All Kings & All Their Favourites - The Observer
Sunday 13th February 2005
Royal marriages have traditionally been unhappy. One way or another, princes and princesses have almost always been forced to place national interest and international relations above personal inclinations. It's one of the bad things about being royal - the price of living in fairy-tale castles - and one of the few aspects of royalty that allow the rest of us to feel that, for all its sparkle, a crown might end up being a heavy burden.
Poor Henry VIII spent his life searching for the perfect queen. First, he was obliged to marry his brother's widow to maintain England's relations with Spain. He divorced her not because he didn't love her, but because she didn't provide him with the heir he needed. His second wife bewitched him, but was equally incapable of bearing a prince; his third gave him his longed-for son, but died in childbirth. Next time around, having earned a deservedly bad reputation among the eligible princesses of Europe, Henry was forced to take Anne of Cleves on spec. Unfortunately, the portrait Henry had commissioned of his fourth bride was so flattering that when he saw her in the flesh he refused even to attempt to consummate the marriage, and demanded a divorce on the spot.
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As Caroline of Brunswick curtseyed to her betrothed, the future George IV, at their first meeting, he muttered to his valet: 'Harris, I am not well; pray get me a glass of brandy.' Even before they were married, a little like Charles asking Camilla to help an immature Diana settle, the then Prince of Wales had installed his mistress as Lady of the Bedchamber to his bride. In the carriage on the way to the wedding, George declared his undying love for his morganatic wife, Maria Fitzherbert; at the altar, he was so drunk that he hiccupped through his vows. At his coronation 26 years later, he posted burly bodyguards outside Westminster Abbey to keep his estranged wife out.
Part of the problem has been the multitude of criteria which prospective royal spouses have had to meet. The monarch's wife (or husband), historically, was supposed to be young, fertile, untarnished, of good family and reputation, Protestant, hopefully useful in some way to the crown. On these counts, perhaps the best that can be said of Camilla Parker Bowles is that she is Protestant.
George IV's secret wedding to Maria Fitzherbert was constitutionally illegal because she was Catholic and twice widowed; Edward VIII gave up the throne in order to marry the brittle divorcee, Wallis Simpson; Princess Margaret wasn't allowed to marry Peter Townsend because he had been divorced. Until we began to see other people's private lives as public property, discreet extramarital affairs were the accepted way round these obstacles to romance.
When Prince Charles got married 24 years ago, international diplomacy was no longer a consideration. Even so, some eyebrows were raised over the fact that his bride, despite belonging to one of the country's oldest and most distinguished noble families, was not a princess. Diana's 'common' birth was much-remarked upon. It was seen as vital that the future king's bride be a virgin, hence rumours that she had to submit to humiliating medical examinations.
As the monarchy has lurched towards modernity, we have allowed the royals slightly more leeway in their choice of partner, and this approach has had mixed success. The problems inherent in being royal in an age where royalty is almost an anachronism are charted only too poignantly in the pages of the tabloids.
The fact that a man who expects to have his toothpaste put on to his toothbrush for him can find a woman who loves him despite that ought to be a cause for celebration, whatever their roles in life.
All too often, we view the royals as sport, their foibles and mistakes brutally spotlit and a scandal-hungry public passing judgment on them as if they were animals in a zoo. It demeans them to view them as a form of highly paid, hereditary entertainment.
For this reason alone, there is no excuse for being anything other than pleased that two people who have loved each other for many years have decided to make their commitment public. Boorish comments like that from John Prescott ('Perhaps he'll have less time for fox-hunting now') reflect badly only on those who make them.
But we can also be pleased that, in following his heart, in deciding to marry a divorcee, and in electing for his wife to use titles less stiff with protocol than previously, Charles has acknowledged the move towards the smaller, more informal monarchy that most Britons would like to see. And freed himself from one of the more absurd historical conventions of royal birth.