When I first started The Lady in the Tower, I was sure it was going to get a five-star rating from me. Over sixteen hours later, that rating had withered to three stars, although I’m not certain if that’s completely fair either. Alison Weir is a great historian, and TLITT is a richly detailed, meticulous piece of detective work—painfully meticulous, if we’re being frank. Weir gets so bogged down in the fine print that half of the book plods away at a snail’s pace. Much of what she recounts is intriguing: the political machinations that contributed to Anne’s downfall, the backstories of the men who were condemned alongside her, an analysis of how Anne’s public image has changed throughout the centuries. But too much time is allotted to mincing over dates and numbers and turns of phrases, stunting the flow of the book and undoubtedly decreasing its accessibility. This is further heightened by the many long, direct quotes and speeches inserted into the second half of the book.
I would describe Weir’s treatment of Anne as very fair, which means her most ardent fans will probably detest it. Weir staunchly defends Anne’s innocence, casting the plot to topple her from power as the result of feuding factions at court. She also conveys Anne’s true devotion to the reform of the Church. But she doesn’t shy away from discussing Anne’s caustic temper, her careless behavior, or her deeply abusive treatment of her stepdaughter, Mary. It was ultimately Anne’s hostility towards Mary that pushed her enemies, led by Thomas Cromwell, to remove her from power. Cromwell is portrayed as the chief antagonist in Anne’s downfall rather than Henry, whom Weir appears to think has been wrongly maligned. He is depicted as almost passive in his disposal of his second wife, and Weir takes especial issue with him being dubbed a “wife killer” by her contemporaries. Henry is not a murderer, she argues, because he acted within the confines of the law. To that argument, I’ll just say this: Ivan the Terrible, the tsar who beat his own son to death in a black rage, also had six wives, some of whom he put aside, and even he never felt the need to have any of them executed. Just let that sit there for a moment.
Weir offers a few unique takes about the many players present at the Tudor court, some of which she may have come to see differently in the years since publication. Here Weir denies that Henry VIII fathered any children with Mary Boleyn, but she has since said that she now believes Henry likely fathered Mary’s daughter, Catherine. Weir describes the Seymours as schemers and argues in TLITT that Jane Seymour must have been braver and more ruthless than how she’s remembered. In more recent interviews I’ve seen of hers, however, Weir has expressed some consternation about Jane being demonized by fans of Anne Boleyn. Most notable is Weir’s take on Henry Percy, whom Weir argues had fallen out of love with Anne and had come to despise by the time of her trial.
One person Weir has not appeared to have changed her mind about is Anne’s brother, George, who is portrayed as an abusive deviant both here and in Weir’s other books. This only makes her depiction of his wife, Jane Boleyn, all the more puzzling. I don’t know what Weir thinks of JB today, but she staunchly believes in her complicity in George’s and Anne’s deaths in TLIIT, even making a few snide remarks at Julia Fox, one of the first historians to publicly reevaluate Jane’s reputation. Having just read Philippa Gregory’s Boleyn Traitor, this felt like hopping in a time machine and going back to an earlier time—which, of course, it was. The reconsideration of JB’s role in the Boleyn’s downfall has only grown since then, so it is perhaps fitting that Weir is noticeably less meticulous in her treatment of the evidence against her. She never notices, for instance, that none of the evidence supposedly implicating Jane ever mentions her by name—a very odd omission for someone sending her own husband to the executioner’s block. If JB did provide evidence against them, however, then the most logical conclusion would be that she did it to be rid of her abusive husband, and the queen who presumably chose to turn a blind eye to his behavior. After all, Weir herself notes that Jane’s survival and status was directly tied to George—would she really jeopardize all that for mere jealousy? But alas, we are expected to sympathize with the abusive husband and not his victim, as we have for the better part of five centuries. Alison Weir clearly cares about the lives of women, but her painting both George’s and Henry’s abusive actions as either insignificant or non-existent is a mark against this book.
One note on the audiobook narration: the narrator has a very soothing voice, but her accents are hilariously bad. Eustace Chapuys vacillates between Spanish, French, and Spanglish accents at random all throughout the book.