But there the resemblance ends. Or does it?
Mary Tudor suffered a traumatic childhood. Once the darling child of Henry VIII then publicly reviled as a bastard when Henry acquired a new wife, and the father she adored turned against her. The effect would have broken many, but Mary survived albeit damaged. Theresa May, by all accounts enjoyed a privileged childhood, her only misdemeanour running through a field of wheat.
Both assumed power with varying degrees of approval, in Mary’s case accompanied by the ringing of church bells and a wave of affection. Both disappointed. Mary lost Calais, the last remaining English possession in France. Theresa lost Brexit. For months she trailed around her ‘Withdrawal Deal’ much as poor Mary trailed around her phantom pregnancy, which proved to be a malignant tumour.
As Mary lay dying, she may well have heard the same people, who’d cheered her accession, celebrating her imminent death with bonfires and cat-calls. These are tamer times. The Establishment looks after its own, and kind words will be spoken about Theresa May, few if any believed. In the Keyton household there will be no exulting, no roasting of oxen, but instead a quiet but generous Laphroaig in heartfelt relief, accepting the fact her successor is no 'Virgin Queen.'