Picture an emperor so devoted to his male lover that he’d rather ruin a robe than disturb his partner’s slumber. This is the famous tale of Emperor Ai of Han China, who cut off his sleeve when his lover Dong Xian fell asleep on it – an intimate gesture that birthed the Chinese idiom “the passion of the cut sleeve,” forever symbolizing same-sex love. Such stories remind us that LGBTQ+ royalty is not a modern invention, but a part of global history, often hidden beneath layers of propriety and politics.
The legacy of queer royalty spans continents and centuries. From ancient gay kings and queens whose same-sex relationships were recorded as open secrets, medieval monarchs who risked scandal for their favorites and contemporary royals embracing their truth. Yet, these narratives have long been obscured – by historical bias, by religious censure, by colonial laws that rewrote cultural norms.
This article explores the lives of these LGBTQ+ monarchs, aristocrats, and nobles to unearth how they lived and loved, how their identities were perceived or persecuted, and how their stories echo in today’s fight for equality. Tracing a compelling arc from antiquity’s relatively open attitudes, through dark ages of repression, to the modern reawakening of pride in royal courts. Illuminating the rainbow threads tucked into the tapestry of royal history.
Key Takeaways
- Discover the rich history and contributions of gay royalty to cultural and political landscapes.
- Explore the often overlooked stories of LGBTQ+ monarchs who reigned with both power and compassion.
- Gain insight into the intricate personal lives of queer nobility and how they navigated royal duties and intimate relationships.
- Understand the complexities that homosexual kings and queens faced in varying historical and societal contexts.
- Delve into the legacies of same-sex rulers whose influence extends beyond their era.
- Uncover the resiliency and undeniable presence of royal LGBTQ+ figures in the annals of time.
- Reflect on the broader implications of gay monarchy and LGBTQ royalty on contemporary discussions of LGBTQ+ identity and acceptance.
Ancient Empires and Same-Sex Love: Open Secrets of the Past
In many ancient societies, same-sex relationships in royal courts were met with a degree of acceptance that might surprise later generations. Labels like “homosexual” or “bisexual” did not exist – rulers were often judged more by their ability to govern than by the gender of their consorts. In the classical world, expressions of male love, in particular, were not unusual among the elite.
Alexander the Great and Hephaestion
Macedonian king Alexander the Great took not only a Persian wife in his conquest of Asia but also found lifelong companionship with his general Hephaestion. While historians debate the exact nature of Alexander’s bond with Hephaestion, ancient chronicles and modern scholars alike acknowledge that the two were inseparable and likely lovers.
Alexander’s public grief when Hephaestion died – commissioning extravagant funerary honors – spoke louder than labels ever could. As one historian noted, “there is no concrete evidence that Alexander and Hephaestion were lovers, but plenty of evidence [hints] that the two were more than friends”.
In a cultural context where bisexual emperors and heroes were not uncommon, Alexander’s intimacy with a male companion was emblematic of the era’s open view on sexuality (to quote one source) and hardly scandalous to his contemporaries. It was understood that a great king could both fulfill a dynastic duty to marry and also cherish a man as “the love of his life” – a phrase used by Alexander’s biographers. Such was the nuanced reality of queer royal history in antiquity.
Emperor Ai of Han and Dong Xian
Across the world in Han Dynasty China, we find an even more overt example of an LGBTQ+ monarch whose same-sex love was recorded with admiration. Emperor Ai of Han (ruling 7–1 BCE) openly doted on his male favorite, Dong Xian, elevating him at court and drawing only mild reproach for it. Far from being an isolated case, Emperor Ai was part of a broader tradition in early imperial China – a time when bisexuality was the norm at the highest levels of society.
Historians note that the majority of Western Han emperors had both wives and male companions. Emperor Ai’s love for Dong Xian was so tender that it inspired poetry and idiom: the aforementioned cut sleeve story was recounted in official histories, and later courtiers even aped the gesture by slicing their sleeves, acknowledging the imperial romance.
“Those who served the ruler and succeeded in delighting his ears and eyes…not only [women]…courtiers and eunuchs can play that game as well,” wrote Han historian Sima Qian, remarking on how male favorites charmed their way into emperors’ hearts. The royal same-sex romance was not hidden or condemned in that era; it was woven matter-of-factly into court life. To this day, Chinese language preserves Emperor Ai’s memory in the idiom for homosexuality – a legacy of acceptance later eroded by more puritanical influences.
Hadrian and Antinous
In the Roman Empire, we see a similar pattern: while Roman society had complex rules about class and status in love, an emperor could openly adore another man without derailing his rule. Emperor Hadrian (2nd century CE), known for consolidating the Empire’s frontiers, is equally remembered for his profound love for Antinous, a youth of great beauty.
Hadrian and Antinous traveled together from the capital to the provinces – until tragedy struck in Egypt. When Antinous drowned in the Nile under mysterious circumstances in 130 CE, the emperor was devastated and mourned publicly rather than in private (an unusual display for a Roman man). What followed was perhaps the most extravagant act of remembrance for a consort in Roman history.
Hadrian ordered Antinous deified and worshipped across the empire, commissioned countless statues of his beloved, and even founded an entirely new city, Antinopolis, near the site of his death. Marble effigies of the youth’s face – often merging his likeness with gods like Osiris or Dionysus – sprang up from Britannia to Bithynia. This imperial patronage effectively made Antinous the first commoner to become a god in the Roman pantheon purely by an emperor’s will.
The love story of Hadrian and Antinous, carved literally in stone, sent a powerful message through the ages: that a Roman ruler’s affection for another man could be as monumental and as immortal as his conquests. It is little wonder their tale is often cited as one of history’s great romances – a queer royal legacy preserved in temples and art rather than texts.
Not all ancient LGBTQ+ royal narratives were so celebrated as Hadrian and Antinous, of course. Some have been lost in translation or intentionally muted. We know, for instance, of the Assyrian king Ashurbanipal recording affection for a male courtier in cuneiform poetry, or pharaohs of Egypt engaging in same-sex rituals as part of divine kingship – but many such accounts are fragmentary. One figure whose story only survives in scandalous later reports is Emperor Elagabalus of Rome (3rd century CE), who was said to have married a male slave and even offered vast sums to any physician who could physically transform him into a woman – a description that today leads some to consider Elagabalus a transgender or gender-nonconforming royal. While Roman historians (who despised Elagabalus for many reasons) likely exaggerated these tales, they suggest that gender fluidity in the palace is not a modern phenomenon. Indeed, people who defied the gender binary or embraced fluid sexuality have existed under crowns and tiaras long before current terminology evolved.
But They Weren't Queer, Were They?
These ancient examples underscore a critical point: many early civilizations didn’t rigidly divide people into “gay” or “straight” as we do now. Sexual fluidity among royals was often an open secret or even an expected perk of power, especially for men. Emperors and kings took lovers of both sexes without the world stopping – or history condemning them outright. The modern concept of “homosexuality” as an identity only emerged in the 19th century; before then, behavior mattered more than labels.
When we talk about LGBTQ+ monarchs in antiquity, we must tread carefully: these rulers likely didn’t see themselves as “queer” in a modern sense, but their lives show a spectrum of desires and relationships that we today recognize as part of queer history. Crucially, their stories also reveal how attitudes could be surprisingly tolerant. Ancient chronicles celebrated love and loyalty – whether between man and woman or man and man – as long as it didn’t threaten the dynasty. But this relative openness would not last, as new religions and political structures later imposed harsher judgments on same-sex love in royal families.
Medieval and Renaissance Realities: Forbidden Love, Scandal, and Survival
As Christianity and other organized religions rose to prominence, the permissiveness seen in antiquity gave way to stricter moral codes – at least on paper. By the medieval era in Europe, sodomy was officially a sin, and chronicles grew more coy about royal favorites of the same sex. Yet even in an age of stringent orthodoxy, queer relationships occurred behind castle walls, sometimes influencing politics in profound ways. Far from being a uniformly heteronormative time, the Middle Ages offer several notable instances of LGBTQ+ nobility navigating love and power, often in the shadows.
King Edward II of England and Piers Gaveston
One of the earliest and most infamous examples is King Edward II of England (1284–1327). Edward’s reign was tumultuous – marked by military failures and baronial revolts – and much of that turmoil centered on his intense relationships with two men: Piers Gaveston and, later, Hugh Despenser the Younger. Gaveston was Edward’s closest companion from youth, a charismatic knight the king elevated to Earl of Cornwall. Their bond was so strong that it aroused immediate jealousy and alarm among the rest of the nobility.
Medieval chroniclers stopped short of explicitly calling Edward and Gaveston lovers, but they commented on the exceptional closeness between them and the king’s neglect of his queen in Gaveston’s favor. One contemporary account described their first meeting as inspiring “an unbreakable bond of love” – the young prince Edward, upon seeing Gaveston, was said to have “entered into a covenant of brotherhood with him… before all mortals, in an unbreakable bond of love”. Such language, even couched as “brotherhood,” was extraordinary and suggests a deep affection beyond mere friendship.
Modern historians generally agree that Edward II’s relationship with Gaveston was romantic and likely sexual. The King famously called Gaveston “my brother” and “my sweet Gaveston,” according to chroniclers, and when asked why he so favored this man, Edward replied: “Because he loves me more than all the world”. These are hardly the words of simple camaraderie – they speak to a genuine love in the royal bedchamber.
The political fallout was severe: barons exiled and eventually murdered Gaveston in 1312, viewing him as an upstart who had bewitched the king. Edward’s grief was immense, but he did not “learn his lesson” – a few years later, he lavished similar affection and power on Hugh Despenser. That relationship too was widely rumored to be sexual (Queen Isabella, Edward’s wife, certainly thought so and grew to loathe Hugh). It contributed to a baronial uprising and Isabella’s own rebellion alongside her lover Roger Mortimer.
In 1327, Edward II was overthrown and likely killed in captivity, making him the first English monarch to be deposed by his subjects. While many factors led to Edward’s downfall, the perception that he was unnaturally beholden to his male favorites – a king ruled by his lovers – was central. An English Heritage analysis bluntly concludes that “the king’s downfall was due in part to his reliance on his ‘favourites’, Piers Gaveston and Hugh Despenser, who were rumoured to be his lovers”.
In an era when monarchy was sacrosanct, the scandal of a homosexual king failing in his duties fed into a narrative (pushed by his enemies) that his rule was effeminate and improper. Edward II’s tragic story illustrates how homophobia (even if the term didn’t exist yet) intertwined with politics – his barons weaponized his queer affection to justify rebellion, and later writers made him a cautionary tale.
Caliph Al-Hakam II of Córdoba
Medieval Europe was not uniformly hostile to same-sex love. In some courts, a don’t-ask-don’t-tell pragmatism prevailed. Consider the case of Philip the Fair of France and Prince Li Shimin. Or shift south to the Iberian Caliphate of Córdoba in the 10th century.
Under Islamic rule, Al-Andalus (Muslim Spain) had its own renowned gay royal: Caliph Al-Hakam II (915–976) of Córdoba. Al-Hakam II was a patron of the arts and sciences, credited with building Córdoba’s great library and expanding the famed Mosque. He also, according to both contemporary whispers and modern historians, preferred the company of men to women.
It was said that Al-Hakam kept a male harem or ghulam of attractive youths. His one wife of note, a concubine-turned-queen named Subh (also known as Aurora), reportedly had to disguise herself as a young man to captivate the caliph’s attention, adopting a short haircut and boys’ attire so that Al-Hakam might find her appealing.
Sources from later periods coyly refer to Al-Hakam’s ḥubb al-walad – love for boys – in describing why he delayed producing an heir. Some scholars interpret this phrase as evidence of his homosexuality. Though he did eventually father a son with Subh, it’s telling that Subh had to play the role of a male youth named “Ja’far” to engage his affections.
Within the court, Al-Hakam’s orientation seems to have been tolerated (if gossiped about); his reign was prosperous and intellectual, and he faced no uprisings over his personal life. However, later chroniclers under Christian rule or conservative Muslim scholars would downplay or euphemize his sexuality – a subtle early instance of queer erasure as moral tides shifted. Still, the memory survived: Al-Hakam II is remembered today not only for his library but as an example that medieval Islamic realms, much like Christendom, had their share of queer nobility.
King Henry III of France
Fast forward to the Renaissance and early modern era, and one finds that courts became even more riddled with intrigue regarding the sexuality of sovereigns and their favorites. One striking case is King Henry III of France (1551–1589), last of the Valois line. Henry III surrounded himself with a coterie of exquisite male favorites nicknamed “les mignons” – literally “the darlings.” These handsome young courtiers dressed in the latest foppish fashions, often in elaborate, even feminine attire, and openly basked in the king’s affection.
In a France torn by the Wars of Religion, Henry’s effeminate style and intimate circle of male favorites became a political weapon for his detractors. Slanderous pamphlets depicted the king as debauched and his mignons as sexual deviants. While historians caution that not all such claims are trustworthy (many were propaganda by enemies, especially the ultra-Catholic League), the perception of Henry III as “sodomitical” and “effeminate” was widespread.
Public gossip attributed “heterodox sexuality” to the mignons and by extension to the king. Some modern scholars do believe Henry III was predominantly homosexual or bisexual, citing his lack of heirs and the extraordinary favoritism he showed these men. Regardless, the rumors themselves became a factor in his downfall: they undermined respect for the monarchy and were “found to be a factor in the disintegration of the late Valois monarchy”.
In 1589, Henry was assassinated by a religious fanatic – who, tellingly, justified the act in part by accusing the king of immorality. Thus, Henry III’s reign exemplifies how public malignity toward a possibly gay monarch could feed into larger political crises. In his case, queer-themed calumny helped delegitimize a king at a time of civil war, showing that by the 16th century, a ruler’s perceived LGBTQ+ identity could indeed be weaponized against him.
King James VI of Scotland and I of England
At the same time in neighboring England and Scotland, another king was navigating the complexities of love and power. King James VI of Scotland and I of England (1566–1625) – the monarch who sponsored the King James Bible – is today recognized by most scholars as a bisexual or gay man, despite being a married father of eight.
From his teen years, James showed a marked preference for male company. He promoted a succession of male favorites – among them Esmé Stewart (Lord d’Aubigny), Robert Carr (Earl of Somerset), and most famously George Villiers, the Duke of Buckingham – to extraordinary heights, showering them with titles and affection.
Contemporary courtiers snickered and wrote verses about the king’s “favorites,” and foreign observers reported on the unusually intimate behavior James exhibited (such as kissing Villiers in public and addressing him with pet names).
James himself did little to hide his feelings; numerous surviving letters from King James to Buckingham are ardently affectionate. In one, James writes, “I had rather live banished in any part of the earth with you than live a sorrowful widow’s life without you”, and in another he signs off as “Your dear dad and husband, James”. It’s hard to read such missives as anything but expressions of romantic love. Indeed, a large collection of these letters “provides the clearest evidence for James’ homoerotic desires”.
Modern historians largely concur that James’s relationships with at least some of these favorites “clearly were sexual,” given the weight of evidence. Notably, James was also a learned king who penned essays against sodomy (perhaps more out of public duty than personal conviction) and he ensured the royal line by fulfilling his marital duties to Queen Anne of Denmark. But his heart, it seems, belonged elsewhere.
Crucially, James I did not face a Gaveston-style revolt; by his time, the English court had begrudgingly adjusted to the idea of a king with male lovers, so long as those men did not grossly abuse their station. Buckingham, however, did amass great power and was deeply unpopular – Parliament even tried to impeach him – yet James protected him to the end. “The king himself, I daresay, will live and die a sodomite,” wrote one acid-tongued MP in 1617, using the era’s harsh term.
After James’s death, Buckingham remained influential under Charles I, showing that the royal favorite system had essentially become an accepted (if resented) institution. In James’s case, his queer relationships were an open secret, sparking gossip and tension but ultimately contained within the dynamics of court politics. His reign suggests that by the 17th century, a monarch could be openly affectionate with a same-sex favorite and still maintain his throne – a delicate balancing act of personal inclination and political savvy. It also underscores how modern concepts of identity don’t neatly apply.
James likely didn’t identify as “gay” (he would have considered himself every bit a king anointed by God, whose private love happened to be directed at men). Nonetheless, his story forms a vital chapter of European LGBTQ+ royal history, demonstrating both the stigma and the indulgence that queer monarchs faced. Society whispered and snickered, but it largely tolerated James’s behavior because he was, after all, the king.
Queen Anne and Sarah Churchill
It wasn’t only kings, either. Queens and female nobility in medieval and early modern times also engaged in same-sex relationships, though their stories are often even more obscured. A case in point is Queen Anne of Great Britain (1665–1714). Anne was known for extraordinarily close, emotionally intense relationships with women in her court – most notably with Sarah Churchill, Duchess of Marlborough. The two women had been inseparable since Anne’s youth, calling each other by pet names (“Mrs. Morley” and “Mrs. Freeman”) and corresponding constantly.
Sarah wielded significant political influence over Anne for much of her reign, in what some historians describe as a near spousal role. Their falling out – and Anne’s subsequent attachment to a newer favorite, Abigail Masham – has all the drama of a love triangle, and indeed it was portrayed as such in the recent Oscar-winning film The Favourite.
Were Anne and Sarah actually lovers in the physical sense? The historical jury is out. Some of their letters use endearments that could be read platonically or romantically. What is undeniable is the passion and jealousy that marked their relationship, which “was known for [its] close relationship and reported romance” in the eyes of contemporaries.
Sarah’s own memoirs, written later, downplay any improper aspect and attribute everything to friendship. Yet, one cannot ignore that when Sarah was abruptly dismissed, she attempted to blackmail the Queen by threatening to publish Anne’s private letters – implying they contained compromising affection.
Queen Anne’s reputation among the public remained intact (she was viewed as a devoted wife to Prince George of Denmark, albeit they had no surviving children), but within the court, whispers certainly swirled. Some even speculated that Anne’s grief over George’s death was less acute than her despair over the loss of Sarah’s companionship.
Anne’s life mirrors that of many aristocratic women of her time: hemmed in by expectations to marry and bear heirs, yet finding genuine emotional fulfillment in deep female friendships – what later generations might call “romantic friendships” or even covert lesbian relationships. The case of Princess Isabella of Bourbon-Parma in the 18th century is another poignant example: unhappily married to Joseph II of Austria, Isabella instead poured her heart into over 200 letters to her sister-in-law, Archduchess Maria Christina. “I begin the day by thinking of the object of my love… I think of her incessantly,” Isabella wrote to Maria Christina. The two spent all their time together at court, and Isabella admitted that this relationship was “the great love of her life,” even as it caused her distress due to its impossible nature.
She died young, and her letters (which survived) leave little doubt that, at least from Isabella’s side, this was a profound lesbian romance at one of Europe’s most powerful courts. Such stories remind us that lesbian and bisexual women in royalty have their own hidden histories, often interpreted at the time as intense friendship due to societal constraints, but in hindsight clearly part of the LGBTQ+ royal narrative.
Philippe I, Duke of Orléans
The Renaissance and Enlightenment era also produced an interesting category of LGBTQ+ aristocrats who were not monarchs but close to power. One famous figure is Philippe I, Duke of Orléans (1640–1701), the younger brother of France’s Louis XIV. Philippe d’Orléans was openly gay and often wore women’s clothing at the lavish French court. He maintained a long-term male lover, the Chevalier de Lorraine, among others.
What’s remarkable is that Louis XIV – the ultimate absolutist king – tolerated his brother’s flamboyant homosexuality with little issue. In fact, the French court of the 17th century was “fairly tolerant compared to other countries” when it came to Philippe’s behavior.
Louis XIV’s attitude was practical: since Philippe was not in line for the throne (once Louis had heirs), his affairs were mostly his own business. Louis did insist Philippe marry (twice, in fact, to produce legitimate offspring and secure alliances), so Philippe dutifully wed women and fathered children. But everyone at Versailles knew where his true interests lay.
The public spectacle of Philippe parading in gowns and diamonds, dubbed “Monsieur” (the traditional title for the king’s brother) without irony, shows that even under rising religious conservatism, there were pockets of queer acceptance in aristocracy.
It helped that Philippe’s role was politically convenient – his open lack of interest in competing for the throne made him non-threatening, and some historians suggest Louis XIV even saw benefits in having a brother who was “distracted” by handsome men rather than machinating for power. The French coined the term “Italian tastes” to discreetly refer to Philippe’s orientation (alluding to then-rumors of widespread homosexuality in Italy), and for the most part, he was indulged.
The saga of the Duke of Orléans illustrates that acceptance of LGBTQ+ royals often hinged on social context: a powerful king could shield a gay sibling from censure, whereas a gay king might face far harsher scrutiny. Still, in the annals of European courts, Philippe d’Orléans stands out as one of the few royals in history to live quite openly as a gay man and remain a celebrated figure (he was a war hero at one point, leading troops in battle – wearing effeminate attire didn’t stop him from fighting valiantly).
Gender Rebels in Royal Garb: Women Who Would Be King, Men Who Would Be Queen
Beyond sexual orientation, royal history also has shining examples of gender non-conformity – kings and queens who flouted the rigid gender roles of their day. In eras when the concept of being transgender or non-binary wasn’t formally defined, these figures nonetheless challenged binary expectations, living in ways that modern observers often interpret as early expressions of trans or genderfluid identities. Two extraordinary 17th-century queens – one from Africa and one from Europe – illustrate how royal power sometimes provided cover to defy gender norms, and how those defiant lives were recorded (or distorted) by posterity.
Queen Nzinga
In the Kingdom of Ndongo and Matamba in Central Africa (present-day Angola), Queen Nzinga (Ana Nzinga) stands out as a fierce ruler who intentionally blurred gender lines. Nzinga (circa 1583–1663) inherited the throne in a time of crisis – the Portuguese were encroaching, the slave trade was ravaging her people, and female rulers were unusual in her patriarchal society.
To assert authority among male rivals, Nzinga adopted a male persona in many aspects of governance. She dressed in men’s clothing during audiences, insisted on being called “King” rather than “Queen,” and even kept a harem of young men whom she reportedly referred to as her “wives,” reversing the traditional gender script.
Some accounts (albeit from later or biased sources) claim these male concubines were made to dress as women. Nzinga’s bold performance of masculinity was not merely personal; it was strategic, leveraging indigenous beliefs that gender could be fluid for those of exceptional status.
In Ndongo culture, as in several other pre-colonial African societies, power could transcend gender – women could become “female husbands” and take wives, for instance, in certain contexts. Nzinga’s life exemplified this fluidity. By commanding troops in battle gear and negotiating treaties as an equal to male governors, she sent a clear message that leadership, not gender, defined her.
Did Nzinga privately identify as a man, or was her gender-bending purely political theater? We cannot know her inner feelings. What’s clear is that she refused to be confined by the expectations of female behavior.
One historian notes that Nzinga’s ability to “perform a queer identity” (to use a modern phrase) can be partly attributed to her royal status granting her leeway. That doesn’t diminish the reality that Nzinga likely had to suppress aspects of her womanhood to be taken seriously. Her story survived in Portuguese records (often demonizing her as a “mannish” barbarian) and in oral tradition (praising her as a liberator who outsmarted the Europeans).
Today, Queen Nzinga is celebrated as an icon of resistance and is often cited in LGBTQ+ history discussions as a possible example of an early gender-nonconforming leader. Whether or not we’d label her with a modern term, Nzinga’s deliberate subversion of gender roles shows that queer expressions of gender have deep historical roots in royal lineages.
Queen Christina of Sweden
Around the same time in Europe, Queen Christina of Sweden (1626–1689) was making waves for her own gender and sexual ambiguity. Christina ascended the Swedish throne as a teenager and quickly gained fame for her unconventional behavior. She dressed in masculine clothing whenever she pleased, eschewed the elaborate gowns expected of female royalty, and was academically brilliant in an era when women’s education was rare. Christina also refused to marry, a nearly unthinkable choice for a reigning queen (since marriages were tools of alliance and heirs were a dynastic imperative).
Rumors swirled about her sexuality. She formed an intimate attachment to her lady-in-waiting, Countess Ebba Sparre, whom she referred to as her “bed-fellow” and with whom she shared a close companionship that many speculated was romantic. Letters suggest a deep affection, and courtiers certainly noted how inseparable they were. While historians debate whether Christina and Ebba’s relationship was physically sexual, it was unquestionably the most important emotional bond of the queen’s life.
Meanwhile, Christina delighted in pursuits considered masculine: she was an excellent horse rider, a patron of male-dominated fields like philosophy and theater, and even talked of herself in quasi-masculine terms. Eventually, in 1654, Christina shocked Europe by abdicating her throne, dressing in men’s clothes, and moving to Rome, where she converted to Catholicism.
In Rome, Christina continued to flout gender norms – at one point she was painted wearing armor like a male knight. A Vatican letter even remarked on her “ambiguous sex,” noting that she hardly fit the mold of either a king or a queen.
Christina’s life was later romanticized and even scandalized – some pamphlets alleged affairs with both men and women. Modern commentators have variously interpreted Christina as a pioneering feminist, a lesbian icon, or possibly a transgender figure given her expressed discomfort with femininity.
What’s beyond doubt is that Queen Christina lived on her own terms, breaking the rules of gender presentation at every turn. Her contemporary, the philosopher Descartes (whom she invited to Sweden), might have seen her as a living example of mind over matter – she refused to let her female body dictate what her mind and will could do.
Christina’s story, much like Nzinga’s, underscores that LGBTQ+ royals were not only defined by who they loved, but also by how they identified and expressed their gender. Their very self-presentation was a form of rebellion against societal norms, centuries before terms like “genderqueer” or “non-binary” existed. These “gender rebels” broaden our understanding of queer nobility: it’s not just about kings with boyfriends or queens with girlfriends, but also those who transcended gender categories within royal frameworks
It’s worth noting that such figures often appear in times of upheaval or transition – Nzinga amid colonization, Christina amid Reformation-era shifts – as if crisis made space for the unconventional. They also highlight how later narratives can be shaped by prejudices: colonial and religious writers tried to erase or vilify Nzinga’s and Christina’s queer aspects, framing them either as eccentric footnotes or depraved.
Archduke Ludwig Viktor of Austria
By the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, more such examples appear: nobles like Archduke Ludwig Viktor of Austria in the 1800s lived as “openly gay” within their social sphere, even if public media of the time spoke in euphemisms. Ludwig Viktor (“Luziwuzi” as he was nicknamed) was Emperor Franz Joseph’s younger brother and made little attempt to hide his homosexuality.
For years it was an open secret, tacitly tolerated under strict press censorship that kept it out of newspapers. He threw parties, patronized the arts, and bluntly refused all attempts by his family to marry him off to a princess.
Eventually, Ludwig Viktor’s luck ran out: he propositioned the wrong man at Vienna’s Central Bathhouse (reports say an army officer), who responded by punching the archduke. The ensuing scandal at the bathhouse – impossible to sweep entirely under the rug – prompted Emperor Franz Joseph to banish his brother to the countryside in 1861.
Ludwig Viktor lived out his days in quiet exile at Schloss Klessheim in Salzburg, his public life essentially over once his queer escapade became too public. Notably, even then the official reasoning was hushed and framed as “health” or “character” issues; admitting a member of the Habsburg family was exiled for homosexual conduct was unthinkable in official narrative. Still, the diaries and letters of that era make clear why “Luziwuzi” was sent away.
This episode shows that by the 19th century, European aristocracy’s tolerance had limits: a gay prince could only be himself as long as discretion prevailed. A public scandal involving homosexuality could not be stomached. It’s a pattern that would repeat in various forms until very recently – living a double life was often the price for queer nobles to survive in society.
Crucially, even as stigma grew, these relationships did not vanish – they simply went underground or were cloaked in delicate language. The human heart, even one weighed down by a crown, would not be so easily legislated. The stage was now set for a collision between longstanding queer royal traditions and the impending forces of imperialism and Victorian morality, which would attempt one of history’s greatest erasures of LGBTQ+ acceptance.
Only in recent decades have researchers “rediscovered” these LGBTQ+ royal histories, interpreting them in a more understanding light. Projects to re-examine historical records have shown that many cultures prior to the 19th century did allow more gender fluidity at the highest levels than previously acknowledged – a reality often hidden by Victorian-era historians who projected their own values backwards.
These individuals stood at the intersection of power and personal truth, using one to express the other. They were protected to an extent by their rank, yet ultimately their queerness put them at odds with expected norms, requiring sacrifice (be it Nzinga’s loneliness, Christina’s crown, or Ludwig Viktor’s exile). Their indelible marks on history challenge the misconception that discussions of gender diversity and transgender royalty are purely modern phenomena. Indeed, if anything, history shows that whenever there have been rigid rules of gender and sexuality, there have also been those exceptional royals who bent or broke them – and sometimes, carved out a legacy precisely because of their defiance.
Colonialism and Christianity: Erasing Queer Royal Legacies
Entering the age of European expansion and global empire (18th–20th centuries), the vibrant if delicate tapestry of LGBTQ+ royal history encountered forces that sought to unravel it. Colonialism and the spread of Abrahamic religions (especially in their more conservative interpretations) dramatically shifted attitudes toward same-sex relationships and nonconforming gender roles around the world.
What had been relatively accepted or integrated into many pre-colonial cultures was often condemned and criminalized under colonial rule. European colonial administrators and missionaries imposed their legal and moral codes on colonies in Africa, Asia, and the Americas – usually with the conviction that indigenous practices of same-sex love or gender fluidity were “heathen” or “savage” and needed to be stamped out. The result was a systematic erasure or sanitization of queer histories, including royal ones, in colonized societies.
Even within Europe, the Victorian era brought a chill to how history was recorded: historians in the 19th century frequently whitewashed or downplayed the queerness of past monarchs, aligning the narratives with prevailing morals. This period represents one of the darkest for LGBTQ+ people (royal or otherwise), as legal structures and social attitudes hardened against them.
Exportation of Anti-Sodomy Statutes
The British Empire exported its Victorian anti-sodomy statutes to every territory it controlled – from India to the Caribbean to sub-Saharan Africa. These laws (like Section 377 of the Indian Penal Code, drafted in 1860) criminalized “carnal intercourse against the order of nature,” a direct attack on same-sex relations. Crucially, they supplanted a diversity of pre-colonial attitudes.
In India and South Asia, historical evidence and Persian chronicles indicate that some Muslim Nawabs and Hindu princes kept male lovers or had transgender courtiers (such as the hijra communities who often served at royal courts). The British, scandalized by such practices, enforced their legal code and prudish Victorian values, driving these practices underground.
The British colonial establishment often used accusations of “unnatural vice” to discredit local rulers they wanted to control or remove. Thus, homophobia became a tool of empire. In princely India, there were instances where British resident advisors kept files on Indian princes’ personal lives, which could be used as leverage. A pattern repeats in many other colonial contexts. British colonial law has left a toxic legacy regarding LGBTQ+ rights around the globe.
One tragic outcome of these forces was the personal anguish of those royals caught between worlds. Consider Ali I of the Sultanate of Johor in Malaya, or Maharaja Raghuji Bhonsle II of Nagpur in India – these are lesser-known rulers who reportedly had same-sex relationships that became scandals under British scrutiny, leading to their political weakening or deposition.
In many instances, colonial authorities deliberately obscured or censored records of LGBTQ+ behavior among local royals, either out of embarrassment or to promote the image of rescuing natives from “immorality.” Norms rooted in Christianity and Victorian prudery increasingly marginalized queer identities in colonized lands.
King Mwanga II of Buganda
A stark illustration of colonial impact on a queer royal legacy is the story of King Mwanga II of Buganda (a kingdom in present-day Uganda). Mwanga II, who came to power in 1884, was a young king at a time when European (particularly British) influence was growing in East Africa. He is documented to have had male partners among his courtiers and pages – in fact, he was openly gay or bisexual by today’s understanding.
In the traditional Bugandan context, while polygamy (including wives for the king) was normal, it wasn’t unheard of for a king to also seek sexual relations with men. This had not caused open revolt before. However, by Mwanga’s reign, Christian missionaries (Catholic and Anglican) had converted many of his subjects, including some pages.
When these newly devout Christian pages began refusing the king’s sexual advances, citing Christian teachings against sodomy, Mwanga saw it as a rebellion against his authority incited by foreign religion. The conflict escalated: in 1886, Mwanga ordered the execution of a group of young pages and servants – many of whom were recent Christian converts – for defying him.
These victims became known as the Uganda Martyrs (now revered saints in the Catholic and Anglican Churches), and their deaths were framed by missionaries as heroic resistance to a depraved, homosexual king. From Mwanga’s perspective, he was asserting royal prerogative and pushing back against an invasive creed that undermined his traditional rights (including sexual ones) as king.
The British, who were already eyeing control of Buganda, used this turmoil to their advantage. They portrayed Mwanga as a cruel, immoral tyrant – emphasizing his homosexuality as evidence of his barbarism. By 1897, they had deposed him and exiled him, establishing indirect colonial rule. Mwanga II’s downfall was directly tied to the clash between indigenous acceptance of same-sex relations and imported Christian morality.
Colonial archives long painted the narrative as “good Christians” versus “evil gay king,” thereby justifying imperial intervention. To this day, Ugandan politics grapple with this legacy: opponents of LGBTQ+ rights in Uganda frequently (and incorrectly) claim homosexuality is an alien import, ignoring the clear historical case that a 19th-century African king was openly queer before colonialists ever arrived. In reality, as one scholarly analysis points out, Mwanga’s story is proof that homosexuality was not an ‘un-African import’ – rather, homophobia was.
Straightwashing in Europe
British anti-sodomy laws and straight laced puritanism didn’t just affect the colonized. Within Europe, the 19th century saw a historiographical straightwashing. Victorian historians writing about, say, Emperor Hadrian or King James I often omitted or glossed over their same-sex relationships. While Victorian translators of Greek history and mythology would 'clean-up' stories – presenting Zeus and Ganymede as just friends, or the Sacred Band of Thebes (an army of male lovers) as “comrades”.
In royal biographies, if a king had a known male favorite, it might be dismissed as platonic mentorship. Thus, the historical record itself was rewritten through a heteronormative lens, effectively erasing or downplaying the LGBTQ+ aspects of monarchs in the understanding passed down to the public.
It wasn’t until the late 20th century that academics revisited many primary sources and said, wait, there’s more to this story. For instance, earlier in this article we discussed James I’s letters to Buckingham; those letters were known but previous generations of scholars often ignored or excused them as flowery language of the time. Only as social attitudes changed did historians feel freer to frankly acknowledge “Yes, James was very probably gay or bi” and incorporate that into mainstream history writing
By the early 20th century, as colonies gained independence, many of the anti-LGBT colonial laws sadly remained on the books, incorporated into the new nations’ legal systems. The post-colonial leaders, often socially conservative, retained these laws, either out of inertia or a desire to align with religious majorities. As one analysis notes, “Almost half of the 71 countries which continue to criminalise private, consensual same-sex intimacy are former British colonies” – a telling statistic of colonialism’s lingering impact.
India only decriminalized homosexuality in 2018, a law directly inherited from the British Raj. Similarly, numerous African countries today enforce colonial-era sodomy laws as if they were indigenous (Uganda being a prime example – its current anti-LGBTQ sentiments ironically echo the imported attitudes that got King Mwanga exiled).
One could argue that the colonial era attempted a near-global closet-ing of queer history. Royals who once might have been honored for their patronage or bravery were now remembered (if at all) with a taint, or their queerness was scrubbed from the narrative to fit the imposed moral order.
The richness of, say, African traditional practices of gender variance or Asian court traditions of male favorites was forcefully replaced with a rigid binary and moral condemnation. So we can see the colonial period as an interruption – a few centuries where intolerance reigned – rather than a permanent state. The resilience of LGBTQ+ people meant that even under oppressive laws, there were still aristocrats and royals who lived authentic yet cautious lives, often quietly supported by those around them who knew the truth.
By the latter half of the 20th century, as the British Empire and others faded and as secular modern states emerged, a reevaluation began. Countries gradually started dismantling the colonial laws (for example, England itself decriminalized homosexuality in 1967, and many former colonies have done so only recently or still yet to do so). This legal thaw has allowed historians and the public in those countries to re-examine and sometimes rehabilitate historical queer figures.
In essence, the colonial era tried to erase queer royal history, but it could not eliminate it entirely. What survived – in archives, folklore, art, and scholarship – now helps modern societies understand that LGBTQ+ identities are not a “Western invention” but an integral part of their own heritage that was suppressed.
As we turn to the modern era, we’ll see that this resurgence of understanding goes hand in hand with current royals and aristocrats embracing change, and with societies acknowledging past injustices.
Modern Renaissance: Out Royals, Changing Laws, and New Legacies
The 20th and 21st centuries have seen an extraordinary transformation in the visibility and acceptance of LGBTQ+ individuals, and that change has extended, albeit gradually, into the conservative worlds of monarchy and aristocracy. The very notion of an “openly gay prince” or a same-sex royal wedding, once unthinkable, is now part of reality – a sign of how far contemporary LGBTQ+ rights movements have shifted public sentiment.
This modern openness stands on the shoulders of all the historical figures we’ve discussed. As restrictive laws have been repealed and social attitudes liberalized (especially since the late 20th century), there’s been a kind of homecoming for queer royalty: present-day royals and nobles are coming out and living authentically, while media and scholarship are finally acknowledging LGBTQ+ themes in royal history.
Lord Ivar Mountbatten
A watershed moment came in the late 20th century when members of European royal circles began to publicly come out. One early example was Lord Mountbatten of Burma’s family – not the famous WWII-era Earl Mountbatten, but his less-known relative Lord Ivar Mountbatten (born 1963). Lord Ivar, a cousin to Queen Elizabeth II, made headlines in 2016 by revealing he is gay – becoming the first member of the extended British royal family to come out publicly. The following year he announced he would marry his partner, James Coyle.
In 2018, with the blessing of his ex-wife and children (indeed, his ex-wife walked him down the aisle in a show of support), Ivar and James had a wedding – the first-ever same-sex marriage in the British royal family. This event was emblematic of the new era: it was covered positively in the press, celebrated in society magazines, and even acknowledged by Buckingham Palace as a private matter of happiness.
Lord Ivar himself commented that he found it “quite uplifting” to be out, though initially he felt “alarming” being labeled “the first gay royal” – a reminder of how even trailblazers carry the weight of uniqueness.
His marriage did not grant his husband any title (British aristocratic tradition currently doesn’t automatically extend courtesy titles to same-sex spouses, an inequality likely to be corrected in time), but it did signal that being gay was no barrier to remaining a respected part of the royal family.
Prince Manvendra Singh Gohil
In another part of the world, an even more groundbreaking royal figure had emerged a decade earlier: Prince Manvendra Singh Gohil of the former princely state of Rajpipla in India. Manvendra made international news in 2006 when he openly declared he is gay – something unprecedented for an Indian prince. The revelation was so shocking in India (where, at the time, homosexuality was still criminalized under British-imposed Section 377) that his own family initially disowned him out of embarrassment. But Manvendra stood firm.
Over time he reconciled with his parents, and more importantly, he turned his personal struggle into activism. He established the Lakshya Trust, which works for HIV/AIDS education and LGBTQ+ advocacy, and became perhaps India’s most visible LGBTQ+ rights campaigner. In 2013, he married an American man, solidifying his personal happiness (though that marriage was not legally recognized in India then).
Manvendra’s courageous visibility – from Oprah Winfrey’s talk show to international human rights forums – illustrated how royal status could be used to further LGBTQ+ acceptance even in socially conservative settings. He literally opened up his royal palace to serve as a center for at-risk LGBTQ+ people disowned by their families.
By 2018, when India’s Supreme Court finally struck down the sodomy law, Prince Manvendra was widely hailed as a hero who had helped pave the way. His journey, from being shunned to becoming a celebrated activist, reflects the broader change in attitudes – he leveraged the respect still afforded to royalty in India to show that being gay is compatible with tradition and honor. In effect, he’s creating a new kind of queer royal legacy, one of advocacy and social change rather than political rule.
Luisa Isabel Álvarez de Toledo
Another modern pioneer was a Spanish aristocrat known as the “Red Duchess.” Luisa Isabel Álvarez de Toledo, 21st Duchess of Medina Sidonia (1936–2008), was a grandee of Spain – holder of one of the country’s oldest noble titles – and also an outspoken leftist dissident during the Franco era.
In her personal life, Luisa Isabel was openly lesbian or bisexual among close circles. In a final act of defiance against convention, she married her longtime female partner, Liliana Dahlmann, on her deathbed in 2008. This secret civil ceremony, conducted just hours before she died, shocked her estranged children and made headlines around the world.
For decades, the Duchess had been involved in lesbian activist groups quietly, but Spain’s conservative society (especially under Franco) had kept her from living fully openly. By 2008, however, Spain had legalized same-sex marriage – so the Duchess took the opportunity to legally wed her partner of 20+ years, ensuring her lover would be heir to her estate and archives. It was, as newspapers put it, “the final, defiant act” of a very defiant life.
The fallout – a legal battle between her children and her widow – was messy, but in terms of legacy, the “Red Duchess” became an icon for LGBTQ+ rights in aristocracy. She proved that even a septuagenarian blue-blood could embrace change and that love trumped lineage. Her story also pressured Spain’s noble circles to acknowledge LGBTQ+ members in their midst.
Royal Gay Marriage
Royal families themselves have also adapted – some slowly, others in progressive leaps – to the changing legal landscape regarding LGBTQ+ rights. A remarkable example of legal adaptation occurred in the Netherlands, a country often at the forefront of equality.
In 2001, the Netherlands was the first country to legalize same-sex marriage. But this raised a theoretical question: what if a Dutch monarch or heir wanted to marry someone of the same sex? Would that threaten succession or the constitutional order? For years it was a topic of idle speculation, until 2021 when it became a real discussion due to a book and public debate.
The Dutch Prime Minister Mark Rutte took the step of publicly clarifying the government’s stance: the crown princess (Catharina-Amalia) or any royal can marry a person of any gender and not lose their right to the throne. In a letter to Parliament, Rutte wrote, “The government believes that the heir can also marry a person of the same sex”, explicitly stating that a king or queen’s sexual orientation should not matter for kingship.
This announcement – essentially “gay marriage is possible for Dutch monarchs” – was a historic first. It acknowledged that the world has changed: a future Dutch monarch could have a same-sex spouse, and the constitutional monarchy would simply carry on. There remained practical questions about children (since succession in monarchies traditionally assumes biological offspring), but the PM sensibly noted those could be dealt with if they arise.
The significance of this cannot be overstated: it was the first time a reigning government explicitly affirmed that a reigning sovereign could be in a same-sex marriage without needing to abdicate. This sets precedent that other European monarchies may follow. Already, public opinion in many of those countries would be supportive – polls in the UK, for instance, have indicated people would accept a gay king or queen. And indeed, the British royal family has made gestures of support; Prince William, second in line to the throne, said in 2019 that it would be “absolutely fine by me” if his children came out as gay, though he worried about the pressures they’d face.
LGBTQ+ Advocacy and Representation
Beyond personal lives, modern royals have taken up LGBTQ+ advocacy roles. For instance, members of the British Royal Family – who may not be LGBTQ+ themselves – have publicly championed equality. The late Princess Diana famously reached out to HIV/AIDS patients in the 1980s, helping destigmatize what was then seen as a “gay disease.” More recently, Prince Harry and Meghan Markle have voiced strong support for LGBTQ+ rights, and other younger royals have followed suit by patronizing LGBTQ+ charities.
In Scandinavia, Crown Princess Mary of Denmark and Crown Princess Victoria of Sweden have attended LGBTQ+ events or spoken against discrimination, setting inclusive examples in their countries. These actions by straight allies in royal ranks illustrate how royalty and LGBTQ+ rights are no longer at odds in the public imagination, but increasingly aligned. In many ways, the royal families (often thought of as bastions of tradition) have recognized that being supportive of LGBTQ+ citizens is part of remaining relevant and loved in modern democratic societies.
We also see queer representation in media and pop culture bringing royal stories to new audiences. The film The Favourite (2018) put Queen Anne’s relationships with Sarah Churchill and Abigail Masham front and center, winning awards and prompting viewers to learn the real history. Television series like Versailles unabashedly depicted Philippe d’Orléans’ cross-dressing and male lover, reintroducing his story as part of mainstream historical drama. Documentaries and books revisit figures like Frederick the Great of Prussia (widely believed to be gay) or Ludwig II of Bavaria, making their personal lives part of their narrative instead of footnotes. For example, one Psychology Today article noted that “most scholars today agree Ludwig was almost certainly gay” – a statement that would have been softened or omitted a few decades ago, but now is printed plainly. Even children’s history books are beginning to mention these facts, signaling a normalization of queer history.
As we witness this ongoing change, there’s a poignant sense of connection with the past. When Lord Ivar Mountbatten exchanged rings with his husband, somewhere in the ether the spirits of Edward II or James I might have smiled, as if seeing a wish fulfilled that they never could in their time. When Prince Manvendra hosts vulnerable LGBTQ+ youth at his palace, perhaps Nzinga’s ghost nods in approval at a ruler protecting the marginalized. History is never truly past; it lives on in how we shape our society now. By reclaiming the stories of LGBTQ+ royals of yore and celebrating the LGBTQ+ royals of today, we ensure that the rainbow thread that runs through royal history is not only visible but brightly illuminated.
The Crown’s Evolving Rainbow
The journey through the annals of queer royalty – from Emperor Ai’s cut sleeve, to medieval kings who risked all for love, to modern princes advocating at Pride – reveals a narrative as rich and complex as any in history. For too long, these stories were footnotes or whispers, but today they resound openly, prompting us to rethink what we thought we knew about monarchy.
LGBTQ+ monarchs and nobles were always there, shaping culture, influencing politics, or simply living their personal truths behind palace doors. Their experiences, once hidden in codified chronicles or alluded to in letters, are now coming to light as vibrant pieces of the human story.
This revival is not about retrofitting modern labels onto historical figures, but about honesty and completeness. We have seen how social attitudes towards LGBTQ+ identities have swung between acceptance and persecution, and how those swings affected individual lives: one generation’s open secret became the next generation’s scandal, and then later a proud emblem again.
The impact of religion and colonialism sought to constrain the narrative, but ultimately could not extinguish it. Now, as laws change and minds open, there is a sense of restoration – of giving back to these queens, kings, and nobles their full identity in the record, unfiltered by past prejudice.
The modern developments – legal reforms allowing a crown princess to marry a woman, royal families celebrating same-sex marriages, princes and dukes coming out on magazine covers – would astonish many from previous eras. And yet, perhaps they’d also feel a sense of vindication or relief. For the first time, a reigning British monarch could conceivably be gay and not be forced to choose between the crown and love. A European duke can introduce his husband at a state function without shame. These are quiet revolutions within grand traditions.
The annals of history are not just stories of battles and conquests, but also of diverse love and hidden romances. We only need look to these sprawling palaces of yore, where whispers of forbidden love often breezed through hallowed halls. Among these tales of valor and glory, one finds the interwoven saga of gay royalty. This is where the legacies of LGBTQ+ monarchs and queer nobility unfold, regal yet often concealed beneath layers of history.
Imagine rulers who, behind the heavy drapes of sovereignty, cherished their same-sex partners with a discreet but no less passionate amour. In this tableau, the life stories of homosexual kings and queens speak of a time when the narratives of same-sex rulers, royal LGBTQ+ figures, and historical gay leaders were veiled in secrecy, yet profoundly human at their core. The unfurling tapestry of LGBTQ royalty tells a tale not just of crowns and thrones, but of hearts unfettered by the conventions of their times.
Reading List
Prager, Sarah. “In Han Dynasty China, Bisexuality Was the Norm.” JSTOR.
Liverpool Museums. “Antinous and Hadrian.” National Museums Liverpool.
“Edward II of England” and English Heritage. “Piers Gaveston, Hugh Despenser and the Downfall of Edward II.” English Heritage.
Historic Royal Palaces. “LGBT+ Royal Histories.” HRP.org.uk.
Wikipedia. “Al-Hakam II” (sections on possible homosexuality and Subh).
Norton, Rictor (ed.). My Dear Boy: Gay Love Letters through the Centuries – Letters of King James I to the Duke of Buckingham.
Wikipedia. “Sexuality of James VI and I”.
Wikipedia. “Les Mignons” – on Henry III of France’s favorites.
The Gay & Lesbian Review. “King Henri III and His Mignons” (analysis of Henry’s reputation).
Tatler Magazine. “Regal Pride: Royals throughout history who were LGBT” by Isaac Bickerstaff, 2024.
Tatler. Regal Pride: Royals throughout history who were LGBT.
MambaOnline. “Royally queer: 6 queer royals you probably didn’t know about,” 2023.
Africa Is a Country. “Six LGBTQ+ figures from African history,” 2020.
O’Mahoney, Joseph. “How Britain’s colonial legacy still affects LGBT politics around the world.” The Conversation, 17 May 2018.
Ferguson, Christopher. “How Forbidden Love Benefited Opera – Was Bavaria’s mad king in love with Richard Wagner?" Psychology Today, 27 Sep 2019.
Reuters. “Love is love: Gay marriage possible for Dutch monarch,” 2021.
Telegraph (UK). “Red Duchess wed lesbian lover to snub children,” 2008.
Business Insider. “6 LGBTQ+ royals you probably didn’t know about,” 2023
History Today J.S. Hamilton, “Ménage à Roi: Edward II and Piers Gaveston”
