This Day in English History (Birth of Catherine of Aragon, First—and Best—of Henry’s Six Wives)

Dec. 16, 1485—Catherine of Aragon, whose marriage into the Tudor dynasty was intended to advance power relations between two of Europe’s major royal houses but wound up putting them at odds and widening the continent’s Catholic-Protestant fracture, was born in Alcala de Henares, Spain, the last child of King Ferdinand of Aragon and Queen Isabella of Castile.

Catherine’s pivotal role in the fate of Europe came about, of course, because she was the first of the six wives of King Henry VIII of England—the king whose desire to obtain a divorce set off England’s violent and protracted split from Catholicism. For years, schoolchildren desperate to distinguish her fate from that of her successors as Henry’s wives remembered that she was the first in the following helpful mnemonic device:

“Divorced, beheaded, died;
Divorced, beheaded, survived.”

I first became aware of this wronged woman back in the summer of 1971, through the U.S. premiere of the BBC mini-series The Six Wives of Henry VIII. As fine as the series (and especially Keith Michell as Henry) was, it helped further the general visual representation of Catherine as an aging, tired, pious spouse unable to compete with court minx Anne Boleyn.

That picture needs some adjustment. Particularly at the beginning of their marriage in 1509, Catherine was regarded as having few rivals for beauty in England. At the time, 18-year-old Henry not only had no problems with her, but was even eager to wed this attractive widow of his older, sicklier brother, Prince Arthur. “She was 23, plump and pretty, and had beautiful red-gold hair that hung below her hips,” according to historian Alison Weir. “Henry spoke openly of the joy and felicity he had found with Catherine.”

Many people have written about Catherine over the years, in fiction and nonfiction alike. One of the more fascinating accounts is Garrett Mattingly’s 1941 biography, Catherine of Aragon, which approaches her from his primary interest: diplomatic history. 

Expertly using recently discovered archives in Vienna and Brussels, Mattingly depicted a woman who needed all her strength, intelligence and faith to keep her footing amid neglect by her father, court intrigues waged by royals, envoys and clerics, and settlement in a strange foreign land—all at the hands of males who, more often than not, did not have her best interests in mind.

But one drawback of this biography is its author’s male point of view. Mattingly simply couldn’t understand why Catherine might quarrel with Henry over his infidelity. After all, royal wenching was the norm in that time. Even Catherine’s father, Ferdinand, was unfaithful.

It seems never to have occurred to Mattingly that some women are sincerely bothered by husbands who can’t control their wayward impulses—and don’t even try.

There is a further irony in Catherine’s sad fate: though Henry came to fault her inability to produce a male heir, neither could Anne Boleyn--and the one he was eventually able to have, crowned Edward VI, lasted on the throne only six years before dying himself.

For all his sexism, Mattingly couldn’t help praising Catherine for her “core of iron self-reliance [and] lonely stubbornness.” Like him and the current saucy interpreter of the royals, Lucy Worsley, I, too, am a member of “Team Catherine.”

This Day in English History (Walter Raleigh, Landlord and Oppressor of Ireland, Executed)

October 29, 1618—Sir Walter Raleigh, the soldier, explorer and poet who crushed Ireland in the service of Queen Elizabeth I, then was rewarded handsomely for his efforts, was executed for treason after spending 13 years in the Tower of London.

You know the plotline of The Postman Always Rings Twice, right? How a guy gets away with one murder, only to be executed for another he didn’t commit? Well, something of the same cosmic righting of the scales took place with Raleigh, I think.

I read in a children’s biography of Raleigh how he had thrown his cape on the ground so Queen Elizabeth wouldn’t get her shoes dirty. When I told this some 40 years ago to my Aunt Peg, she took a long drag on her cigarette, then asked, in her inimitable brogue: “Did your history book say anything about him murdering the poor people of Ireland?”

No, it didn’t. And all the more shame to them.

That oft-repeated anecdote about Raleigh and the queen is supposed to illustrate—what? How courtly he was? More like what a shameless sycophant he could be, I think. (The story says something, too, about Elizabeth, who, as far as I’m concerned, has gotten far more credit than she deserves for an age that was more hyped than glorious.)

England’s policy toward Ireland served as a kind of laboratory for its future ventures in colonialism and imperialism. Yet it didn’t come without cost. To me, the truest part of the Helen Mirren TV bio of the queen came when her Elizabeth attempted to conjole her counselors—someone, anyone—to lead an expedition to crush Ireland.

For his role in suppressing the Desmond Rebellion in 1579, Raleigh received a grant of confiscated land. He held 42,000 acres in the towns of Youghal and Lismore in County Waterford, though he could never get enough Englishmen to follow him across the water to populate the island. We can thank him for introducing to Ireland the potato—a humble but nutritious food that enabled the peasants to survive the depredations of landlords that followed in the wake of Raleigh and others. One of his acquaintances in the area was Edmund Spenser, another soldier-poet awarded confiscated land by the grateful queen.

Eventually, Raleigh was forced to sell his Irish holdings. In the 1590s, he landed in trouble with Elizabeth for secretly marrying one of her maids of honor. Funny thing about the queen—she wouldn’t marry anybody, but she couldn’t abide a courtier paying attention (let alone wedding) someone other than herself. She stuck the couple in the Tower of London.

Attempting to get back in the queen’s good graces—i.e., sucking up to her again—Raleigh ran off to try to find the fabled El Dorado, rumored to be in Guiana (now in Venezuela). That didn’t work. In 1603, with Elizabeth now dead, her successor, King James, didn’t waste any time in sticking Raleigh in the Tower of London again. There the old brownnose stayed until he dusted off an old stratagem—he’d find El Dorado.

In 1616, the aging adventurer got sprung out of jail—life imprisonment, no less—on the assumption he’d make good his promise to find El Dorado. The expedition not only was as unsuccessful as the first, but it was even worse, for Raleigh had disobeyed James’ orders not to attack the Spanish. As soon as he made it back to England with his tail between his legs, James decided he’d had enough. Raleigh’s execution would undoubtedly have inspired cheers in Ireland if the poor natives didn’t have so much more to worry about.

Before he died, Raleigh wrote a tender farewell to his wife—a letter that shows him at his best. “To what friend to direct thee I know not, for all mine have left me in the true time of tryall,” he wrote. So much for years of acting as courtier to capricious monarchs.