All language subtitles for 3lasdgag33333

1953.
A coronation fit for a king.

But it's a young queen
who's about to be crowned.

And the crowd
roars its approval.

The fact that she's a
woman attracts no comment,

and she will go on to reign
over us for 6 decades.

But England's queens
haven't always been greeted

with such adoration.

The 1st woman who sought
to be crowned queen

in her own right
here in Westminster,

800 years earlier,

received
a very different response.

She wasn't met
by cheering crowds.

Instead, she was chased away
from the capital

by an angry mob.

That's because
throughout our history,

women and power have made

an uneasy combination.

Never more so than
in the Middle Ages,

when monarchy was forged

in the cut and thrust
of battle.

It was taken for granted

that men would rule.

So what if the king died

and there were no men to
take the reins of power?

In 1553,

the only heirs to
the Tudor throne

were female.

The next 3 monarchs
of England would be women.

But they would each discover

that power did not rest
easily

in the hands of a queen.

When they pursued power
like kings,

these royal women were
criticised and condemned.

Most graphically of all,

they've been vilified as
She-Wolves.

These are the stories of
the she-wolves of England.

And to explore them

is to realise
just how far we've come,

and how little has changed.

This impressive building

is the Old Royal Naval
College.

500 years ago,

another even grander building
stood on the same spot.

It was one of the greatest
residences of the Tudor kings.

On the 6th of July
1553,

in the magnificent palace

that once stood here
at Greenwich,

a 15-year-old boy lay dying.

He was Edward VI,

the only son of Henry VIII.

Edward was the male heir

for whom Henry had been
so desperate

that he'd divorced
one wife

and killed another.

And Edward had been
a golden boy,

until he was reduced
by a horrifying illness

to a grotesque and lonely figure

struggling for breath
in a gilded bed.

But this wasn't just a
moment of unbearable pathos.

It was also a moment of
extraordinary political crisis.

Because when Edward died,

there was no-one left to claim
the title of King of England.

For the first time
in English history,

all the contenders for
his crown were female.

Hindsight makes it
difficult to appreciate

just how great a
crisis this was.

For the men who stood
around Edward's deathbed,

the prospect
of being ruled by a woman

was deeply troubling.

What they thought they knew

was that women
were not equipped to rule.

Weaker than men,
less rational,

more sinful,
unable to fight,

unable to make law.

Over the previous 400 years,

the handful of women who
had tried to take power

had found themselves
condemned as unnatural,

even monstrous.

Whether through inheritance
or by force,

the crown of England had
always been worn by a man.

And Edward's father,
Henry VIII,

had gone to extreme lengths

to ensure that he would have
a son to succeed him.

This painting offers
a revealing insight

into Henry VIII's
view of his dynasty.

In the centre
is Henry himself,

flanked by his 3rd wife,
Jane Seymour,

and their son, Edward.

On the left is Henry's
older daughter, Mary,

by his 1st wife,
Catherine of Aragon.

On the right is his younger
daughter, Elizabeth,

by his 2nd wife,
Anne Boleyn.

The painting is a
fabricated representation,

rather than a
portrait from life.

In fact,
Jane Seymour had died

just a fortnight
after Edward's birth.

But here she sits

as the beloved mother
of Henry's male heir.

Henry's daughters, by contrast,

are left on the sidelines.

He even went as far as to
declare that they were bastards

after he'd disposed
of their mothers.

Daughters, for Henry,
would not do.

He was a king, and only
a king could succeed him.

All of Henry's hopes
for England's future

rested on his son's shoulders.

And when Henry died
in 1547,

9-year-old Edward
became King of England.

He knew it was his destiny

to continue the glorious
line of Tudor kings.

But a few months
after his 15th birthday,

Edward fell seriously ill.

Throughout the winter,

he was confined
within the palace walls,

and by the spring of 1553,

it was clear he was dying.

But the identity of his heir
was far from clear,

and that left England facing
an alarmingly uncertain future.

As well as his 2 half-sisters,

Mary and Elizabeth,

Edward had 7 cousins,

but all of them
were women.

For the 1st time since
the Norman conquest,

there were no male
heirs to the throne.

Whatever happened,

England's next monarch
would be a woman.

And the question now was,

which woman would it be?

Mary and Elizabeth both knew

that under the terms
of their father's will,

if Edward died,

the crown should pass first
to Mary,

then to her younger sister.

But they also knew

there was
a complicating factor:

Edward's faith.

He was an ardent Protestant,

and Mary an equally
committed Catholic.

Mary's fear was that faith
would usurp bloodline.

Mary had watched her father,
Henry VIII,

break from
the Church of Rome,

and make himself head of
the Church of England.

But it was under Edward

that England underwent
a fully-fledged

Protestant reformation.

Edward was a precociously
intelligent child.

He'd been educated
by Protestant tutors,

and despite his young age,

he was determined to make
his people follow his faith.

All that Mary held dear,

the Latin mass,

sung in churches
full of images and incense,

was swept away,

to be replaced
by an English prayer book

and simpler forms of worship.

For Edward,

it was unthinkable
that his own death

should send his people back

into the darkness
of Catholicism.

Housed in the Inner Temple
Library in London

is a document which shows

just how far
Edward was prepared to go

to stop this happening.

This extraordinary document

is what Edward called
"My Device for the Succession".

You can see that it's drafted

and redrafted
in his own hand.

And what this is about,
above all,

is excluding his sister Mary

from inheriting his crown.

Mary anticipated that
her father's will would prevail,

but Edward found a loophole.

Henry had declared in law

that his daughters
were illegitimate.

And that gave Edward his chance.

English monarchs,
he decided,

had to be legitimate.

And they also had
to be Protestant,

which ruled out
his Catholic cousin,

Mary Queen of Scots.

That left his only
remaining cousins,

the descendants
of Henry VIII's younger sister.

There was Frances Grey
and her 3 daughters,

Jane, Catherine
and Mary.

Jane Grey in particular

shared Edward's
fierce devotion

to the Protestant faith.

But Edward planned
that all future English monarchs

would be kings.

He intended to cut women out
of the succession altogether.

So in his first draft,

he left his crown
not to the Grey girls,

but to the sons
they might one day have,

their heirs male.

But there was no time

for for the Grey girls
to have a son.

By the summer of 1553,

Edward and his ministers
knew he was dying.

On his sickbed,

Edward took up his pen
once again.

At the 11th hour,
and faced with no other choice,

he accepted that he would
have to name a female heir.

His Device said that
the crown should pass

"to the Lady Jane's heirs male".

But now the king altered it
to read

"the Lady Jane
and her heirs male."

With the addition
of 2 small words,

Jane Grey became the chosen
heir to Edward's throne.

Mary was the rightful heir,

but she had no inkling
of these manoeuvres,

and neither did Jane Grey.

She was merely a pawn

in a much larger
political game.

During Edward's reign,

England had been ruled
by a noble council

as they waited for Edward
to reach adulthood.

These men ran the country

in the name
of the young king.

At their head was
the Duke of Northumberland.

For him, 15-year-old Jane Grey
was the perfect choice

as Edward's heir.

Not only was she a Protestant,

like Northumberland himself,

but she had just been married
to his son.

June 1553 was a month
of mounting tension.

Northumberland sent warships
to patrol the Thames,

and did everything he could

to ensure his coup would go
according to plan.

Meanwhile, Mary and
Elizabeth were kept ignorant

of their brother's
weakening condition,

as, one by one, the king's
lawyers and councillors

were called into his bedchamber

to put their seals
to the "Device"

for Lady Jane's succession.

On the 6th of July,
Edward died at Greenwich,

as a summer storm raged
across the capital.

But the would-be queens
of England

didn't yet know that
their moment had come.

The Duke of Northumberland
wanted to ensure

that the king's
death was kept secret

until the levers of
power had been secured.

Three days
after Edward's death,

Jane Grey was summoned
to meet Northumberland

and other members
of the Privy Council.

She watched in bewilderment

as they knelt before her,

offering their allegiance
to the new Queen of England.

Her first reaction
was a storm of grief

for her dead cousin.

Her second was horror.

"The crown is not my right
and pleases me not," she said.

"The Lady Mary is
the rightful heir."

Jane Grey was strong-willed

and ferociously intelligent,

but she was only 15,

and struggling
with shock and grief.

In the end,
she couldn't hold out

against her powerful and
manipulative father-in-law,

Northumberland.

On the 10th of July,

heralds at last appeared
on the streets of London

to tell Edward's subjects
that their king was dead

and to proclaim the accession
of Queen Jane.

The heralds' proclamation
was a lengthy document,

largely because of the need
to explain to Jane's subjects

exactly who their new queen was.

If the idea that
she might inherit the throne

had come as a shock
to Jane herself,

it was a bolt from the blue
for the people of England,

and beyond.

The Emperor Charles V
had to ask his envoys

to send a family tree

to explain
Jane's claim to the crown.

And on London's streets,

the news was met in puzzled
and fearful silence.

But Jane soon realised

even more was expected of her.

As she was taken
to the royal apartments

in the Tower of London

to prepare for her coronation,

it became clear that her
father-in-law Northumberland

expected his son to become
king once she was queen.

Jane later wrote that she was
wrestling with "a troubled mind,

infinite grief and
displeasure of heart,"

as she struggled to cope with
the shock of her situation.

But, all the same,
she was prepared

to flex her royal muscles.

The question of the status
of a reigning queen's husband

was without precedent
in English history.

Jane's husband
Guildford had assumed

that he would become king
when Jane became queen,

but she was having none of it.

She was worried that the crown
might not rightfully be hers,

but she was sure that
it wasn't her husband's.

Jane's stand precipitated
a furious row

with her father-in-law
and her husband.

When it was suggested

that a crown be made
for Guildford too,

she said
she would make him a duke,

but not a king.

Northumberland had expected
a puppet.

Now he was finding

Jane wouldn't be
so easily manipulated.

But for the moment,
this battle had to wait,

because another strong woman
was preparing for a fight:

Mary.

It was Mary,
Henry VIII's eldest daughter,

who was popularly understood
to stand next in line

to her brother's throne.

Mary's sex had compromised
her standing as his heir

her father's eyes,

but the fact
that she was female

could hardly be used
against her

by supporters of Queen Jane.

Still, the fact remained

that Northumberland controlled

the formidable machinery
of government,

and it wasn't clear
what Mary could do to oust him.

Sinister whispers
had reached Mary

that Northumberland was
planning to arrest her

and imprison her in the Tower.

Mary fled to her estates
in East Anglia,

and then made her way
to her castle

of Framlingham,
in Suffolk,

with its moated defences.

Mary was safe,

but she was far from the centre
of political action,

and her enemies
controlled the capital.

She seemed to be
a woman alone,

and her chances
of becoming queen

were written off
even by her allies.

Her chief supporter overseas

was her cousin Charles V.

As the King of Spain
and Holy Roman Emperor,

he was one
of the most powerful men

in Europe.

And his ambassador told him

Mary stood no chance.

"All the forces of the country
are in the Duke's hands,

and my lady has no hope of
raising enough men to face him."

As a female heir to the throne,

Mary found
that her judgment was questioned

and her claim dismissed

because she couldn't lead
her own troops to enforce it.

But what they hadn't taken
into account was Mary herself.

And that was a misjudgment
on a massive scale.

Mary was determined
she would be queen.

She sent letters to noblemen

and gentry
around the country,

summoning them to come to
their rightful queen's defence.

They answered Mary's
call in their thousands.

The men who mustered
their troops here,

at her castle of
Framlingham in Suffolk,

were loyal to the old religion,

or more simply,
to the lineage of Henry VIII.

And their confidence
in the justice of their mission

was palpable.

The same wasn't true
of Mary's opponents.

Northumberland
wasn't popular,

and he had misjudged
his reach.

Just because he had
proclaimed Jane queen

didn't mean the country
would accept it.

At Framlingham,

Mary's forces now
counted 10,000 and rising.

Northumberland marched his men
out of London

to meet them,
but on the 18th of July,

Mary heard that he had
stopped short at Cambridge

in shock at the overwhelming
strength of her position.

And in his absence,

the other lords
of the council

collapsed into panic
and recrimination,

claiming Northumberland
had prevented them

from declaring their
loyalty to Mary.

On Wednesday the 19th of July,

Mary Tudor was proclaimed
Queen of England.

Jane's proclamation
had been greeted

with uneasy silence.

Now London's streets
erupted in a wild explosion

of joy and relief.

In the Tower,

the girl who'd been queen
for just 9 days

relinquished a crown
that she'd always believed

was Mary's by right.

Jane had reigned,
fleetingly and powerlessly,

but now Mary faced the
reality of ruling England.

In just 9 days,
Mary had routed her enemies.

She ordered a traitor's death

for the Duke
of Northumberland.

And Jane Grey,

who had entered
the Tower of London

to prepare for her coronation,

now remained there
as a prisoner.

But Mary refused
to order the execution

of a girl she saw
as a wronged innocent.

Mary's own right to the
throne had been vindicated

with overwhelming
popular recognition.

But as a woman,

her right to exercise power
as she saw fit

was another matter.

Mary's cousin,
the Emperor Charles V,

had no doubt
of the constraints

her sex would impose
on her rule.

Just 3 days into her reign,

he sent his ambassadors
some advice

to pass on to the new queen.

"Let her be in all things
what she ought to be:

a good Englishwoman,

and avoid giving
the impression

that she desires to act
on her own authority."

No king could have
tolerated the prospect

that he shouldn't
"act on his own authority."

But Mary was being told
she couldn't do that

and be a
"good Englishwoman".

For the time being,
however,

it seemed that Mary would play
the "good Englishwoman"

to perfection.

Three days before
her coronation,

Mary made
a remarkable appeal

to the members
of her council.

Sinking to her knees
before them,

she spoke at length
about her responsibility

to God and her people,

and then implored them

to do their duty
as her councillors,

because, she said,

she had entrusted
her affairs

and person to them.

The imperial ambassador
reported

that these great men
of the realm

were moved to tears.

Amazed as they all were

by this humble
and lowly discourse,

so unlike anything ever
heard before in England.

How much of this public
performance was heartfelt,

and how much was strategy?

Mary was conservative
by temperament,

but she was also
highly intelligent,

and like all the Tudors,
had a formidable will.

And whether or not
she genuinely believed that,

as a woman,
she needed help

in governing her kingdom,

it was certainly the case

that this display
of female frailty

proved an effective way
of uniting

a fractious and divided council
around her.

And with the backing
of her council,

Mary was about to achieve
something

no woman before her
had ever managed.

Jane may have been proclaimed
England's queen

for a fleeting moment,
but she was never crowned.

On the 30th of September 1553,

Mary became
the 1st Queen of England

to be crowned
in her own right.

At her coronation
in Westminster Abbey,

like all previous kings,
she wore crimson robes

to receive the orb, sceptre,

ring, spurs and sword

that represented
the powers of kingship.

And she was anointed
with holy oil, like a king,

before the crown of England
was placed on her head.

But the triumph of this
ceremony was soon overshadowed

by the prospect of another:
Mary's marriage.

She might be
a crowned sovereign,

but she was still a woman,

and the consensus was
that she needed a husband.

At the age of 17,

Mary had been declared
a bastard.

This toxic status
had made her un-marriageable,

but now, 20 years later,

she was the most eligible woman
in Europe.

And the question
of Mary's marriage

would dominate the
first year of her reign.

It would bring into
open discussion

whether a woman could be
both a ruler and a wife.

Her cousin,
the Emperor Charles V,

had advised
that she needed a husband

so that she could be "supported
in the labour of governing",

"and assisted in matters that
are not of ladies' capacity."

Mary remained calm

in the face
of such patronising advice

because she agreed
that she needed a husband,

and quickly, but
for a very different reason.

Mary was 37,
and she wanted a Catholic heir.

Everyone agreed, then,

that the queen should marry
without delay,

but it was much harder
to decide

which husband in
particular she should take.

At the heart of the problem

was the unresolved question

of the balance of authority
between husband and wife

when the wife wore a crown.

If Queen Mary took a husband,

would England acquire
a king?

Many of Mary's subjects
believed

that she should marry
an Englishman,

fearing that if she married
a European prince or king,

England would be subjected
to foreign rule.

The leading candidate,

qualified
by his Catholic faith

and his royal descent,

was a nobleman named
Edward Courtenay,

Earl of Devon.

Just a month
after her coronation,

in November 1553,

a parliamentary delegation
visited the queen

to tell her why Courtenay
should be her husband.

They lectured Mary at length
about all the disadvantages,

dangers and difficulties
that could be imagined

or dreamt of
in the case of her choosing

a foreign husband.

Mary might kneel
before her council

when she chose,
but if they thought

she would simply do
what she was told,

they were
very much mistaken.

"Parliament was not accustomed
to use such language

to the kings of England,"
she blazed back,

"nor was it suitable
or respectful

that they should do so."

And what angered her more than
anything was the suggestion

that she should marry
one of her own subjects.

The difficulty was that a good
Christian wife,

as Mary said,

should "wholly love and obey"
her husband.

But she was a queen,

so how could she obey
a husband

who was also her subject?

Her authority
as a female sovereign

could only be safeguarded,
Mary believed,

if she married a man
whose status

was the equal of her own,
and that, by definition,

meant that he couldn't be
an Englishman.

And marrying a foreigner
would also allow her

to separate her private
responsibilities as a wife

from her public duties
as England's queen.

She would wholly love and
obey her husband, she said,

but if he wished to encroach in
the government of the kingdom,

she would be unable
to permit it.

And Mary already had
a suitable candidate in mind.

Her first thought had
been of her widowed cousin

and her greatest supporter
in Europe,

the Emperor Charles V.

But he was 53,
immobilised by gout,

catarrh and haemorrhoids,

and he had no appetite
for another marriage.

In his place,
he proposed his son, Philip,

who was already ruling
Spain on his behalf.

While Mary's councillors
were arguing

for an English husband,

she had already
committed herself

to this Spanish match.

Mary's decision to marry Philip
has been seen

as the defining mistake
of her reign.

And with hindsight,
it's certainly clear

that it had profound
and destructive drawbacks.

But there are good grounds
for thinking

that he was the best
of the very limited choices

available to her

as a female monarch
in search of a husband

who wouldn't compromise
her power in her kingdom.

By making an
alliance with Spain,

one of the most powerful
countries in Europe,

Mary was following
in her own father's footsteps.

Henry VIII had married
Mary's mother,

Catherine of Aragon,

as a matter
of political strategy.

Mary applied the same
hard-headed calculations

to her own match.

But the reaction of the country
to Mary's Spanish choice

was very different.

As soon as the news
began to spread

that the ruler of Spain
was coming to England

to marry the queen,
a plot was hatched

to save England's autonomy

by removing Mary
from the throne.

Under the leadership
of a Kentish gentleman

named Sir Thomas Wyatt,

3,000 men marched
on London

in February 1554,

intending to make a new
and safely English queen

out of Jane Grey,
or Mary's sister Elizabeth.

But, once again,
Mary showed

that a female sovereign
could lead her people

in time of crisis
not by fighting, but by talking.

She rode to the heart
of the City of London

to rally her subjects.

It was at London's Guildhall

that Mary declared her
dedication to her realm

by playing on
her double identity

as a sovereign and a woman.

She showed the people
her coronation ring,

signifying her marriage
to her kingdom,

which, she told them,
never left her finger.

And she wasn't only the wife,

but the mother of the nation.

She said,
"If a prince and governor

may as naturally and earnestly
love her subjects

as the mother does love
the child,

then assure yourselves
that I,

being your lady and mistress,

do as earnestly and tenderly
love and favour you."

When the rebels finally arrived
in London

during the night
of the 6th of February,

the queen stayed
at Westminster,

believing her capital
would hold firm.

And she was right.

By morning,
the rebellion had collapsed.

It was a triumph for Mary,

but a disaster for Jane Grey.

Jane's very existence
would always be a focus

for Protestant opposition,

and Mary reluctantly
agreed to her execution.

Less than a week later,

Jane was led to the scaffold

within the precincts
of the Tower.

With extraordinary composure,

she admitted her fault

in accepting the crown
she had never wanted,

before her head was
severed from her body.

The events of February 1554

were a dramatic demonstration

of Mary's strengths and her
vulnerabilities as queen.

She'd seen off the rebels

with a bravura display
of her queenly authority.

But the failure of the revolt
didn't dispel fears

that her idealised marriage
to her kingdom

might be compromised
by her actual marriage

to Philip of Spain.

Fears or not,
Mary was determined

that the wedding
should go ahead.

On the 25th of July 1554,

she and Philip were married
with pomp and ceremony

here at Winchester Cathedral.

They appeared an odd couple.

Philip was 27,
elegantly dressed,

lantern-jawed and
utterly inscrutable.

His bride was 11 years older,
short and thin.

Her face lined with anxiety,

an ambassador
ungallantly reported.

Mary was delighted
with her marriage,

but England now faced
a double challenge:

a woman intent
on ruling with a foreign king

as her husband by her side.

What would this mean
for her kingdom?

This great seal of 1554
brilliantly illustrates

the complicated sexual politics
of this royal relationship.

The couple are on horseback,

Mary riding ahead,
holding a sceptre,

and looking back at
Philip on her left,

the traditional position
of a royal consort.

So Mary is the
dominant partner here,

but Philip has a sword
unsheathed in his hand.

The vital function of king
as warrior

is one she can't fulfil,

so her husband is
there to do it for her.

But even this apparently neat
division of labour

was fraught with difficulties.

If Philip were to lead
his armies

in England's defence,

would England be subjected

to the military power
of Spain?

These difficulties and
contradictions were so powerful

that the treaty hammered out
to set the terms

of their marriage
went to great lengths

to prevent Philip
from intervening

in the government
of England at all.

England would take no part
in his wars,

Mary would not
leave the country,

and Philip would have no claim
to the throne

after her death.

In effect,

Philip would have the title
of king in England,

but none of the authority.

Mary had got what she wanted.

By marrying a foreigner,

she kept all her power
in England intact.

And just 4 months later,

there was another reason
for her to be jubilant.

On the 28th of November 1554,

the news was made public
that Mary was pregnant.

By Easter 1555,

England waited expectantly
for the arrival of an heir.

The queen retreated here
to Hampton Court Palace

for her confinement,

with an exquisitely carved
cradle

standing ready by her bed.

On the 30th of April,
news reached London

that Mary had given birth
to a boy.

The city erupted in celebration.

But it proved to be rumour,

running wilder than the bonfires
in the streets,

and was quickly denied.

May came and went
and, by July,

when the queen re-emerged
in public

with no further comment,

it was clear that she was not,
after all, pregnant.

For Mary,
it was a personal tragedy.

She'd been elated

at the prospect
of giving birth to an heir.

And though it wasn't easy
for doctors then

to confirm a pregnancy
beyond question,

her growing belly
had left her confident

that she was about
to become a mother.

But her symptoms
turned out to be

those of a phantom pregnancy,
not a real one.

The consequences were not
only grief and humiliation,

but a new political
vulnerability.

Mary knew
that she needed an heir

to put an end
to the unsettling question

of the succession.

But now her hopes of
conceiving one were diminished

by the fact that her husband
couldn't stay indefinitely

by her side.

Philip had waited
for the delivery that never was,

but, in August 1555,
he left England

to deal with his own
royal duties on the Continent.

18 months later,

he returned to England
for a short visit,

and in January the
following year,

Mary announced
the good news

that she was 7 months pregnant.

She had waited so long,
she said,

because this time she wanted
to be certain of her condition.

But it was the same story again.

Once again, there was no baby,

and by May, the subject
was no longer mentioned.

Despite all Mary's hopes,

at 42, she now faced
the certainty

that her marriage
had not brought her

the heir she needed.

For all monarchs,
the need to produce an heir

and carry on
the royal bloodline

was of the utmost importance.

But for Mary,

there was the added weight
of her Catholic faith.

Her sister Elizabeth was
next in line to the throne,

but Elizabeth was a Protestant.

Now all Mary could do
was to try in her own lifetime

to make sure that Catholicism
was firmly re-established

in England.

After Edward's
Protestant regime,

many had welcomed
Mary's commitment

to the traditional forms
of religious practice.

Altars were restored

and images retrieved
from their hiding places.

But Mary's religious reform
went deeper.

She wanted to stamp out
all traces

of Protestant belief
as well as practice.

In November 1554,

she had reinstated
the old heresy laws,

and over the next 4 years,

almost 280 English Protestants

died in Catholic flames.

And it was that ferocity

on the part of England's 1st
sovereign queen that gave rise

to the most explicit
condemnation yet formulated

of the whole concept
of female rule.

From his exile in Geneva,

John Knox, a Scotsman
who had served as chaplain

at Edward's Protestant court,
watched in horror

as Mary undid Edward's
Protestant reformation.

Knox responded in 1558

by publishing this book,
the gloriously titled

"First Blast Of The Trumpet
Against The Monstrous Regiment",

meaning regimen or rule,
"Of Women".

And it's clear
from the 1st page

that Knox was not about
to mince his words.

"To promote a woman to bear
rule, superiority, dominion

or empire above any realm,
nation or city,

is repugnant to nature,
contumely to God,

a thing most contrarious
to his revealed will

and approved ordinance,
and, finally,

it is the subversion
of good order,

of all equity and justice."

According to Knox,
women's rule was monstrous

- that is, unnatural
and abominable -

because women
were subordinate to men

by the laws
of God and nature.

For Knox,
Mary's "spiritual fornication

and whoredom" made her

"the uttermost
of God's plagues."

This is a piece of thunderingly
misogynist polemic.

But behind Knox's ranting

lay a much deeper and wider
cultural unease

about the very idea of women
holding political power.

And there was an intractable
catch 22 at work here.

Women were soft and weak,
hence unfit to rule.

But a woman who showed
herself to be strong

was not the equivalent
of a man,

but a monster,
a crime against nature.

This double-bind

stood at the heart of Knox's
portrayal of Mary.

He declared
that she was "unworthy,

by reason of her bloody tyranny,
of the name of woman".

History would echo
Knox's verdict

by dubbing this Catholic queen
"Bloody Mary".

Mary's desire to be both
a female king and a wife

proved just how difficult
this combination could be.

England had been drawn
into Philip's war

against the French,
and Calais,

England's last territory
in France, had been lost.

Mary was distraught.

It was later said
she'd declared that,

when she died,
the words Philip and Calais

would be found
inscribed on her heart.

In the summer of 1558,

a lethal flu epidemic
took hold of England.

The fever laid thousands low,

and many did not rise again
from their beds.

That autumn,
Queen Mary was among them.

In the first week
of November,

knowing that she wasn't
expected to survive,

Mary sent to acknowledge
Elizabeth as her heir,

asking only, hopelessly,
that her sister should,

"Maintain the old religion as
the queen has restored it."

She held on for 10 more days,

slipping in and out
of consciousness,

but on the 17th of November
1558, Mary died.

This time there was no question
who would succeed

and no protest that
she was a woman.

On January 14th, 1559,

25-year-old Elizabeth

was carried in a litter
draped with cloth of gold,

in a triumphant progress

through the streets
of London.

The next day,

she was crowned
Queen of England

in Westminster Abbey.

When she was presented
to her people,

the new queen was greeted
with roars of approval,

fanfares of trumpets
and ringing of bells.

One eyewitness reported

that it was "as if the world
were coming to an end."

The fresh, young queen revelled
in this tumultuous welcome,

and the contrast with her
weary predecessor was stark.

But behind the pageants
and the processions,

Elizabeth shared more with her
sister than first meets the eye.

Both faced the same challenge:

to be, as Mary's funeral oration
declared, "a queen,

and, by the same title,
a king, also."

When Elizabeth
came to the throne,

the 2 most urgent questions
she faced

were the very same ones
that had confronted Mary:

her marriage
and her country's religion.

Her advisers in England,
and observers abroad,

assumed that the 2 questions
were one and the same.

Because what would determine
England's religion,

they thought,
was not Elizabeth herself,

but the identity
of her future husband.

The Spanish ambassador said
as much to Philip of Spain

just 4 days
after Mary's death.

"The more I think over
this business", he said,

"the more certain I am
that everything

depends upon the husband
this woman may take."

"If he be a suitable one,

religious matters
will go on well."

"But if not,
all will be spoilt."

Once again,
it was assumed

that the queen
would have to marry

and that the men around her

would play a decisive role
in choosing her husband.

First among the Catholic
candidates was Mary's widower,

Philip of Spain himself.

"If she decides to marry
out of the country",

his ambassador wrote
confidently,

"she will at once fix her eyes
on Your Majesty."

Meanwhile, Elizabeth's
Protestant counsellors,

including her right-hand man,
William Cecil,

who "governs the queen,"
the Spanish ambassador reported,

had other ideas.

The crown prince of Sweden

who sent lavish gifts
of gold and horses

to press his suit.

Or a small handful of hopefuls
among the English nobility.

But within weeks,
the men around Elizabeth

began to find themselves
frustrated and confused.

"The Queen is a woman
who is very fond of arguments",

Philip's ambassador wrote.

"Everybody thinks that she
will not marry a foreigner

and they cannot make
out whom she favours,

so that nearly every day
some new cry is raised

about a husband."

Surely, they thought,

the matter would be settled
at her 1st parliament.

And so,
on February 6th, 1559,

in the Palace of Westminster,

a parliamentary delegation,

headed by the Speaker
of the House of Commons,

presented Elizabeth
with a petition

that she should marry
and give the kingdom an heir,

which was, said the Speaker,
"the single, the only,

the all-comprehending prayer
of all Englishmen."

Elizabeth's reply
to her parliament

was a masterpiece of oratory
that demonstrated

her determination to be
both queen and ruler.

If she did ever marry,
she would only choose a husband

who would be as careful
of her realm

as she was herself.

If she didn't,
then God, she was sure,

would provide an heir
to secure England's future.

And "in the end," she said,

"this shall be for me
sufficient,

that a marble stone
shall declare that a queen,

having reigned such a time,
lived and died a virgin."

This was an extraordinary
declaration.

No king
would ever have suggested

that he should remain
unmarried

and give up his chance
to father an heir.

But none of her subjects
believed

she'd meant what she'd said,

and, unlike Mary,
Elizabeth, at 25,

had the luxury of time
to put off her decision

about who and when to marry.

Her speechmaking
didn't stop the suitors,

and their diplomatic overtures
continued to be met

with flirtatious prevarication.

Her 1st suitor,
Philip of Spain,

was the first to lose patience.

When he married
a French princess

in April 1559,

Elizabeth said sharply
that he couldn't have been

as much in love with her
as he'd claimed,

since he hadn't been prepared
to wait 4 months for her.

But declarations of love

had only ever been
a political game.

What had changed
Philip's mind

was the realisation
that Elizabeth would never be

a good Catholic wife.

She had made it plain that she,

not any husband she might take,

would decide the vexed
question of England's religion.

Elizabeth didn't share
the dogmatic faith

of either of her siblings.

And she had seen,
all too clearly,

how the sight
of Protestant flesh burning

in Catholic flames

had discredited
Mary's government.

Instead, the main business
of her 1st parliament,

after the question
of her marriage had been raised

and dispatched,

was to establish a new
religious settlement in England.

After weeks of bitter argument

between Catholics and
hardline Protestants,

Elizabeth adjourned the session.

And when,
on April 3, 1559,

Elizabeth reassembled
her parliament,

she had come to a decision
that gave in to neither side.

Elizabeth formulated

a very English brand
of reformed religion.

As Supreme Governor of
the Church of England,

not Supreme Head,

which was too controversial
a title for a woman,

she tried to unite as many
of her people as possible

around her own sovereignty.

She had no desire, she said,

to "make windows
into men's souls."

For this queen,
outward obedience

to a compromise church
was enough.

No-one believed for a moment

that this was the last word
on England's religion.

But Elizabeth's subjects
were to find

that this apparently
open-ended approach

to decision-making
was typical of their new queen.

They were discovering

that their queen could be
baffling as well as brilliant,

with a silver-tongued capacity
to say everything, and nothing,

at the same time.

But despite her capriciousness,
as the years went on,

they learned
that it wasn't for nothing

that Elizabeth's motto
was "semper eadem",

always the same.

The queen may have dealt
with the question

of England's religion
with a compromise,

but with the issue
of marriage,

there was
no such middle ground.

As weeks turned into months
and months into years,

the proposals came and went,

and her chance of
childbearing began to fade.

There's no way of telling

whether Elizabeth ever
really entertained

the idea of marriage.

She dallied with suitors,

most famously her favourite,
Robert Dudley,

who extended the castle
here at Kenilworth

specially for her visit.

But in the end,
with characteristic insight,

she saw the potential of
her status as a virgin queen,

and by putting off
the decision to marry

until a perpetual tomorrow,

she made herself the source of
all security for her kingdom.

And in 1588,
Elizabeth's determination

that she alone would protect
her realm

would be put
to its greatest test.

That summer,
a vast Spanish fleet,

sent by Elizabeth's
one-time suitor,

Philip of Spain,
lay off the coast of England,

threatening to invade.

Philip had tried, and failed,

to keep England Catholic,

first by proposing
to marry Elizabeth,

then by supporting any
opposition to her rule.

Now, he intended
to make England Catholic

once and for all,
this time by conquest.

And confronted
by Philip's forces,

with no husband
to hold a sword for her,

54-year-old Elizabeth
faced the challenge alone.

Could a female sovereign
defend her kingdom

against the might
of the Spanish Armada?

An army was mustered
at Tilbury, in Essex,

to resist the Spanish
if they dared

to sail up the Thames.

On the morning of
August 9, 1588,

Elizabeth rode out
on a white horse,

with a silver breastplate
over her white dress,

to rally her troops.

Her courage,
and her extraordinary charisma,

had never been more apparent.

"I know I have the body

of a weak and feeble
woman," she said,

"but I have the heart
and stomach of a king,

and of a king of England, too."

Women might be weak,

but Elizabeth wanted
her subjects to know

that she was exceptional,

chosen by God to be
king and queen, in one.

And heaven clearly approved.

The Armada was shipwrecked
by storms in the Atlantic.

As Elizabeth declared,

"God breathed
and they were scattered."

Even without a husband,

the virgin queen had seen
off England's enemies.

This dramatic triumph,
won by a nation led by a woman,

served to feed the
growing cult of Gloriana.

Pictures such as this one,

in the National Portrait
Gallery,

which was commissioned
in 1592

by one of her courtiers

as an elaborate
compliment to the queen,

show Elizabeth as
a unique being,

armed with an array of images,

myths, allegories and symbols.

Here she stands
in all her glory,

impassive, imperious,

her elaborate dress hung
with the pearls of virginity,

now a frame for an icon.

This queen represents
the kingdom

beneath
her daintily-slippered feet

as completely as
she dominates it.

She is king, queen, virgin,

wife, mother and goddess,

with a man's heart
in a woman's breast.

Not simply a woman,

but a woman chosen by God

to rise above the limitations
of her sex.

But Elizabeth's power
entailed a sacrifice.

It had to be exercised alone.

She could only be wife
and mother to her kingdom

if she were wife and
mother to no-one else.

The virgin queen could
dominate her country's present,

but only by giving up
any stake in its future.

It was a high price to pay.

In February 1603,

when Elizabeth was 69,

her health began to fail.

At her palace of Richmond,

restless with fever,
she couldn't eat or sleep,

but still she did
verything she could

to stave off the moment when her
kingdom would go on without her,

refusing to make a will
or to name an heir,

or even to move from the floor
cushions on which she lay.

A courtier told her
she must go to bed.

"Little man, little man,"
she said,

"the word 'must'
is not to be used to princes."

But the flattering rhetoric

and the ageless portraits
couldn't save her.

Even Gloriana wasn't immortal.

On March 24, 1603,
Elizabeth died,

and with her died the Tudor
dynasty, the family line

that her own father had gone
to such lengths to continue.

The consequences were
immediately clear.

As Elizabeth breathed her last,

horsemen raced north
to Edinburgh,

to tell James VI,
the Stuart King of Scotland,

that he was now also
King of England,

the 1st of a new dynasty
of English kings.

Elizabeth had ruled
England for 45 years.

She had shown not just that
female rule was possible,

but that it could be glorious.

But still she couldn't do

what every king saw
as his birthright:

to pass on the crown

to an heir
of his own bloodline.

It's a telling reminder that,
for a queen,

there was no neutral
in the exercise of power.

Power was male,

and a women
who sought to rule

faced compromises
and criticism

of a kind that would never have
applied to a man.

All the women who
sought to rule medieval

and Tudor England,
from Matilda

to Elizabeth I,
found from bitter experience

that power wasn't
shaped for female hands.

When they did pursue
power as a man might,

they were accused of being
unfeminine and unnatural,

of being she-wolves.

Now it seems straightforward,
even natural,

that Great Britain has a queen.

Elizabeth II has been
able to wear her crown

without facing
the difficult choices

that confronted her namesake
4 centuries ago.

But there's a reason for this.

Unlike her medieval
and Tudor predecessors,

our queen reigns,
rather than rules.

When she comes here,
to the House of Lords,

to open a parliament,

she speaks
her government's words,

not her own.

My government's
legislative programme

will be based upon
the principles of freedom,

fairness and responsibility.

A woman with real power is
still the exception to the rule.

If we examine our instincts,
and our institutions,

power still looks, sounds and
feels overwhelmingly male.

So in the end,

is the culture of power
in the modern world

less different
from the medieval past

than we'd care to admit?