Forgotten by history: the royal babies you've never heard of

Amy Licence reminds us of the royal children who shaped the course of history, only to recede into obscurity.

Finally, the nation’s patience has been rewarded. On Monday 22 July at 4.24pm, the Duchess of Cambridge was delivered of a son, weighing 8lb 6oz. The news was broken four hours later, announced by Kensington Palace and spread across the world within seconds. For the first time in over a century the monarchy has had three generations of heirs. Almost at once, speculation regarding the future of this new prince began. The role which he will fill, and the path unfolding before him, appear far more fixed than those of his contemporaries, born on the same day. His education, career, religion and even his marital prospects, have already been mapped out. Yet the lives of royal babies of the past have rarely run smoothly. Many of those born in anticipation of the throne never achieved their lofty destinies, while others born in obscurity rose to take their place.

When it comes to royal babies, some were born great, some achieved greatness and some had greatness thrust upon them. Expectations have always been high when it comes to the line of succession. Since historical records began, these important infants have arrived under a wide variety of circumstances. While some were born in times of peace, others were delivered during episodes of civil warfare or national depression. A few became the casualties of political conflict, feted and anointed, groomed for a kingship they never enjoyed.

Two examples of the fickleness of royal fate are Edward of Westminster and Edward V, who both lived and died during the turbulent fifteenth century. Familiar to fans of Philippa Gregory’s historical novels, these boys were the eagerly anticipated sons of the medieval houses of Lancaster and York respectively. Edward of Westminster was born in 1453, after his parents’ eight-year marriage was suspected of having been barren. Longing for a son and heir, his mother, Margaret of Anjou, prayed to the saints to intercede and grant her wish by securing the dynastic line. Edward should have inherited the throne after his father, Henry VI, but died in battle at the age of seventeen, attempting to reclaim his kingdom. The opponent he fought, Edward IV, had a son of his own. After the birth of three daughters, his wife Elizabeth Wydeville, the “White Queen”, finally presented him with a male heir while in sanctuary. The little boy, also named Edward, was celebrated and seen as a symbol of new hope, but he would not live long enough to enjoy his father’s title either. He would become known to history as the elder of the Princes in the Tower and would disappear in mysterious circumstances before his coronation.

History also provides examples of royal births which illuminate the pressures experienced by queens, whose role required them to deliver the future, in a literal and metaphorical sense. Henry VIII’s marital exploits are well known, but the birth of his first son, early in his reign, is less well remembered. Following his marriage to Catherine of Aragon, in 1509, Henry began the quest to father a son which would last for the next 28 years. It was to be far more difficult to achieve than he could ever have imagined. Early in 1511, Catherine delivered a boy whom they named Henry. When the news was proclaimed, London went into celebration. Days of public rejoicing and partying followed, with bells ringing, wine flowing, cannons at the Tower booming and bonfires burning in the streets. The boy was given a magnificent christening, with jousts, pageants, feasts and tournaments: it was the second most expensive occasion of Henry’s reign, outshone only by the legendary Field of Cloth of Gold.  A special gallery was built for Catherine and her ladies to watch the proceedings and it seemed as if the future of the Tudor dynasty was secure.

However, tragedy struck. Before the child was two months old, he succumbed to one of the infant illnesses of the day. Had he lived, the little prince would have become Henry IX of England. Although it is not possible to rewrite history, the implications of his imagined survival help us understand the impact of his premature death. Had this child lived, the well-known story of Henry’s six wives almost certainly would not have happened. Perhaps the course of the English Reformation would also have played out differently. There would have been no Edward VI, no Mary I or even Queen Elizabeth. The imagined reign of Henry IX is another historical “whatif” which provides a fascinating alternative path for English history; save for one small twist of fate, perhaps even an infection that may easily be cleared up by antibiotics today, it may have become established historical fact. The life and death of this tragic prince truly did shape the future of his country.

Henry would not father a legitimate heir until 1537, after he had divorced Catherine and her successor Anne Boleyn. Having won Henry’s love partly on the promise of presenting him with a healthy boy, Anne anticipated her own first confinement in 1533. Henry’s physician, astrologers and astronomers were confident that a son would arrive. Advanced notices were drawn up, declaring the arrival of a prince, to be dispatched across the nation and beyond. When Anne gave birth to Elizabeth in September 1533, the planned celebrations were cancelled and the notices hastily altered. A queen’s ability, or inability, to reproduce defined her power and determined her country’s future. Throughout history, the fertility, pregnancies and labours of queens have shaped national politics as well as their own personal relationships.

Celebrations for the birth of the Prince of Cambridge will continue this week but not every royal baby’s arrival has been welcomed by its future subjects. In 1688, the birth of James, son of James II and Mary of Modena, proved the innocent catalyst for his parents’ loss of the throne. The prospect of a male heir being raised as a Catholic was unacceptable to many at the time and the media played a significant part in spreading this dissent. By the seventeenth century, a proliferation of small presses flooded the market with pamphlets, chapbooks and newspapers, making the spread of information more immediate. Ballads written to honour the royal birth sat alongside seditious anti-Catholic material. The satirical cartoons of the Georgian era allowed criticisms of the royal family to spread further, amongst the illiterate, turning the tide further against the Stuarts. When James II was deposed, months after the birth, his infant son went into exile and spent the remainder of his life as the “old Pretender,” trying to regain the throne. It was claimed instead by William of Orange.

No such controversy surrounds Monday’s birth. The future line of succession is clear for the Prince of Cambridge and the baby’s timely arrival coincides with a modernisation of the monarchy, with the Duke and Duchess setting the tone as modern parents. Their son is the most immediate heir to the throne born in a new millennium, eagerly anticipated by its family and subjects. As the latest in a line of royal babies, stretching back centuries, its life will be the next chapter in the story of the Commonwealth.

Portraits of Henry VIII and Catherine of Aragon. If their first-born son had lived, he would have changed the course of history. Photograph: Getty Images

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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No, Jeremy Corbyn did not refuse to condemn the IRA. Please stop saying he did

Guys, seriously.

Okay, I’ll bite. Someone’s gotta say it, so really might as well be me:

No, Jeremy Corbyn did not, this weekend, refuse to condemn the IRA. And no, his choice of words was not just “and all other forms of racism” all over again.

Can’t wait to read my mentions after this one.

Let’s take the two contentions there in order. The claim that Corbyn refused to condem the IRA relates to his appearance on Sky’s Sophy Ridge on Sunday programme yesterday. (For those who haven’t had the pleasure, it’s a weekly political programme, hosted by Sophy Ridge and broadcast on a Sunday. Don’t say I never teach you anything.)

Here’s how Sky’s website reported that interview:

 

The first paragraph of that story reads:

Labour leader Jeremy Corbyn has been criticised after he refused five times to directly condemn the IRA in an interview with Sky News.

The funny thing is, though, that the third paragraph of that story is this:

He said: “I condemn all the bombing by both the loyalists and the IRA.”

Apparently Jeremy Corbyn has been so widely criticised for refusing to condemn the IRA that people didn’t notice the bit where he specifically said that he condemned the IRA.

Hasn’t he done this before, though? Corbyn’s inability to say he that opposed anti-semitism without appending “and all other forms of racism” was widely – and, to my mind, rightly – criticised. These were weasel words, people argued: an attempt to deflect from a narrow subject where the hard left has often been in the wrong, to a broader one where it wasn’t.

Well, that pissed me off too: an inability to say simply “I oppose anti-semitism” made it look like he did not really think anti-semitism was that big a problem, an impression not relieved by, well, take your pick.

But no, to my mind, this....

“I condemn all the bombing by both the loyalists and the IRA.”

...is, despite its obvious structural similarities, not the same thing.

That’s because the “all other forms of racism thing” is an attempt to distract by bringing in something un-related. It implies that you can’t possibly be soft on anti-semitism if you were tough on Islamophobia or apartheid, and experience shows that simply isn’t true.

But loyalist bombing were not unrelated to IRA ones: they’re very related indeed. There really were atrocities committed on both sides of the Troubles, and while the fatalities were not numerically balanced, neither were they orders of magnitude apart.

As a result, specifically condemning both sides as Corbyn did seems like an entirely reasonable position to take. Far creepier, indeed, is to minimise one set of atrocities to score political points about something else entirely.

The point I’m making here isn’t really about Corbyn at all. Historically, his position on Northern Ireland has been pro-Republican, rather than pro-peace, and I’d be lying if I said I was entirely comfortable with that.

No, the point I’m making is about the media, and its bias against Labour. Whatever he may have said in the past, whatever may be written on his heart, yesterday morning Jeremy Corbyn condemned IRA bombings. This was the correct thing to do. His words were nonetheless reported as “Jeremy Corbyn refuses to condemn IRA”.

I mean, I don’t generally hold with blaming the mainstream media for politicians’ failures, but it’s a bit rum isn’t it?

Jonn Elledge edits the New Statesman's sister site CityMetric, and writes for the NS about subjects including politics, history and Daniel Hannan. You can find him on Twitter or Facebook.

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