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its side, indicating a bastard line, whilst on the right it was placed upright. 6
    Few of those present can have been ignorant of this particular piece of English history. Seeing Henry’s evident pride and affection in his sturdy little son, many of those who witnessed Richmond’s elevation must have wondered if this was what the king had in mind.
    Although some might remember that the Beauforts had been excluded from the line of succession, others might remind them that this had not originally been the case. Richard II had made no such stipulation when he had confirmed his cousin’s legitimacy. Only when John of Gaunt’s eldest son (by his first wife Blanche), Henry Bolingbroke, seized the throne as King Henry IV, did he look nervously to his half-brothers and sister. The Beauforts had done well for themselves and his own claim to the throne was not above reproach. Henry IV confirmed their legitimate status, but with the significant proviso that it was ‘excepting the royal dignity’. Henry IV had good reason for his actions. Despite the legal fiction of their legitimacy, the stigma of illegitimacy was not erased from people’s minds. Most importantly, Henry had four perfectly good sons of his own and had no need to complicate matters further.
    Henry VIII was not so fortunate. In June 1525 Henry VIII’s only legitimate child was his nine-year-old daughter, Mary. Katherine was now almost forty years old and her last pregnancy had been in 1518. With determined optimism, Henry had continued to sleep with her for several years without any sign of conception, before reluctantly conceding she was past the age of child bearing. Gradually, the whole country came to agree with the Venetian ambassador that Katherine was ‘past that age in which women most commonly were wont to be fruitful’. Only once Henry ceased having sexual relations with her, and estimates for this begin in 1524, was he forced to acknowledge that she would never give him a male heir. After sixteen years of marriage and at least six pregnancies, the hopes for the Tudor dynasty rested solely on the shoulders of one small girl.
    In the spring of 1524, Henry VIII had organised one of the lavish tournaments that were almost a weekly occurrence at court. On this occasion he intended to show off his new suit of armour ‘made of his own device and fashion’. Obviously the new design caused quite a stir. Henry was able to set off against his opponent, Charles Brandon, before he, or any of his attendants, realised he had not closed the visor on his helmet. The horrified crowd called out the danger, but it was too late. Brandon’s spear shattered in the king’s unprotected face. As the king fell to the ground the fate of England hung in the balance, yet Henry had a miraculous escape. Shaking off the splinters of wood, he assured his panic-stricken subjects that he was indeed alive, first by walking about and then by remounting his horse and competing six more times ‘by which all men might perceive he had no hurt’. It was a very public reminder that the king, whatever he might wish to believe, was not immortal. Given Henry’s love of dangerous sports, the next time England might not be so fortunate.
    Unlike France where the law prevented the accession of a daughter, there was no reason why Mary could not reign as Queen of England, except that prevailing opinion was firmly against it. The motto of Henry VIII’s third wife Jane Seymour – ‘bound to obey and serve’ – neatly summed up the perceived role of Tudor women. They were the weaker sex, physically less able, mentally inferior and morally suspect. They were subject to the authority of their husbands and fathers. They were not designed to rule. The admirable example of women like Margaret of Savoy, who acted as regent for the Emperor Charles V in the Netherlands, or the formidable career of Mary’s own grandmother, Isabella, who