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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On the trail of Keith Jarrett's melodies

Lose focus for a second and you can quickly drop the thread of Jarrett's complex improvisational techniques.

“So, this is a piano,” said Keith Jarrett, sitting down at the one that had been placed centre stage for him in the Royal Festival Hall on 20 November. Blowing on his hands to warm them, he acted as if he had never encountered such an instrument before, raising a chuckle from the hundreds of fans who had turned out to see the man in the flesh. For 40 years, Jarrett has been giving concerts like this – alone with the piano, playing his improvised music to a room full of rapt devotees. Notoriously grumpy – and now as well known for his tirades against cameras and coughing audience members as for his early days playing with Miles Davis – he has an almost eerie focus onstage, relieving the tension only very occasionally with his barbed observations about the excellence of the instrument, or the shuffling in the auditorium.

Jarrett gave us a series of short pieces, each rendering separate and distinctive musical ideas. He began with an intricately woven flash of notes in both hands, criss-crossing the melodies that were by turns dark and haunting, or light and dancing. At particularly complex moments, when his arms were crossed over and the notes were flowing from his fingers faster than anyone could imagine them into existence, he leaned his ear down towards the keys, as if physical closeness could help his ideas more swiftly become sound.

A couple of folk-inflected ballads followed; heart-achingly sweet melodies picked out above rumbling, sour arpeggios. Like Glenn Gould, the Canadian pianist best known for his recordings of Bach’s Goldberg Variations, Jarrett can’t help adding vocalisations as he plays, which are all the more evident in his quieter compositions. He rose and fell from his stool; we heard his guiding hum along with the melody, as well as the odd strangled shout, yelp and grunt. He might insist on absolute silence from the audience but his own noises seem completely uninhibited as the music spins around him.

Although notorious for his curmudgeonly attitude to his fans, Jarrett was mostly restrained in this outing, allowing himself just one short, sweary outburst about killing a “f***ing camera”. At the age of 70 and with the power to sell out his concerts in just a few hours, you do wonder how much of the persona is genuine and how much of it is just giving the audience what it expects. A case in point came near the end, when he yielded to clamouring and gave a surprisingly simple and straightforward rendition of “Danny Boy”, an encore that long-time fans know well.

Given that this recital was under the auspices of the London Jazz Festival, there was surprisingly little in Jarrett’s programme that could easily be identified as jazz. One piece, full of brisk rhythms and chunky chords, gradually revealed itself to be based on a modified 12-bar blues structure and another had haunting overtones surely pulled from the classic American songs of the first half of the 20th century. Indeed, this musical ghosting becomes a major preoccupation when you see Jarrett live. It is too easy to distract yourself in trying to follow the auditory trail he has laid for you – was that a bit of Debussy, or Bach, or Glass just then? – and lose the thread of what he plays next. The improvisational technique might have more in common with jazz but now, 40 years on from his bestselling live recording The Köln Concert, it’s difficult to characterise Jarrett’s output as anything other than contemporary classical music.

If it needs a classification, that is. At one point, I became convinced that a particular piece was a Jarrett riff on Beethoven’s Bagatelle No 25 in A Minor – or Für Elise, as it is more commonly known. I was sure it was all there: the extended opening trill, the rising arpeggios in the left hand, the melody cascading from treble to bass and back again. Except, by the time I surfaced from my musing, there was no trace of Beethoven to be heard. A clashing, almost violent melody was dangling over a long drone in the bass. If you try too hard to pin down Jarrett’s music, it moves on without you.

Caroline Crampton is web editor of the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 26 November 2015 issue of the New Statesman, Terror vs the State