide financially for any of the other children of the various women who did his laundry), and thus, a strong indication that Henry VIII did not always officially acknowledge his illegitimate children, especially if this acknowledgement would be inconvenient. Which in turn eliminates the argument that of course Henry VIII would have acknowledged any children of his with Mary Boleyn. Any such acknowledgement would have been highly inconvenient, especially once Henry was attempting to marry Mary's sister, and ensure that Anne's children had an unquestioned, and above all, stable route to the throne that would avoid civil war. As Weir notes, it's another – if not conclusive – argument in favor for the theory that Katherine Carey was Henry VIII's child.
Details like this, and Weir's carefully constructed arguments, do make this an interesting read. I was just sad that its subject seemed stripped of almost all interest and intrigue.
If you're unfamiliar with Alison Weir, she's a biographer who in the last couple of decades has made a nice career out of writing biographies of British royals, primarily from the Tudor period. Her works are usually competently written and well footnoted. But all of this time spent in Tudor archives has created one slight problem that has appeared in previous books: Weir has developed a hatred for Anne Boleyn, which keeps spilling over into other works, and makes it particularly difficult for her to write an unbiased biography of her sister.
Weir does try, and, more so than in her other books, provides alternative viewpoints or explanations, giving due weight to previous scholars and novelists (I suspect she's received several questions about The Other Boleyn Girl, book and movie, given the number of times this book is mentioned here.) Nonetheless, the hatred – almost venom – for Anne Boleyn slips through here, more than once. For instance, in a chapter where Weir takes some pains to point out that the rumors regarding Mary Boleyn's escapades in France may be greatly exaggerated, she claims that Anne Boleyn lost her virginity in France, to Henry's great disappointment – based on one single comment from an enemy's of Anne.
As I've noted previously, it must be difficult to read contemporary sources and not start hating Anne Boleyn – many of her contemporaries had excellent reasons for at least disliking her, if not outright hating her, and they did not hesitate to write these opinions down. Our primary source for her life is the hostile letters from one Eustace Chapuys, the ambassador from the Holy Roman Empire and Spain to the English court, who (correctly) saw Anne Boleyn as a pro-French and thus political enemy, and also saw her as the personal enemy of Catherine of Aragon, a woman he admired very much. His opinion is thus understandably biased – but it is the most detailed opinion that we have, and thus, influential.
But Weir's careful attempts to give an unbiased portrayal of and defend Mary Boleyn against the accusations of contemporaries and historians alike only highlight her bias towards Anne Boleyn. And, in her zeal to defend Mary Boleyn – a historical figure that, as Weir rightfully points out, we can know very little about – she does something odd: she makes Mary Boleyn seem bland.
Yes, bland. Mary was the mistress of at least one and more probably two kings (although Weir rushes to defend her against the charge that she also slept with the king of France, and makes a credible argument that this may not have been true, whatever Mary's later reputation.) She married twice, once to a prominent courtier, and later to a considerably less prominent courtier, a marriage so unworthy of the king's sister-in-law (as she was by that time) that she was banished from court. Her daughter, Katherine Carey, though given the name of Mary's first husband, may well have been Henry VIII's illegitimate daughter (Weir concludes that the evidence for this is suggestive, but not conclusive – possibly Mary herself was not sure.) Her children became prominent and trusted members of Elizabeth I's court, allowing her son Henry, Lord Hunsdon, to create a large and horrifically overdecorated tomb in Westminister Abbey of very dubious taste. (Er. That bit is my opinion, not Weir's.) Mary watched her sister take her place in the king's affections, and watched her sister's fall – and although we cannot know if she witnessed the executions of her sister and brother, she certainly knew of them.
How bland could she have been?
Well, apparently, very bland.
It's partly because we have very few documents surviving about Mary Boleyn -- contemporaries were more dazzled, or appalled, by her sister, and in any case many documents from the period have vanished from time. And partly because this biography, so determined to defend Mary Boleyn from questionable charges, strips her of most of the stories that made her seem such a fascinating figure.
Which is not to say that the book doesn't have its interesting moments. The Tudor obsessed will probably be most fascinated with the detailed chapter called "Hiding Royal Blood," where Weir carefully examines the debatable fertility of Henry VIII, partly to determine who fathered Mary Boleyn's children. She notes that contrary to popular opinion – fostered partly by Henry VIII himself, desperate to have sons – Henry VIII did father a number of children: at least six with Katherine of Aragon (four died shortly after birth, one was born dead, and Mary, the sixth, lived to maturity); four with Anne Boleyn, with one living daughter and three miscarriages (Weir convincingly argues here, and elsewhere, that the pattern suggests that Anne Boleyn was rhesus negative, which in Tudor times generally caused miscarriages and/or infant mortality); one with Jane Seymour; and one acknowledged illegitimate son with Elizabeth Blount.
In this book, Weir makes a strong argument that Henry VIII also sired two more children: Mary's daughter Katherine Carey, and Etheldreda, daughter of a laundress. In the first case, Henry and Mary had excellent reasons for keeping the paternity of Katherine Carey secret – even if Mary had known for sure, and she might not have. In the second case, Etheldreda's mother was, as you might be guessing from her job description, not exactly of the noble class, and hardly a liaison that the king would be bragging about. Nonetheless, Henry VIII provided for Etheldreda financially and ensured she had some sort of education, enough to allow her to work for and become close to Elizabeth I later.
It is highly unlikely, as Weir notes, that Henry VIII would have done this for a random daughter of a laundress (in fact Henry VIII did not provide financially for any of the other children of the various women who did his laundry), and thus, a strong indication that Henry VIII did not always officially acknowledge his illegitimate children, especially if this acknowledgement would be inconvenient. Which in turn eliminates the argument that of course Henry VIII would have acknowledged any children of his with Mary Boleyn. Any such acknowledgement would have been highly inconvenient, especially once Henry was attempting to marry Mary's sister, and ensure that Anne's children had an unquestioned, and above all, stable route to the throne that would avoid civil war. As Weir notes, it's another – if not conclusive – argument in favor for the theory that Katherine Carey was Henry VIII's child.
Details like this, and Weir's carefully constructed arguments, do make this an interesting read. I was just sad that its subject seemed stripped of almost all interest and intrigue.
