“In my time I’ve had the pleasure and privilege of meeting six reigning Queens, each in very different circumstances. I wondered this week how I should conduct myself if the six wives of Henry VIII should suddenly roll up at Les Senteurs, demanding high rare perfumes and scented goods from beyond the seas and the outer realms of Christendom. This unlikely prospect came into my head on account of a book review in The Times which proposed that, of the six, Katharine of Aragon “…is the least sympathetic to us now”. I was a bit thrown by this; couldn’t agree less. Neither could insightful historian Alison Weir on BBC R4: she plumped for Anne Boleyn – I’m with her, there. But the Spanish Queen, the first wife, is one of the most attractive and admirable of the set: she and Katherine Parr, Henry’s eventual widow and Queen Dowager, would get my vote. Together they clocked up twenty five odd years with the old beast. The other four marriages were over and done with in less than ten.
I imagine that, as a former Infanta born into the purple, Katherine would be most in demeanour like our own dear Queen, gracious and dignified; poised and powerful. And already exuding the odour of sanctity and frankincense from her velvets and furs, the exotic perfumes of Moorish Spain. My instinctive choice would be to reach down GRAIN DE PLAISIR on account of its top notes being an accord of majestically crimson pomegranates, the symbol of fertility which graced Katherine’s personal coat of arms: the pomegranates which grew in the gardens of Granada where the princess spent her childhood. Katharine was a blonde fair-skinned Spaniard and might also appreciate a glittering hesperidic beauty to remind her of home: maybe the airy and delicate YU SON with its accords of mandarin, green tea and gaiac wood. The thousand-seeded pomegranate failed to work its blessing of propagation on the luckless Katherine: had she mothered a son, the terrible Boleyn would never have stolen her crown.
I anticipate that “Anne-Sans-Tete” – as she called herself at the end with an hysterical gallows humour – would be tricky; arch, bossy and demanding. She wanted to stick a silver bodkin through any tongue that slandered her; the six fingers on her left hand were the infallible mark of a witch. Her arch-enemy Cardinal Wolsey called her “The Night Crow”; but (remembering that bodkin) would one have the effrontery to propose the all too aptly named L’OISEAU DE NUIT with its sumptuous oriental luxe and creamy notes of liqueur? Alternatively there is ANGELIQUE by Papillon which contains pungent ambiguous addictive hawthorn: otherwise known as (unlucky) may blossom. To the medieval mind the month of May was sacred to the Queen of Heaven and thus fraught with taboos: Anne Boleyn was prepared for Coronation, arraigned and beheaded all in the merry month of May.
Jane Seymour, mouse-meek but cunning as a rat, with strange transparent milk-white skin – and a milk- and-water demeanour: what shall we have for her? Maybe TEINT DE NEIGE – “the colour of snow”. Pure, sweet, delicate and diaphanous: but with powdery depths of suppressed passion – and an immense clinging tenacity.
Then poor Anne of Cleves, “the Flanders mare”: painted as an exquisite fragile beauty by Holbein but reviled on sight by Henry who made unpleasant slurs on what would now be described as her lack of “body toning”. The King also remarked, straight out, that she smelled. The very fact that he said this indicates that the Tudor Court had – and this may surprise some – high standards of hygiene. It strikes me that Henry – himself always well doused in rose-water – might conceivably have been put off his stroke by the bride’s perfume. Coming from the Low Countries Anne would have been well acquainted with the already legendary alchemical Queen of Hungary Water, said to have been formulated by a Carpathian hermit two hundred years before, and a best-seller ever since all over Northern Europe. But assuming the worst, that Anne exuded a natural ‘bouquet de corsage’, let’s introduce her to the olfactory phenonemon of SALOME, deliciously full of sexy sleaze and grubby animalic tease: enough to awake the beast in any Man.
Katherine¤ Howard was a wayward teenage minx and pathetic hoyden whom the uxurious monarch named his Rose Without A Thorn. There’s no fool like an old fool. And a fat one, to boot, with a waistline by now of over four feet. Kate played Henry false before and during marriage: precocious and voluptuous, she would have carried off UNE ROSE superbly. This intensely fragrant parfum has all the scarlet richness and majesty of the Tudor rose with an underlying earthy darkness. Like her dreadful Boleyn cousin, Katherine Howard was decapitated on Tower Green, in 1542.
Katherine Parr went on to take a fourth husband – Jane Seymour’s sexy brother Thomas – after Old Harry’s death¤¤ in 1547. She subsequently died tragically in childbirth at Sudeley Castle. What then could be more appropriate for this warm, erudite and sympathetic woman than BY ANY OTHER NAME inspired by the magnificent rose gardens of that same Gloucestershire property. The same heraldic flower as UNE ROSE but rendered with such a difference – a silky petal-soft prettiness and lighter than sunny summer air.
And for “Bluff King Hal” himself? Let’s wean him off that rosewater. It HAS to be Creed, and probably AVENTUS – the mark of the Confident Conqueror! Well, don’t you agree? Vive le roi!
¤ all these Katherines! The eponymous saint – She of the Wheel – was one of the most popular in the pre-Reformation calendar. Nowadays the Vatican pronounces that St Katherine of Alexandria “may have never existed”. And see “The Corner That Held Them” by Sylvia Townsend Warner for intriguing details of the once popular convent game of “Flying St Katherine”.
¤¤ his coffin exploded due to inefficient embalming. The stench was appalling and Catholic clerics grimly noted that, as in the case of the Biblical tyrant King Ahab, “dogs licked his blood”.