Loe raamatut: «Monarchy: From the Middle Ages to Modernity»

CONTENTS

GENEALOGY

INTRODUCTION: The Imperial Crown

PART I

1 The Man Who Would Be King

2 King and Emperor

3 Shadow of the King

4 Rebellion

5 New Model Kingdom

PART II

6 Restoration

7 Royal Republic

8 Britannia Rules

9 Empire

10 The King is Dead, Long Live the British Monarchy!

EPILOGUE: The Challenges of Modernity

INDEX

Also by David Starkey

Credits

Copyright

About the Publisher

PICTURE CREDITS

SECTION I

Page 1

1 King Edward IV, by unknown artist, (oil on panel). The National Portrait Gallery, London.

2 Elizabeth Woodville. © The President and Fellows of Queens’ College.

3 King Richard III, by unknown artist, late 16th century, (oil on panel). The National Portrait Gallery, London.

4 Lady Margaret Beaufort, by unknown artist, c.1600, (oil on panel). The National Portrait Gallery, London.

Pages 2–3

1 King Henry VII, by unknown artist, 1505, (oil on panel). The National Portrait Gallery, London.

2 Elizabeth of York, by unknown artist, c.1500, (oil on panel). The National Portrait Gallery, London.

3 King Henry VIII, (miniature), Horenbout Lucas, 1526–7. The Royal Collection © 2006, Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II.

4 Catherine of Aragon, (miniature), attributed to Horenbout Lucas, c.1525. The National Portrait Gallery, London.

5 Meeting at the Field of the Cloth of Gold, 7th June 1520. From an original by Hans Holbein, the Elder (oil on canvas), this copy by Friedrich Bouterwek. © Chateau de Versailles, France/Lauros/ Giraudon/The Bridgeman Art Library.

Pages 4–5

1 The Whitehall Mural, or The Dynasty Portrait. From an original by Hans Holbein, this copy by Remigius van Leemput, late 17th century. The Royal Collection © 2006, Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II.

2 The Great Bible, title page, 1539. © Lambeth Palace Library, London, UK/The Bridgeman Art Library.

Pages 6–7

1 The Family of Henry VIII, by unknown artist, c.1545, (oil on canvas). The Royal Collection © 2006, Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II.

2 Thomas Cranmer, by Flicke Gerlach, 1545, (oil on panel). The National Portrait Gallery, London.

3 King Edward VI and the Pope, by unknown artist, c.1570, (oil on panel). The National Portrait Gallery, London.

4 Queen Mary I by Hans Eworth or Ewoutsz, (fl.1520–74). © Society of Antiquaries, London, UK/The Bridgeman Art Library.

5 Foxe’s Book of Martyr’s (page detail), c.1500. © Lambeth Palace Library.

Page 8

1 Queen Elizabeth I in Coronation Robes, by unknown artist, c.1559, (panel). © National Portrait Gallery, London, UK/The Bridgeman Art Library.

2 Mary, Queen of Scots after a miniature, by unknown artist, c.1560–1565, (oil on panel). The National Portrait Gallery, London.

3 James I (in robes of state), van Somer Paul, c.1620. The Royal Collection © 2006, Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II.

SECTION II

Page 1

1 The Somerset House Conference, by unknown artist, 1604, (oil on canvas). The National Portrait Gallery, London.

2 Right hand side of Diptych showing the Parliament of James I of England, VI of Scotland and the Gunpowder Plot, detail of the Gunpowder Plotters from the bottom right hand corner, by English School, 17th century, (oil on panel). © St. Faith’s Church, Gaywood, Norfolk, UK/The Bridgeman Art Library.

3 Great Seal of James I (detail) by English School, 17th century, (engraving). © Private Collection/ The Bridgeman Art Library.

Pages 2–3

1 King Charles I and his Family, by school of Sir Anthony van Dyck, (oil on canvas). © Royal Hospital Chelsea, London, UK/The Bridgeman Art Library.

2 Archbishop William Laud, after Sir Anthony van Dyck, c.1636, (oil on canvas). The National Portrait Gallery, London.

3 Parliament Assembled at Westminster on 13th April 1640, by unknown artist, 17th century, (engraving). © Museum of London, UK/The Bridgeman Art Library.

Pages 4–5

1 The Battle Plan of Naseby from Anglia Rediviva, 1647. © The British Library, London.

2 Oliver Cromwell by Walker Robert, c.1649, (oil on canvas). The National Portrait Gallery, London.

3 Execution of Charles I (1600–49) at Whitehall, January 30th, 1649 (oil on canvas) by Coques, Gonzales, attr.to. © Musee de Picardie, Amiens, France/Giraudon/The Bridgeman Art Library.

4 The Pourtraiture of his Royal Highness, Oliver, Late Protector etc, in his Life and Death, with a short view of his Government. © The British Library, London.

Pages 6–7

1 Coronation Procession of Charles II to Westminster from the Tower of London, by Dirck Stoop, 1661. © Museum of London, UK/The Bridgeman Art Library.

2 Charles II enthroned wearing the recreated Regalia, by John Michael Wright, 1660–1670. The Royal Collection © 2006, Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II.

3 The Royal Gift of Healing, King Charles II healing the sick, by unknown artist, 1684. © Heritage Image Partnership/The British Library.

Page 8

1 Dutch attack on the Medway: The Royal Charles carried into Dutch waters, 12th June 1667, by Ludolf Bakhuizen, 1667, (oil on canvas). National Maritime Museum, London.

2 Titus Oates, by Robert White, 1679, (line engraving). The National Portrait Gallery, London.

SECTION III

Page 1

1 A perspective of Westminster Abbey from the High alter to the West end showing the manner of his Majesties crowning ( James II). From The History of the Coronation, Francis Sandford, 1687. © Lambeth Palace Library.

Pages 2–3

1 Louis XIV in Royal Costume, by Hyacinthe Rigaud, 1701, (oil on canvas). © Louvre, Paris, France/Giraudon/The Bridgeman Art Library.

2 King William III, by unknown artist, c.1690, (oil on canvas). The National Portrait Gallery, London.

3 Mary II as Princess of Orange, attributed to Nicholas Dixon, c.1677. The Royal Collection © 2006, Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II.

Pages 4–5

1 Apotheosis of William and Mary, Ceiling of the Painted Hall, by Sir James Thornhill, 18th century. Courtesy of the Greenwich Foundation for the Old Royal Naval College.

2 Queen Ann and William, Duke of Gloucester, studio of Sir Godfrey Kneller BT, c.1694, (oil on canvas). National Portrait Gallery, London.

Pages 6–7

1 John Churchill, 1st Duke of Marlborough, and Sarah, Duchess of Marlborough, with their children, by Johann Closterman, (oil on canvas). © Blenheim Palace, Oxfordshire, UK/The Bridgeman Art Library.

2 The Duke of Marlborough surveys his troops at the Battle of Oudenarde in the Spanish Netherlands, 30th June 1708, tapestry woven by Judocus de Vos. © Blenheim Palace, Oxfordshire, UK/The Bridgeman Art Library.

3 View of Blenheim Palace from the column of Victory. © Skyscan.

Page 8

1 Rear wall painting of the Upper Hall at Greenwich glorifying George I and the House of Hanover, by Sir James Thornhill. Courtesy of the Greenwich Foundation for the Old Royal Naval College.

SECTION IV

Page 1

1 The pediment of the Temple of Concord and Victory, c.1735, at Stowe Landscape Garden. Courtesy of Stowe School Photographic Archive (M. Bevington).

2 Robert Walpole, 1st Earl of Orford, Studio of Jean Baptiste van Loo, 1740, (oil on canvas). The National Portrait Gallery, London.

3 William Pitt the Elder, 1st Earl of Chatham, studio of William Hoare, c.1754, (oil on canvas). The National Portrait Gallery, London.

Pages 2–3

1 George Washington, by Gilbert Stuart. © Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York, USA/The Bridgeman Art Library.

2 Thomas Jefferson, 3rd President of the United States, by James Sharples, c.1797, (oil on canvas). © Bristol City Museum and Art Gallery, UK/The Bridgeman Art Library.

3 Wren building of the College of William and Mary, Williamsburg, Virginia, USA. © G.E. Kidder Smith/CORBIS.

4 George III in his Coronation Robes, by Allan Ramsay, 1761. © Scottish National Portrait Gallery, Edinburgh/Bridgeman Art Library.

5 Edmund Burke, studio of Sir Joshua Reynolds, c.1767–69, (oil on canvas). The National Portrait Gallery, London.

6 The severed head of Louis XVI, King of France, in the hands of the executioner, (Stipple engraving). Photo: akg-images, London.

Pages 4–5

1 The Plum Pudding in Danger, by James Gillray, 1805, (colour engraving). © Private Collection/The Bridgeman Art Library.

2 King George IV in Highland Dress, 1830, (oil on canvas), Sir David Wilkie. Apsley House, The Wellington Museum, London/The Bridgeman Art Library.

3 The Quadrant, Regent Street, from Piccadilly Circus, published by Ackermann, c.1835–50, (coloured aquatint). © Private Collection/ The Stapleton Collection/The Bridgeman Art Library.

Pages 6–7

1 King William IV, by Sir Martin Archer Shee, c.1800, (oil on canvas). The National Portrait Gallery, London.

2 Sir Herbert Taylor, Private Secretary to King William IV, by John Simpson, exhibited 1833, (oil on canvas). The National Portrait Gallery, London.

3 The House of Commons, 1833, by Sir George Hayter, 1833–1834, (oil on canvas). The National Portrait Gallery, London.

Page 8

1 The Royal Family in 1846, Franz Xavier Winterhalter, 1846. The Royal Collection © 2006, Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II.

2 Opening of the Great Exhibition by Queen Victoria on 1st May 1851, Henry Courtney Selous, 1851–52. © V&A Images, London.

GENEALOGIES

The English and British Monarchy from the Middle Ages to Victoria

The House of York and Lancaster, The House of Tudor

The House of Stuart and the Hanoverians

INTRODUCTION

THE IMPERIAL CROWN

IN LATE 1487, King Henry VII had much to celebrate. In the space of only two years he had won the crown in battle; married the heiress of the rival royal house; fathered a son and heir; and defeated a dangerous rebellion. Secure at last on the throne, he decided to commemorate the fact in the most dramatic way possible by commissioning a new crown. And he would first wear it on the Feast of the Epiphany, 6 January 1488, at the climax of the Twelve Days of Christmas, when the monarch re-enacted the part of the Three Kings who had presented their gifts of gold, frankincense and myrrh to the Christ Child.

The new ‘rich crown of gold set with full many precious stones’ caused a sensation. As well it might. The circlet was thickly encrusted with rubies, sapphires and diamonds, highlighted with large and milky pearls. From the circlet there rose five tall crosses alternating with the same number of similarly proportioned fleur-de-lis. These too were thickly set with stones and pearls, with each fleur-de-lis in addition having on its upper petal a cameo carved with an image of sacred kingship. The crown was surmounted by two jewelled arches, with, at their crossing, a plain gold orb and cross, and it weighed a crushing seven pounds.

It was the Imperial Crown of England. As such it sits on the table at the right hand of Charles I in his family portrait by van Dyck as the symbol of his kingly power.

This book is the story of the Imperial Crown and of those who wore it, intrigued for it and, like Charles I himself, died for it. They include some of the most notable figures of English and British history: Henry VIII, whose mere presence could strike men dumb with fear; Elizabeth I, who remains as much a seductive enigma as she did to her contemporaries; and Charles I, who redeemed a disastrous reign with a noble, sacrificial death as he humbled himself, Christ-like and self-consciously so, to the executioner’s axe.

Such figures leap from the page of mere history into myth and romance. And they do so, not least, because of the genius of their court painters, such as Holbein and van Dyck, who enable us to see them as contemporaries saw them – or, at least, as they wanted to be seen.

I have painted these great royal characters – and a dozen or so other monarchs, who, rightly or wrongly, have left less of a memory behind – with as much skill as I can. But this is not a history of kings and queens. And its approach is not biographical either. Instead, it is the history of an institution: the monarchy. Institutions – and monarchy most of all – are built of memory and inherited traditions, of heirlooms, historic buildings and rituals that are age-old (or at least pretend to be). All these are here, and, since I have devoted much of my academic career to what are now called court studies, they are treated in some detail.

But the institution of monarchy, and I think this fact has been too little appreciated, is also about ideas. Indeed, it is on ideas that I have primarily depended to shape the structure of the book and drive its narrative. But these are not the disembodied, abstract ideas of old-fashioned history. Instead, I present them through the lives of those who formulated them. Sometimes these were monarchs; more usually they were their advisers and publicists. Such men – at least as much as soldiers and sailors – were the shock-troops of monarchy. They shaped its reaction to events; even, at times, enabled it to seize the initiative. When they were talented and imaginative, monarchy flourished; when they were not, the Crown lost its sheen and the throne tottered.

I have already sketched this ideas-based approach in my earlier The Monarchy of England: The Beginnings, which deals with the Anglo-Saxon and Norman kings. In it, I argue that Wessex, round which the unitary kingdom of England coalesced in the ninth and tenth centuries, was a participatory society, which balanced an effective monarchy at the centre with institutions of local government which required – and got – the active involvement of most free men. It was this combination which enabled Wessex to survive and absorb the Viking invasions and finally to thrive. It is also why, after the destructive violence of the Norman Conquest and its immediate aftermath, the Norman kings decided that both the ethos and the methods of Anglo-Saxon government were too useful to be abandoned. Instead, the great law-giver kings of the Middle Ages, such as Henry II and Edward I, embodied them in an elaborate framework of institutions: the Common Law, the Exchequer and Parliament.

But, by the late fifteenth century, when I pick up the story, much of this was played out. The sense of mutual responsibility between Crown and people, which was the great legacy of the Anglo-Saxon nation-state, had eroded, and Parliament was flatly refusing to impose adequate taxation. The result was that the English kings, who had been the great military and imperial power of western Europe for much of the Middle Ages, found themselves outclassed by rulers who could raise more or less what revenues they wanted without the awkward business of getting their subjects’ agreement first.

The young Henry VIII tried to breathe life into the embers. But even he had to admit defeat. Instead, the English monarchy took a radically different tack. And it did so purely by accident. Because he wanted a son – and because he wanted Anne Boleyn even more – Henry decided to divorce his first wife, Catherine of Aragon. But Continental power politics meant that the Pope refused. To get Anne, therefore, Henry had to do the hitherto unthinkable and displace the Pope by making himself head of the Church. The result fused politics with religion, first strengthening the monarchy beyond limits, then presenting it with the novel challenge of ideological opposition as the kingcum-Supreme Head of the Church found himself caught up in the vicious doctrinal disputes of the Reformation.

And all of this came to focus on Henry VII’s Imperial Crown. Forged in an earlier age and for utterly different purposes, it came to symbolize the monarchy’s inflated claims to rule Church as well as state, and, with the Stuart accession, Scotland as well as England.

But the very scale of the crown’s claims triggered an equal and opposite reaction, and a century later a king was beheaded, the monarchy abolished and the Crown Imperial itself smashed and melted down.

This book tells the story of how and why this happened: of the Tudors, who carried the Crown of England to its peak; of the Stuarts, who united England and Scotland but eventually mishandled both; of the revolution that tried to extirpate monarchy in Britain. And, finally, of the monarchy’s apotheosis – its extraordinary transformation from a priest-ridden absolutism to a limited, constitutional power in the state and the figurehead of the most extensive empire in the history of the world.

PART I

THE MAN WHO WOULD BE KING

HENRY VII

I

THE MAN WHO ordered the Crown Imperial to be made was the founder of the Tudor dynasty, Henry Tudor. But Henry was a man who should never have been king at all. He seized the throne against the odds, amid bloodshed and murderous family feuds. But behind the beheadings and the gore was the fundamental question of how England should be ruled. Henry thought he knew the answer. But his cure proved as bad as the disease.

The story begins five years before Henry Tudor’s birth, when a nine-year-old girl was summoned to court. Her name was Margaret Beaufort, and with her fortune of £1000 a year, she was the richest heiress in England. Even more importantly, as the direct descendant of John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster, Margaret was of the blood royal. Her cousin, the Lancastrian King Henry VI, had decided that she should marry his own half-brother, Edmund Tudor – a man more than twice her age. It was a sordid mixture of money and power, with the technicalities fixed by a venal and accommodating Church.

King Henry VI was weak. He had failed in war; was incapacitated by long bouts of madness, and had fathered just one child, thus leaving the succession dangerously in doubt in an age of civil war and rival kings. The union of Margaret and Edmund would, Henry hoped, strengthen the weakened royal family. It would surely produce children, and therefore fulfil the Lancastrian dynasty’s duty to provide a line of potential successors to the crown should anything happen to the sole heir. For what was the monarchy for if it could not guarantee the continuity of effective rule long into the future?

When Margaret was barely twelve, the earliest legally permissible age for sexual intercourse, Edmund brought her to Wales, where they lived together as man and wife. Shortly before Margaret’s thirteenth birthday she became pregnant, but six months later, weakened by imprisonment during a Welsh feud and finished off by the plague, Edmund died on 1 November 1456. His child bride, widowed and heavily pregnant, sought refuge with her brother-in-law at Pembroke Castle.

And it was in a tower chamber at that castle that Margaret gave birth to the future Henry VII on 28 January 1457. Actually, it was a miracle that both mother and child survived. It was the depths of winter and the plague still raged, while Margaret, short and slightly built even as an adult, was not yet fully grown. The birth probably did severe damage to her immature body because, despite two further marriages, Margaret was to have no more children. Yet out of this traumatic birth an extraordinary bond was forged between the teenage mother and her son.

Margaret would need to be the strong woman behind her son; Henry was born into an England that was being torn apart by civil war. For their family, the Lancastrians, were not the only ones with a claim to the throne. Their opponents were the three brothers of the House of York. Also descended from Edward III, they had at least as good a claim to the throne, one which they determined to make good by force. The resulting conflict later became known as the Wars of the Roses, after the emblems of the two sides: the red rose of Lancaster and the white rose of York.

Such emblems, known as badges, were worn not only by the followers of the two rival royal houses, but by all the servants of the nobility and greater gentry. And the more land you had, the bigger the private army of badge-wearing retainers (as they were called) you could afford. The forces of York and Lancaster and their noble allies were evenly balanced, with the result that after fifteen years of fighting, the crown had changed hands twice between the Lancastrian King Henry VI and his rival Edward of York, who had declared himself Edward IV.

Their final showdown came at Tewkesbury in Gloucestershire, in May 1471. Edward – young, warlike, charismatic and supported by both his brothers, the twenty-one-year-old George, Duke of Clarence, and Richard, Duke of Gloucester, who was eighteen – was determined to annihilate the House of Lancaster once and for all. The battle soon turned into a massacre, leaving thousands dead on the field. It was a decisive victory for York; a disaster for Lancaster.

After the battle, many of the Lancastrians fled to Tewkesbury Abbey, where they took refuge in the church. The victorious Edward and his men then burst in. There are two different versions of what happened next.

According to the official account, Edward behaved with exemplary decorum, pardoning the fugitives and offering up solemn thanks at the high altar for his victory. But the unofficial accounts tell a different and much more shocking story. Edward and his men, rather than turning their thoughts to God and mercy, began to slaughter the Lancastrians. A lucky few were saved by the intervention of a priest, vested and holding the holy sacrament in his hands, in front of whom even the bloodthirsty Yorkists felt some shame. Edward then recovered control of the situation by issuing pardons to his defeated enemies. But already enough blood had been spilt to pollute the church and to require its reconsecration.

The Yorkists also claimed that the Prince of Wales had died in the carnage of the battlefield. But darker rumours had it that he had been taken prisoner and brought before Edward, who accused him of treason, pushed the boy away and struck him with a gauntlet. He was then murdered by Clarence and Richard. A day or two later, despite his solemn pardon, Edward ordered the beheading of most of the remaining Lancastrian leaders. Now only the life of the feeble Lancastrian king, Henry VI, stood between Edward and an unchallenged grasp of the throne.

On 21 May Edward entered the City of London in triumph. That night, between the hours of eleven and midnight, Henry VI was murdered in the Tower of London, probably with a heavy blow to the back of the head. Only one man is named as being present in the Tower at the time: Edward’s youngest brother, Richard, Duke of Gloucester, who already, at the age of only eighteen, was emerging as the most effective hatchet man of the Yorkist regime. As he struck the fatal blow, he is supposed to have said, ‘Now there is no heir male of King Edward the Third but we of the House of York!’ Now, surely, the Wars of the Roses were over.

No one, a Yorkist chronicle exulted, of ‘the stock of Lancaster remained among the living’ who could claim the throne. But one Lancastrian claimant – however remote – did remain: Henry Tudor. Fourteen years had passed since Margaret had had her son. Now the teenage Henry was in danger of his life. Not even the massive walls of Pembroke Castle could protect the boy against the vengeful power of Edward of York, and his mother urged him to flee. He took ship at Tenby, and crossed the Channel to Brittany. And there Henry had to endure a decade and a half of politically fraught exile before he would see either England or his mother again.