Bloody Mary and the Missing Heir

In late April 1555 London erupted with joy at the rumour that Queen Mary I – ‘Bloody Mary’ – had finally given birth to a son. The whole city celebrated. According to the Venetian ambassador Giovanni Michiel, shops were shut, church bells were rung, inns handed out wine and food ‘to whoever wanted’, and bonfires were lit in the street.

It was the news everyone had been waiting for. Since coming to the throne two years earlier, Mary had been desperate for an heir. For the Tudors, succession had always been a worry. Her father, Henry VIII, had famously struggled to have a son – so much so that he had torn England apart in the process. And even then, it hadn’t been enough. Mary was only queen because her sickly brother, Edward VI, had died in his teens. But for her, it had an added importance. Mary needed a son to secure not just her throne, but also her faith. As a Catholic she was bitterly opposed to Edward’s religious reforms and was determined to restore the pope’s authority. Unless she produced an heir, the crown would pass to her Protestant half-sister Elizabeth.

The challenges were undeniable. At her accession Mary was 37 years old, unmarried and – by all accounts – a virgin. The first thing she needed was a husband. But who? Mary and her counsellors agreed that she needed someone capable of defending her. As the historian David Loades emphasised, the ‘traditional imagery of monarchy’ was still so bound up with militarism that it was impossible to imagine her ruling effectively without 
a man fulfilling that role. But she couldn’t take the risk of marrying someone too powerful or assertive either. She was acutely aware that the kingdom had been entrusted to her, and her alone. She would not see it wrested from her in marriage. The dangers were clear. There was no precedent for a king consort. No one was sure what the role would entail, nor what an ambitious man might make of it.

There were plenty of candidates. There was the Infante Luis, brother of King John III of Portugal, an amiable and intelligent man. There was Edward Courtenay, the dashing earl of Devon. Some courtiers even suggested that Cardinal Reginald Pole might make a good husband. By far the most appealing, however, was a Habsburg. Some years before, Mary had been engaged to the Holy Roman Emperor Charles V. He offered a natural defence against France, England’s traditional enemy, and was a vehement defender of Catholic orthodoxy. Disappointingly, he felt he was now too old for such a match. But he did have a son, Philip, who was young, energetic, and – best of all – widowed. Although Charles had been forced to promise that Philip would never be elected emperor, he had settled on his son the kingdom of Spain and its territories. Philip would also be named ruler of the Spanish Netherlands. This was a difficult prospect: the Dutch were a restive people, not averse to rebellion. With England in his pocket, Philip would be well placed to put down any risings.

Dangerous liaisons

Philip was not without his opponents. In late 1553 Parliament expressed its opposition to any foreign marriage. The following year Sir Thomas Wyatt even led a rebellion in Kent in an attempt to force the queen to repudiate her betrothal. Mary was too strong-headed to bow to their demands. But she was shrewd enough to see they could not be ignored. When the marriage contract was drawn up, care was taken to specify that, while Philip would ‘enjoy jointly with the Queen her style and kingly name, and aid her in her administration’, he would have no role in the distribution of offices or revenues and would have no right of succession if Mary predeceased him. She granted him no estates in England and appointed no Spanish nobles to her Council. She also refused to grant him a coronation – just in case he used it to seize the throne in his own right.

The priority was to produce an heir. This was easier said than done. Although Mary was reportedly delighted to lose her virginity (at the age of 38), Philip was less thrilled. Eleven years younger than his bride, he had vigorous appetites and found Mary disappointing. Nevertheless, he did his duty. For a time, he even steered clear of the ‘bakers’ daughters and other poor whores’ with whom he usually amused himself.    

When Mary fell pregnant in August 1554 the relief was palpable. Any doubts about the fecundity of the match were removed, the succession seemed secure, and the bond between husband and wife was strengthened. But it brought its own dangers. Philip resented being denied any formal role in the kingdom. He seized on the pregnancy as an opportunity to strengthen his hand. His agents in Parliament pressed for him to have a coronation. They offered a compromise. Philip would repudiate any right of succession, but in the event of the queen’s death he would be made guardian of any children – in effect granting him the ability to rule England through his offspring.

This was defeated, but the prospect of an heir meant that the unresolved issue of Philip’s role could not be ignored. As Mary withdrew from the practice of government in preparation for confinement, she left more day-to-day matters to Philip. Expectation – and danger – grew.

Phantoms

Despite the rumours spreading in London, April 1555 came and went without a child. Mary’s doctors hastily adjusted their calculations. The baby would come in June, they declared. Or maybe July. But, besides a few cramps, Mary showed no sign of labour. It was impossible to staunch the doubts that swirled around the court. Rather unkindly, Giovanni Michiel opined that Mary’s pregnancy would ‘end in wind and nothing else’.

By August, it was clear that Mary’s pregnancy had been a phantom. There would be no heir. Her health – both physical and mental – was shattered. The political fallout was even more devastating. As Loades put it, ‘the whole regime had suddenly lost credibility’. The succession, which only weeks before had seemed assured, was now wide open.

This put Philip in a bind. It seemed likely that Mary might be unable to conceive. Without a child there was no chance that Parliament would formalise his position. Should he repudiate the marriage treaty and try to seize the throne himself, despite the risk? Or should he accept that Elizabeth would rule after Mary, and try to manage as best he could? Unsure, he left England to take up his responsibilities in the Spanish Netherlands.

This upset Mary greatly. However low the chances, her whole reign hinged on conceiving. Her moods swung violently. One day, she would write plaintive letters, begging him to come home. The next, she would kick his portrait in a rage.

Philip knew what he was doing. Regardless of how unlikely a child was, here was an opportunity to enlarge his influence while he still could. Knowing how much Mary wanted him back, he effectively forced her to listen to his views on crown appointments – and even persuaded her to join the Habsburgs’ war against France.

His return, in March 1557, was brief. He stayed only as long as was needed for the ink to dry on the declaration of war. By July he was already back on the Continent. What – if anything – happened in the marriage chamber is unclear. But six months later, Mary was convinced that she was pregnant again. The symptoms seemed credible. Everyone held their breath for a delivery in February or March.

A lost empire

It was in vain. By May 1558 even the queen had to admit that there would be no baby. It was obvious to her doctors that something was seriously wrong. There were too many symptoms for a mere phantom pregnancy. It was most likely a pituitary tumour. There was no treatment and little hope.

Without a child, Mary had no choice but to recognise Elizabeth as her successor. However firmly the queen believed that Elizabeth was a bastard, and thus ineligible to inherit, she was the only realistic heir. The only alternative, Mary, Queen of Scots, had just married the future king of France, which neither Mary nor Philip could countenance.

This threatened what Mary held dearest of all: the Catholic faith. Although Philip was satisfied that Elizabeth was devout enough to inherit – and may already have been thinking about marrying her after the queen’s death – Mary was convinced that she would not hesitate to return England to Protestantism. Mary was right. After her death, on 17 November 1558, England’s last ties with Rome were severed, and the last flickering flames of the English Counter-Reformation were snuffed out.

It is the great tragedy of Mary’s life that she died knowing that her faith – and her kingdom – had been lost. But her sense of loss was perhaps mitigated by her ignorance of what might have come to pass had she actually had the son she craved. Clearly, the boy would have inherited the English throne. He would have most likely kept England Catholic and – had he lived long enough to marry – excluded Elizabeth from the succession. But what Mary could not have guessed is that he could have inherited even more. Philip already had a son, Don Carlos, who was heir to Spain. By the time he married Mary, Carlos was already showing signs of mental illness. After he tried to kill Philip’s half-brother Don Juan of Austria in 1568 he was imprisoned. Within months, he was dead. So, had Philip and Mary had a son, he may have stood to inherit Spain as well. He could have gained the whole of the Spanish Empire in the Americas – and the first English overseas colonies too. The future that this might have produced is vertigo-inducing. An empire vaster than any the world had ever seen.

Alexander Lee is a fellow in the Centre for the Study of the Renaissance at the University of Warwick. His latest book is Machiavelli: His Life 
and Times (Picador).