The surviving images of Richard come from the Tudor period, and were used as propaganda. Photo: Getty
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Does it matter if Richard III’s DNA suggests infidelity in the royal family?

New DNA research into Richard III’s remains has cast the legitimacy of the royal line into question, all the way down to the present queen.

The Plantagenet dynasty was no stranger to scandal. However, dramatic new discoveries made by scientists at the University of Leicester now suggest that more than one skeleton has been lurking in the family closet. While it has been proven there is an “overwhelming” likelihood that the body in the Leicester city car park is indeed that of the controversial King Richard III, laying to rest many long-standing uncertainties, these latest findings have unleashed a whole new can of historical worms. With the last medieval King becoming the media’s blue-eyed-boy, quite literally as his DNA proves, it would appear that at least one member of his family was not the son of York he believed. Or Plantagenet, or Tudor, or Stuart. New allegations of infidelity cast the legitimacy of the royal line into question, all the way down to the present queen.

Royal legitimacy scandals are nothing new. In the fifteenth century, Richard’s eldest brother, Edward IV, became the focus of unpleasant rumours that led to a dynastic crisis. Although his birth passed without comment, his enemies invented, or exploited, a story that he was the result of an affair his mother had with a French Archer by the name of Blaybourne. Despite having all the appearances of a political smear, timed to discredit the king at the moment of rebellion, the story has lingered. Even in the twentieth century, “proof” of the affair was being offered in a TV documentary fronted by Tony Robinson, based on the reputed separation of Edward’s parents nine months prior to his birth. Yet this evidence only accounted for his father’s movements, not those of his mother, and has been largely discredited.

Then, in 1483, following Edward’s death, a new, more damaging, rumour emerged. Bishop Stillington claimed that Edward was a bigamist, having already been pre-contracted to another woman, Eleanor Butler, who had still been alive at the time of Edward’s union with Elizabeth Wydeville. The fact that Edward had married Elizabeth in secrecy and did not make the match public for several months played into Richard’s hands. On the Bishop’s statement, he was able to claim the throne instead of his nephew, Edward’s son. Yet it would appear, now, that the real cuckoos in the royal nest may have gone unnoticed. While Richard’s maternal DNA is intact, there is no match with the paternal line of his modern relatives.

Richard had no descendants. His heir died in childhood and his two acknowledged illegitimate offspring, John and Katherine, appear to have left no issue of their own. In order to identify him, the scientists needed to trace his ancestry back to a male who shared his Y chromosome, and match it with his direct descendants in the twenty-first century. They found five men alive today who shared the line of Edward III’s son, John of Gaunt, Richard III’s great uncle. In theory, all these five should share the same Y chromosome as Richard, yet the tests revealed that none of them did. Dr Turi King, from Leicester University, who led the study, offers infidelity as the most likely explanation. According to her research, cases of “false paternity” account for between 1 and 2 per cent of births per generation. However, there is no way of knowing exactly where the event took place, or under what circumstances. It could have been anywhere between John of Gaunt and the modern descendants of the eighteenth century fifth Duke of Beaufort, who provided the DNA samples. That leaves a staggering six centuries of possibilities.

But does it matter? It’s not really going to change anything and no one is going to suggest the deposition of the current queen as a result. On a historical level, though, the fascination lies in knowing which side of 1485 the illicit paternity took place. After the battle of Bosworth, where Richard was killed, Henry VII claimed the throne by right of conquest. This trumps any potential “flaws” in his bloodline. Henry’s royal descent came from Edward III through the Beaufort-Somerset line, which had been legitimised in retrospect but barred from claiming the throne. He was also dependent upon his mother for the claim but the act of seizing the crown at Bosworth rendered all this irrelevant. The current queen is Henry’s descendant through his eldest daughter, Margaret, and her great-grandson James I of Scotland. Her claim actually rests on the 1701 Act of Settlement so this latest scandal in her distant family tree will not be ruffling any feathers at Buckingham Palace.

So where might the false paternity have occurred? The answer is that we simply don’t know, although there have been a few historic murmurings that have festered into theories over time, including the true identity of the father of John of Gaunt. Edward III’s absence during the time of his third son’s birth, coupled with his arrival on foreign soil, in the city of Ghent, cast suspicion on his conception. Yet it was hardly uncommon for a father to be absent, especially when the mother had already produced several surviving children. In addition, most of these rumours appear to date from the end of John’s life, once he had become unpopular. Casting aspersions on the legitimacy of an enemy was a common but powerful slur, which reputedly used to enrage Gaunt. It was a useful political tool used by enemies of both branches of the Plantagenet family, the Yorks and Lancasters. Another candidate might by Richard of Conisburgh, Richard III’s paternal grandfather. He received nothing from his father in terms of income or estates and was not mentioned in his will or those of his brothers, which has led historians to give credence to the rumours that his mother may have had an affair.

Equally, the false paternity might have occurred on either branch of descent, from Edward III to Henry, or from Henry to the present day. Given the statistics, though, the greater likelihood is that the misdemeanour occurred in the line of the more modern Somerset family, which represents the largest percentage of births in the family tree. It may well not have taken place within a royal match; it may have happened more than once. Nor can we assume the circumstances of the encounter; it is just as credible that this occurrence was the product of rape, perhaps more so than a medieval queen committing adultery. In fact, it would be an incredible stroke of luck to identify a single unbroken line of paternal DNA running through six centuries of marriages. This exposes one crucial aspect of historical research and the differing experiences of men and women across time. Until recently, paternity could not be guaranteed. As Richard’s unbroken mitochondrial line highlights, though, the certainty of childbirth lay with the woman. If an illegitimate child was conceived, even within marriage, the mother could not avoid the consequences, while the father’s identity might forever be lost to history. Between the differing experiences of men and women, lies an area of rumour and suspicion to be exploited by their enemies.

This new research has also raised an interesting point about Richard’s colouring. It has often been argued that Richard took more after his father, the short, dark-haired Richard of York, while his tall, handsome blonde brother Edward had the genes of Edward III. This has been used to further argue the case for the elder brother’s illegitimacy. Now though, the scientific evidence suggests a 77 per cent chance that Richard was blonde and it is 96 per cent likelihood that his eyes were blue. While the colour of his hair may well have darkened as he left childhood, another possibility arises. Royal portraiture was more symbolic rather than realistic: the surviving images of Richard, which come from the Tudor period, are well known for the narrowing of his eyes and lips and the raising of his shoulder, to paint him as the villain. With external defects considered to correlate with inner vices, Richard’s hair might have also been darkened from the 1520s onwards to depict what were perceived to be his “dark” deeds. When queens were portrayed as blonde and beautiful regardless of their actual looks, the opposite effect may have been employed as a metaphorical criticism of Henry VII’s adversary.

If anything, these new findings affirm the humanity of the individuals included on the royal family tree. While the likelihood of infidelity somewhere down the line appears strong, conclusions cannot be drawn as the facts stand, and our modern theories comparing the marriages and affections of past royals rest all too often on anachronistic values. Love matches were not seen as being incompatible with a man pursuing physical affairs, nor was the double standard of gendered behaviour always strictly drawn. These results provide another opportunity to reflect on the inconclusive nature of the study of history, and as a caution in regards to drawing assumptions. Until further research uncovers further truths, it must remain another delicious mystery, nothing more. The Royal Household has declined to comment.

Amy Licence is a late medieval and early Tudor historian focusing on women's lives. She is the author of the forthcoming biography Anne Neville, Richard III’s Tragic Queen and her blog can be found here.

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Mother of all bloodlusts: Sexual politics and Greek tragedy

New interpreteations of ancient stories show the deep roots of our thinking about sex and gender

During the 1960s Pier Paolo Pasolini made two films based on ancient Greek tragedy, Oedipus Rex and Medea. In the latter, Maria Callas played the heroine with predictably operatic bravura – dark eyes flashing out dark emotions, thrilling voice conveying ferocity and pain. Pasolini’s Oedipus, by contrast, was almost silent (there was dialogue, but very little of it) and unmitigated by consoling theatricality. Distant figures crept across a scrubby desert. Thebes’s mud walls rose, like an organic growth, from the bare ground. The leading actor’s face was thuggish and inexpressive. The soundtrack was dominated by the soughing of the wind. Pasolini used barely a line of Sophocles’s verse, but I remember the film as having a desolate grandeur unmatched by any of the theatrical productions I have seen since. It was nothing like the tragedies acted out by masked performers in 5th-century Athens, but its harsh beauty felt appropriate to the Bronze Age legends on which those tragedies were based.

Those legends are still attracting new interpreters. “The finest tragedies are always on the story of some few families,” wrote Aristotle. He was thinking of the House of Atreus, whose terrible sequence of internecine killings provides the material for Colm Tóibín’s latest novel; of Oedipus’s incest-entangled web of relationships, now unravelled by Natalie Haynes; of Medea, the heroine of David Vann’s Bright Air Black, a sorceress whose royal status, adventurous spirit and unearthly powers have all been eclipsed in the collective memory by her shocking transgression against family values – the slaying of her own children.

Sexual politics has been intrinsic to these tales since the Greek tragedians first explored them: 21st-century gender politics isn’t going beyond, merely keeping pace with, the thinking of the ancients here. ­Aeschylus framed the Oresteia as a conflict between mother-right and father-right and concluded with a judgement from Athena. The motherless goddess, born from her father’s head – woman but also all-man – ordains that humanity must find a way to reconcile the male and female principles. When Robert Icke, in his recent adaptation of the Oresteia, located the origin of the family’s trouble in Agamemnon’s sacrifice of his daughter – the killing of a girl child for the sake of her father’s manly honour – he wasn’t making an anachronistically feminist point: he was faithfully following Euripides.

So there is nothing new about the way modern reinterpretations zoom in on the women. Colm Tóibín gives the husband-killing Clytemnestra a voice; Natalie Haynes does the same for Jocasta, the mother of her son’s children, and for one of her daughters. As for David Vann, he allows Medea to devour him and his readers: to read his book is to be swallowed down into her mad mind.

In House of Names Clytemnestra is the initial narrator. Tóibín has written about many mothers, including, in The Testament of Mary, the mother of Christ. None of them conforms to any sentimental ideal of the maternal. This one is particularly problematic. Clytemnestra was duped into delivering her daughter Iphigenia to a horrible death. She was an adulteress who took a lover while her husband, Agamemnon, was away at war, and subsequently murdered that husband. She killed the enslaved Trojan princess Cassandra out of jealousy. She so signally failed to win the love of her surviving children, Electra and Orestes, that they killed her.

Tóibín, writing in grandly simple, declaratory prose, gives her a raging energy and a bitter intelligence. The unfolding of the story she tells – that he tells through her – will surprise few readers, but he structures it subtly enough to maintain its tension. Clytemnestra speaks at first in flashback, recounting the ghastly tale of Iphigenia’s sacrifice from a much later point in time, while Agamemnon’s and Cassandra’s bodies lie exposed outside the palace walls. The violence is gruesome and Tóibín doesn’t spare us any horror, but the folding of chronology creates a kind of decorous formality.

Clytemnestra’s story is one we know. When Tóibín shifts his attention to her son Orestes the book becomes stranger, its narrative more original and its tone more hallucinatory. None of the canonical texts tells us much of what Orestes was up to in the interim between his father’s murder and his own return, years later, to avenge it. The ancient sources speak of him growing up in a foreign court. Tóibín ignores that tradition and has him marched off instead, along with a column of other boy hostages, and imprisoned in an infernal complex of caves. He escapes with a charismatic older boy, a teenaged guerrilla named Leander. They wander through a landscape of poisoned wells and killer-infested groves as inhospitable as Pasolini’s imagined desert.

The journey makes for a haunting story, largely because Tóibín tells it in spare, resonant prose, from Orestes’s point of view. He is a child and then a bewildered, emotionally stunted adolescent. Filtered through his consciousness, his dangerous exile and even more dangerous return to his mother’s court are at once materially vivid and bafflingly vague. He just doesn’t understand the political and sexual currents eddying around him, and his incomprehension makes them all the more potently alarming.

Tóibín’s other addition to the story is a reimagining of the usually opaque Aegisthus, Clytemnestra’s lover and accomplice. Here he is not just Agamemnon’s rival in love and power: he is his shadow and counter-image, a king of darkness. Confined in a dungeon beneath the palace, he commands a hidden, irregular army. Once released he becomes a sexual predator, roaming the palace corridors by night in search of men or women to suit his appetites. After Electra’s coup d’état Aegisthus’s legs are broken to prevent him from leaving to establish a rival power base. Immobile in his chair, he still dominates the council meetings.

It is probably too simple-minded to ­suppose, just because Tóibín is Irish, that we should read into this a reworking of Ireland’s history of clandestine armies and generation-spanning revenges. Yet the tentative hopefulness of his book’s ending, involving the fading of a grim ghost, a benign forgetting and a baby’s birth, does seem to speak (albeit quietly) of better times.

“Can you name another man who has ever done what you have done?” Thus Tóibín’s Leander to Orestes. A son’s killing of his mother is an unheard-of transgression. Orestes realises that he is being kept at hand by the ruthless new regime as a
potentially useful tool, because he “had proved to them that he was someone who would do anything”. Medea’s crime – a mother’s killing of her sons – is the mirror image of his own, and breaches an equally powerful taboo.

In Tóibín’s Mycenae, a culture defined by its gods is giving way to a secular society. Clytemnestra has stopped praying: “The gods have their own unearthly concerns, unimagined by us. They barely know we are alive.” By the end, her consciousness fading, the only deity she can remember is the inhuman rapist who defiled her mother – Zeus, in the form of a swan. Her daughter Electra laments that as obfuscating superstition dwindles, the world is increasingly exposed to the light of day. That enlightenment, Electra thinks, is a blight. “Soon it will be a world barely worth inhabiting.” The world David Vann’s Medea inhabits is subject to no such diminishing daylight. We are in a dark age.

Rachel Cusk recently updated Euripides to present Medea as a modern wronged wife. Vann does the reverse. He is not interested in drawing parallels with banal, latter-day domestic upsets: he is conjuring up a pre-classical sorceress cloaked in darkness, fornicating on the deck of the Argo amidst the decomposing remains of her dead brother’s body and opening her mouth to show the vile worm that lies where her tongue should be.

His Medea has doubts about the myths that supposedly explain her world. If the sun is her grandfather, how come the human race, which should be only two generations old, is so numerous? But she has no understanding to put in its place. Her eye is innocent, not in the judgemental moral sense but literally. She knows what the golden fleece is – one of the sheepskins used to pan for gold in the rivers of Thrace and left glittering with gold dust – yet she knows almost nothing else. Her wonder at the sea, and the way its water buoys her up, prompts a beautiful passage. Her freedom from guilt verges on the absurd. She is a kind of Martian, travelling to us not from outer space but from the deep past.

Vann’s novel shares with Tóibín’s book an interest in power: how to get and keep it, how legitimacy is trumped by assertiveness. Just as Orestes, returning to Mycenae, is baffled to find that, king’s son though he is, no one sees him as a potential ruler, so Medea and Jason share a naive belief that when they return with the sparkly sheepskin the old king will abdicate the kingdom to them. He doesn’t. The novel’s narrative swings round on the shocking passage in which it dawns on Medea that her betrayals and outrages aren’t to be rewarded with a throne, but have delivered her into slavery.

Vann’s title is borrowed from Robin Robertson’s version of Euripides’s Medea. Vann is indebted to poets, and he grants himself great poetic licence in his handling of syntax. His prose is as hacked and chopped as the corpse of poor King Pelias after Medea has bewitched his daughters into jointing him for a stew. It is as though Medea, barbarian from an immeasurably ancient world, has yet to reach the evolutionary moment when the human mind comprehended that causes had consequences, and sentences have main verbs. Vann writes always from her point of view. The resulting narrative can be wearisome, like spending time with someone too stoned to think connectedly, but it is also vivid, often appalling, sometimes piercingly
sad and frequently striking. This Medea is all sensory perception, no reflection. “The men wet and shining, skin burnt dark. Medea’s skin far whiter, turning red now, painful.” And so it goes on, right down to the final horror. “Hot blood on her hands, Aeson [her little son] jerking against her side.”

If Vann drags the reader with him into chaos and old night, Natalie Haynes seems intent on illuminating and rationalising the cluster of legends about Oedipus and his family. Haynes is an expert populariser. Her story is enriched by archaeological know-how. She gives us a clear account of the layout of the palace at Thebes. She describes markets and dresses, pots and meals. In its physical details, her story is a plausible reconstruction of urban life in a Greek palace-state – complete with obsidian mirrors and wax writing-tablets, dark rooms and sacrificial fires.

She has two narratives, arranged in orderly fashion in alternating chapters. The story of Jocasta’s marriage, widowhood and remarriage to a good-looking young stranger (who turns out to be her own son) is told in the third person, simply and realistically. Ismene, one of her daughter/grand-daughters, narrates the chapters that deal with her experience. She is attacked by an assassin. She looks on as her brothers compete for power in Thebes. She distrusts her uncle Creon. She doesn’t reveal, until the very end, when she is about to be reunited with him, that she knows why her father is a blind wanderer, and why her mother is dead.

The bipartite structure is efficient. The narrative progresses satisfyingly. But Haynes not only demystifies, she demythologises, stripping the story of its ­numinous charge. King Laius is homosexual: he orders a slave to take his place in the marriage-bed and impregnate his young wife (which means that Oedipus’s inadvertent killing of him is not actually a parricide). The sphinx is neither a fabulous monster nor a riddler: it is a predatory tribe. Jocasta kills herself not because she is shamed by the revelation of her incest, but because she has been infected with the plague and doesn’t want to pass it on to her children.

There are horrors certainly, but they are mundane ones. Eteocles’s corpse lies rotting in the sun when Creon denies it burial, but it is ghastly for its smell, and the circling vultures, rather than the offence against ­human dignity and divine decree. Even the characters’ names have been deprived of the resonance two and a half millennia of remembering have given them. Antigone and Ismene become here “Ani” and “Isy” – two ordinary girls in a tricky situation. The book is entertaining, but Pasolini it most certainly is not. Aristotle, who expected these stories to purge their audiences’ minds by overwhelming them with pity and terror, would have been sorely disappointed. 

House of Names 
Colm Tóibín
Viking, 263pp, £14.99

Bright Air Black 
David Vann
William Heinemann, 252pp, £18.99

The Children of Jocasta 
Natalie Haynes
Mantle, 336pp, £16.99

Lucy Hughes-Hallett is the author of “Heroes: Saviours, Traitors and Supermen” (Harper Perennial). Her latest novel, “Peculiar Ground”, is newly published by Fourth Estate

This article first appeared in the 18 May 2017 issue of the New Statesman, Age of Lies

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