In the course of that freezing January morning an urgent measure was passed ‘that no person whatsoever should presume to declare Charles Stewart (son of the late Charles) commonly called the Prince of Wales, or any other person, to be King, or chief magistrate, of England and Ireland….’ Only then was it time for the King, wearing two shirts against the cold so that he should not shiver and be mistaken for a coward, to step out of a window in the Palace of Whitehall towards the ready scaffold.
‘I go from a corruptible crown to an incorruptible crown,’ the King told his chaplain, Bishop Juxon, ‘where no disturbance can be, no disturbance in the world.’ To the Bishop also he entrusted his last letter to his son, a long message of advice and blessing. It was a sad and sapient document, in which Charles was pressingly advised to take his stand on goodness and piety: how much better to be ‘Charles le Bon’ than ‘Charles le Grand’, how much better to be ‘good than great’.11 In the meantime the frantic boy in Holland, in ignorance of this last pacifist testament, was still searching for military support, believing correctly that one who was held by the sword would only be rescued by it. And otherwise would die by it.
Just after two o’clock in the afternoon that day the King went finally to his incorruptible crown. He was dressed all in black, but with the George, the insignia of the Garter, a jewel made of a single onyx. This he handed to Bishop Juxon, with the instruction that it should be given to the Prince of Wales together with the single word, ‘Remember’. As his head left his body, cleft by the axe of the masked executioner whose identity would be for ever hidden from posterity for fear of vengeance, a great groan went up from the spectators: a groan which, like the deed itself, would never be forgotten by those who witnessed it. They had no need of onyx jewel or last instruction. They would remember.
It was not until 5 February that Charles, in Holland, learned that the corruptible crown was now his.
Immediately after the execution the ports had been sealed, in an effort to stop the intelligence reaching the Continent until the situation in England was stabilized under the new regime. The news itself seeped into Holland in that most horrid of all forms for those who are waiting: bad news received in a series of newspaper reports, at first unsubstantiated, later growing in circumstantial detail.
But Charles himself did not learn the news from these reports. Once his advisers had to accept that the worst had happened, there was a terrible debate amongst them as to how they should tell him.12 The method chosen provided a bitter contrast to that famous romantic night scene at Kensington Palace by which the young Victoria, two hundred years later, would learn, from the royal address of her courtiers, that she had become Queen.
Charles’ chaplain, Stephen Goffe, used the same expedient. He entered the room and, after a slight hesitation, began: ‘Your Majesty—’
To the agonized son, he needed to say no more. After the weeks of uncertainty, Charles burst into bitter weeping. To Goffe he could not speak. Eventually he made a sign for him to leave. For several hours, Charles II, King of England, Scotland and Ireland, otherwise Charles Stuart, son of that man of blood Charles Stuart the elder, remained quite alone.
1 The blank sheet of paper preserved in the Bodleian Library, Oxford, bearing the signature Charles P, said to be proof of the story, is in fact some kind of Irish military instruction.
PART TWO
Nothing but the Name
‘The poor King, who has nothing of it but the name….’
REPORT TO EDWARD NICHOLAS, September 1649
CHAPTER SIX
A Candle to the Devil
‘It’s needful sometimes to hold a candle to the devil.’
A Briefe Relation, 21 April 1650
Of all his father’s former dominions, it was only in Jersey that Charles II was now declared King. There he was proclaimed – actually in French – ‘Vive le Roy Charles Second’ – on 16 February 1649, seventeen days after the execution. Up till then the dreadful rumours had not been believed.
In vain the drums of the devoted island rolled, the cannons roared, and the governor, Sir George Carteret, waved his hat, shouting the loyal slogan.1 Throughout England itself there was a blankness, a silence, in which the Royalists felt as though they were in some hideous dream, unable to move; and even the Roundheads were shocked by the measures to which rebellion had brought them.
This apathy contrasted with the cheerful energy of the new men as they set about to design their Kingless, godly Commonwealth. While Parliament designed a new seal for itself, showing the House of Commons on one side and Britain – lopped off at the Scottish border – on the other, Jersey had a new seal designed for the new King. Nowhere else was it safe to do so. This rare object showed St George on its obverse mounted on a charger: a quixotic gesture from tiny Jersey.
From the point of view of this new King, the loyalty of Jersey was less crucial than the attitude of his lopped-off kingdom, Scotland. The Scots as a whole remained monarchist; in any case, they were not disposed to have their monarchy abolished for them by the English. In Scotland Charles II was officially proclaimed King at the Mercat Cross of Edinburgh on reception of the news of his father’s death. That at least was something.
The frontispiece to the cult book of the ‘martyrdom’ of King Charles I (Eikon Basilike) shows his son receiving his crown from two angels. How much of it was written by the King himself is debatable, but as Charles I’s own account of his sufferings, Eikon Basilike had a wide readership in a Europe concussed by the English King’s death. Charles II showed his own devotion to the book by having copies bound, with ‘CR’ and a death’s head on the cover; these were presented to his intimates at The Hague.2 Nevertheless, with the exception of Scotland (and Jersey), the two symbolic angels supporting the new King on the book’s frontispiece were alone in their task.
Despite the shock which the late King’s execution administered to other crowned heads, the impact did not prove conducive to action. In May the Elector of Brandenburg wrote with regard to Charles II, ‘The occasion seems suitable for all Christian princes to come to the help of His Majesty, to avenge as befits, the dreadful and never-before-heard-of deed….’ The Elector went on to promise to try and persuade his own Diet to assist, since he himself had, alas, neither money nor men. From the Princess Regent of Hesse Cassel, Amelia Elizabeth, it was roughly the same sad story: she referred poignantly to the ‘hateful deed and inexcusable prosecution’, but troops and money were quite another matter. Wolfgang Wilhelm, Count of Neuburg, had a cosy feeling that ‘God the Almighty, the righteous judge, will not allow such a criminal deed to go unpunished….’ But when it came to the question of himself carrying out this divine vengeance, he spoke of the burden of taxes and recent wars against his people. The Elector of Cologne only wished he could help with money, men or mustering-places. The Archbishop of Mainz deplored the murder of the late King but was still lacking ‘the most desirable part’ of his archiepiscopal lands as a result of recent conflicts. The Bishop of Würzburg professed himself bankrupted by the quartering troops. The Count of Hatzfeldt referred piteously to the subject of his own imprisonment in 1646.3
The various excuses given to the King’s messenger, Johann Adam von Karpfen, and relayed by him dolefully back to Charles II, remind one of the lame explanations given in the parable of the wedding guests. But this is of course unfair to princes still genuinely suffering from the depredations of the Thirty Years’ War, which had only ended officially six months before.
As these little fish declined the honour, Charles did not fare any better with the great powers. France was temporarily freed from the nightmare of civil war by April, but that did not imply an immediate ability to look outside her own boundaries, since domestic unrest continued. (Civil war broke out again in January 1650.) A mission to the Imperial Court in October by Sir Wolfgang William de Swan met with results similar to the unhappy round-up of the Electors. A delicate postscript to a letter from the Elector of Saxony, expressing as usual his regrets,
enquired whether all the English had complied with the King’s murder or just ‘the meaner classes’? If merely the latter, perhaps Charles would win back the minds of his loyal subjects by ‘friendliness’ and the use of the United Kingdom?4
Friendliness, and the use of the United Kingdom, although excellent ideas in principle, were more difficult for the King to apply in exile than the Elector imagined. The use of the United Kingdom in particular raised up those twin religious spectres: the employment of Ireland brought with it a whiff of Popery; that of Scotland involved taking the Oath of the Covenant. The original Oath of the Covenant of 1638 had been reinforced by the Solemn League and Covenant in 1643. The death of one king and the accession of another had only exacerbated these problems. It is probable that a message was sent by Charles to Argyll in July, suggesting that he would join with the Scots – if the Solemn League and Covenant was not pressed upon him.5 But the Covenanting Scots were still cock-a-hoop at the fall of the Engagers, and as a result more obdurate than ever on the need to take the oath as a price of their assistance.
Under the circumstances Ireland was once more considered to be the more alluring prospect. In preparation for the expedition there, it was decided to take Charles and his Court back to Jersey. He had returned to France in June and spent the summer at Saint-Germain. He landed at St Helier on 17 September, accompanied by the Duke of York. A contemporary diarist gives a sombre picture of the royal brothers at church in St Helier: the King in deep purple mourning, unrelieved except for the Star of the Garter on his cloak; James a tall, slight figure in black.6 It was characteristic of the jumpiness of the time that there were fears for their assassination even within Jersey itself: attendants were ordered to wear swords; sentries were posted.
This new sojourn in the island – which was to last for five months – was of a very different nature from the King’s previous jaunt three-and-a-half years earlier. Then he had been young in spirit, at the beginning of his ordeal. Now, in the words of his father’s last letter, he had the advantage of wisdom over most princes, having spent the years of discretion in ‘the experience of troubles and exercise of patience’. The late King had suggested that piety and other virtues, both moral and political, would develop more easily under such circumstances, as trees in winter thrive, rather than in ‘warmth and serenity of times’.7
It was true. Charles’ experience of troubles so early in his maturity had certainly brought out in him virtues which might otherwise have remained latent. The need to display public courage rather than private grief, this was implanted in Charles, along with the other qualities which would mark his exile – resilience, a splendid kind of grit, and, even in the most terrible situations, a sort of buoyancy evidently chosen as an alternative to despair. Lastly, he was beginning to display an ability to keep his own counsel. But of course other less admirable attributes may take root in the wintry soil of adversity. These include the ability to mislead or trick, the will to deceive – attributes which are sometimes essential for survival but can never win a chorus of praise for those who possess them. During the next eighteen months Charles would demonstrate, generally for the better, but also on occasion for the worse, what sort of man the experience of troubles had made of him.
In Jersey there were at least pleasures to be tasted. Some were the guileless pleasures common to monarchs down the ages (although hitherto denied to Charles), such as a review of the island troops, which took place on the sands. Charles was also able to indulge his love of riding and sailing. Both the King and the Duke of York had brought with them their dwarfs who acted as pages and playthings. The beautiful and bossy Mrs Christabella Wyndham was back again, ruling everyone, as Pepys heard later, ‘like a Minister of State’.8
But money was, and continued to be, an obsessional concern. Before he left the island, Charles issued an order for a mint to be set up with a view to issuing coinage for the new reign: once more Jersey was the only place where his writ ran sufficiently for the order to have any kind of plausibility. Yet there were no resources for the mint to be established and in fact the order was never carried out.9
In November Charles was asking Sir George Carteret to expedite the arrival of the money voted to him for ‘supply’ by the island: he really had very little else to live on. The royal demesne in Jersey had to be sold. The King and the Duke of York themselves kept a very simple court, cutting down on the number of dishes served; their attendants would doubtless have preferred slightly more pomp, especially since certain of them existed on the consumption of the left-over dishes. Others were allotted board wages, to be paid when the money came in (and when would that be?). In general, the courtiers were in wretched straits.
And of course the quarrels broke out all over again. The personalities surrounding the King continued to clash. The presence of the veteran Sir Edward Nicholas – he was approaching sixty – in Charles’ counsels was generally felt to be an asset: he was described by Hyde in his History as ‘a very honest and industrious man, and always versed in business’.10 He had been Secretary of State to Charles I, and was appointed in the same position to Charles II. The only trouble with Nicholas’ honesty was that it filled him with natural distaste for court intrigues; that in turn did not necessarily make him the best man to deal with them. Like Hyde, he was an Anglican; like Hyde, he disapproved of the notion of further negotiations, covert or overt, with the Scots.
Less salubrious in Charles’ inner circle was the presence of Lord Percy. Here was another devotee of Queen Henrietta Maria, and, when one considers the calibre of her other Cavalier, Lord Jermyn, it is evident that somehow the Queen did not attract men of judgement to her side. This was particularly regrettable when the men in question passed into her son’s counsels. Despite his loyalty to the Queen, Percy was a Presbyterian, which put him in natural opposition to Hyde or Nicholas. Percy had also fought a duel with Prince Rupert during those bad days at The Hague the previous year. Not only religiously but also philosophically Percy advocated giving in to the demands of the Scots, on the grounds that they represented the power of the moment. Although Hyde described Percy angrily as an atheist, it was in fact a Hobbesian view. At least it was to Percy’s credit that he had been a brave soldier; he had another talent – even his enemy Hyde praised his flair for economical household management.
The King’s private secretary, Sir Robert Long, was an altogether more doubtful character. He had entered Charles’ story as secretary to the Council of the Prince of Wales in the West Country, when, it will be recalled, he had caused trouble by demanding to sit on the Council proper. There had also been some unpleasant innuendoes concerning his loyalty, including a tale that he had been in touch secretly with the Parliamentary commander Essex; in a couple of years’ time there would be more trouble, when he would be alleged to have shown the King’s correspondence to Henry Ireton. But Long too enjoyed the favour of Henrietta Maria, which put him in the same camp as Percy and ranged him against Hyde and Nicholas.
Throughout the autumn, as preparations for the Irish venture were made, these disputes smouldered on, with the occasional spark flying. The King himself came in for criticism: he was not attending to his business sufficiently. It was a charge which was already familiar to Charles and we shall meet it again and again after the Restoration. During this troubled period Charles had a habit of meeting a situation in which nothing could be done with an assumption of indifference, even indolence, and for that he should not have been blamed. But the active members of his entourage fretted at the delays, and looked round for a scapegoat: the King’s reputation for laziness was always conveniently to hand.
For better or for worse, the Irish plans were destined to come to nothing. The earnest little court at Jersey plotted and prepared and nagged throughout the autumn; all the while the victorious campaign of Oliver Cromwell had quite put an end to any possibility of the King landing there. It was in September at Drogheda, north of Dublin, and in October at Wexford, on the south-east tip of Ireland, that Crom
well instigated those fabled blood-baths which conquered Ireland, for the time being (and, incidentally, blackened his reputation for ever). Yet, owing to the perennial difficulty of communications, it was not until late in the year that the devastating news reached the King and his advisers.
At the orders of Parliament, Cromwell had set out to stop Ireland being used as a beachhead for an invasion of England on behalf of the Royalists. In that, he had succeeded only too triumphantly. Even if Prince Rupert’s naval skills had enabled Charles to land in Ireland at one of the remaining unoccupied ports, such as Waterford, the King would have found little for his comfort on arrival. Cromwell had reduced the royal forces to a series of pitiful, isolated and beleaguered fortresses.
With hopes of Ireland gone, the situation in England was hardly more encouraging than it had been immediately after the execution. As one correspondent wrote in the spring of 1650, the King’s party there was ‘so poor, so disjointed, so severely watched’ that they could do nothing on their own. The same source suggested that ‘a good understanding’ between the King’s party and the Presbyterians might at least enable the English Royalists to rise again.11
It was a conclusion which could no longer be avoided.
The thin lips of the Covenanting Scots began to stretch in a new smile of welcome, confident that this time the King could not elude their rigid embrace.
Given that King Charles II had a moral duty to try and recover his throne as soon as possible, he had absolutely no alternative at the beginning of 1650 but to try Scotland once more. He was a monarch. He had inherited a kingdom. He must now seek to wrest that kingdom from its unlawful possessors. It was up to him to establish who, if anyone, could help him in the task. This explains, among other things, how Charles, having decided to try the Covenanters once more, also gave a commission to Argyll’s sworn enemy, the Marquess of Montrose. As a result, Montrose landed at Kirkwall in the Orkney islands in January 1650.