But Elizabeth wouldn’t leave. She was expecting a party of English ambassadors sent by her father to negotiate for peace to pass through Prague on their way to see Ferdinand. She was determined to stay and convince the diplomats, and by extension England, to enter the war on her husband’s behalf.
Frederick did not insist, because after the initial clash, the situation stabilized (as his general, the prince of Anhalt, who was experienced and knew that the medieval fortress of Rakovnik that he had chosen to occupy was very difficult to assail, had assured him it would). Despite their numerical superiority, the imperial troops under Buquoi and the duke of Bavaria were unable to dislodge the Bohemian army. The Hungarian cavalry even redeemed themselves and scored a decisive victory over a squadron of Buquoi’s men, forcing them to retreat. A stalemate of sorts went on all through the month of October, as the imperial army, which did have the money to feed its soldiers, was obliged to call for new supplies, and Frederick began to take heart.
But once the carts bearing the requested provisions had arrived, and their troops had rested, the imperial generals adopted a new strategy. They might not be able to capture the fortress of Rakovnik quickly, it was true, but with the Bohemian army ensconced inside, the capital itself lay open to them, and this was of far more value as a strategic target. Accordingly, Buquoi and the duke of Bavaria broke camp on November 5 and headed toward Prague.
Again, the prince of Anhalt reacted with an alacrity that demonstrated that he had prepared for this contingency. No sooner were the enemy soldiers observed to have departed than he ordered his army to pack up and speed toward the unprotected capital. He was far more familiar with the roads and terrain than his imperial counterparts, and he knew exactly where he wanted to go to set up the defense of the city. It was to White Mountain, three miles from Prague, where he could command the high ground.
He arrived on the afternoon of Saturday, November 7, 1620, just ahead of his adversaries, in time to deploy his few cannons and position his men. The imperial soldiers, whose progress had paralleled the Bohemians’ course, could occasionally be glimpsed through the trees. As it had been a long march, the general was satisfied that no battle was imminent. Darkness was falling and the imperial troops would need rest. There might not even be a battle once the sun rose and Buquoi and the duke of Bavaria had a chance to evaluate the advantage the Bohemians held in having secured the high ground. The prince of Anhalt encouraged Frederick, who had accompanied his troops, to leave camp and ride on into the city itself, in order to beg for much-needed new funds for his soldiers from the diet and the visiting English embassy staying with Elizabeth. Frederick, who had learned to trust his commanding officer, left in high spirits. “His Majesty coming to court on the Saturday, at 3 of the clock, with a countenance of glee, told his queen that the enemy was come within two Dutch miles of the city, which is eight English, but his army of 28,000 was betwixt them and it. That night we slept securely, as free from doubt as we supposed ourselves quit from danger,” affirmed one of the English ambassadors staying at the royal castle in Prague.
But the prince of Anhalt had underestimated the determination of the imperial generals. Although the duke of Bavaria’s force had sustained significant losses in October due to fighting and disease and now numbered only about 12,000 men, and Buquoi’s troops too were down to an estimated 15,000 soldiers, leaving the imperial and Bohemian armies of roughly equal strength, the invaders were healthier and better fed than their Bohemian counterparts. Also, while it was true that the prince of Anhalt held the high ground, the emperor’s forces had managed to surround the mountain—actually, it was more of a hill—so they were not limited to a frontal assault but could attack their opponents from either side, or both if necessary.
And that is exactly what they did. At noon on Sunday, the imperial cavalry charged from the left while its infantry stormed from the right. The prince of Anhalt’s son managed to beat back the enemy horsemen, and the Bohemian cannons scattered the first wave of foot soldiers. But when this was not enough to discourage their adversaries—when both cavalry and infantry regrouped and forged ahead for a second thrust—the Hungarian dragoons stationed at the bottom of the hill, remembering that they still had not been paid, decided that they were not, after all, willing to lay down their lives for the bankrupt king of Bohemia, and fled. Their departure caused a general panic among the remaining troops, who fell back before the second onslaught. In a matter of minutes, the Bohemians had lost their small store of artillery. Despite the prince of Anhalt’s desperate commands to hold their posts and strike back, his divisions scattered in all directions. The battle was over in less than an hour—and, with it, the war.
FREDERICK HAD HAD A busy Sunday morning. He had been in conference for several hours with the English ambassadors, arguing as forcefully as he could for aid from his father-in-law. Just before noon he received a summons from the prince of Anhalt, alerting him that a battle was imminent after all and requesting his presence to help inspire the troops. But lunch was just about to be served and it seemed rude not to dine with his guests, so he stayed to eat. Afterward, he put on his uniform, mounted his horse, and set out for White Mountain.
He had barely made it out of his own front gate when he met the soldiers from his army escaping pell-mell into the city, apparently followed in close pursuit by the enemy. Astonished, he learned that he had lost his crown at White Mountain sometime between the apéritif and the fish course. There was nothing to do but turn around and follow the example of his fleeing army. The castle was evacuated, the used luncheon dishes still on the table. Elizabeth, seven months pregnant, hurried into a carriage, and with Frederick on horseback beside her they retreated across the river. They left so quickly they almost forgot the baby, Rupert.
A member of the officers’ staff bravely stayed behind to try to gain time by defending the bridge against the enemy soldiers, a hopeless task. By nightfall, the duke of Bavaria had moved into the imperial palace, and Ferdinand’s forces occupied Prague.
5
The Winter Queen
IT TURNS OUT THAT QUEENS are not made with crowns and scepters after all. They are made with adversity.
After their alarming departure from the castle of Prague, Elizabeth and Frederick (along with the visiting English ambassadors, much startled by this turn of events) took refuge briefly in the home of a loyal member of the Bohemian aristocracy at the edge of the city. They were soon joined by what remained of Frederick’s government and supporters, including his general and many of his officer corps. One small solace of this otherwise crushing loss was that the imperial troops had managed to slay only about 1,600 Bohemian soldiers at White Mountain—the rest had scrambled away too quickly to be killed. This left open the prospect of a counterattack. “I have learned from the English agent… that the defeat will not bring ruin. The slain were not numerous and if they had money they could easily gather their forces together again,” the Venetian ambassador in Savoy reported to the doge. The English diplomats recovered sufficiently to volunteer to negotiate with General Buquoi and the duke of Bavaria, and sent letters asking to arrange a meeting. When they received no answer, it was determined to fall back on Silesia, which still held out against Ferdinand, in order to regroup.
By this time Frederick and Elizabeth had accumulated quite an entourage. Those of the Bohemian aristocracy most closely allied with the couple feared to stay behind and face the violence of imperial retribution.* They had packed up what they could of their household belongings, which meant that the procession of refugees from Prague was encumbered by some three hundred wagons and carts. It was a harrowing journey, as the exact position of the enemy was unknown, so the king and queen were often forced to take back roads too rough for the wheels of Elizabeth’s carriage, necessitating that she ride horseback behind a soldier in her heavily pregnant state. The baggage carts were preyed upon by thieves; the royal attendants were menaced by small bands of roving dragoons; the entire party feared capture by im
perial forces sent to overtake them. Throughout this ordeal, neither Frederick nor his wife gave in to despair and in fact made a point of projecting an aura of calm good humor. The English ambassadors who accompanied them part of the way were struck particularly with the courage displayed by Elizabeth, “who truly saw the state she was in, [yet] did not let fall herself below the dignity of a queen, and kept the freedom of her countenance and discourse, with such an unchangeable temper, as at once did raise in all capable men this one thought—that her mind could not be brought under fortune.”
Within a week they had made it to the relative safety of Breslau, where Frederick established an interim court in an attempt to reunite and augment his forces. But Silesia was under attack from the elector of Saxony. There was no way to know how long it could hold out, and Elizabeth was rapidly approaching the time of her confinement, during which she could not travel. She had to leave her husband and find a safer place to have her baby, and she had to find it fast. She decided to try for Berlin, where Frederick’s sister, married to the elector of Brandenburg, lived. But to get there she was going to have to slip past the elector of Saxony’s army.
She took one-year-old Rupert and a small personal guard of horsemen. Baron Dohna, the Bohemian diplomat who had served as Frederick’s loyal ambassador to England and one of the few members of his court familiar with the terrain, courageously volunteered to lead the way. It was winter, with snow and frigid temperatures. Elizabeth was already exhausted from the flight from Prague and ill from her pregnancy. She had to stay off the main road and often traveled by night to take advantage of the darkness. She didn’t know the local language; she could have been betrayed at any time; she didn’t know whom to trust and whom to fear. It must have been terrifying.
Somehow, she and her retinue escaped enemy notice and arrived at Frankfort-on-Oder on November 25. Two days later she approached Berlin, only to discover that her sister and brother-in-law were away from home. Upon appeal, the servants and town council refused to risk imperial wrath by offering her hospitality. With everything that had happened to her, this was probably her most desolate moment.
She couldn’t go back and she couldn’t go forward. The elector of Brandenburg owned an isolated fortress, the château of Custrin, about fifty miles east of Berlin. Since it was primarily used as a summer residence, it was currently uninhabited. “They shall find neither food nor fuel for man, nor fodder for horse—no wine in the cellar—no corn in the granary—nothing but misery and starvation,” the elector of Brandenburg warned Frederick grimly in a letter. But this was the only option available to her, and so it was to this cold, lonely manor, miles from civilization, that Elizabeth and her small entourage trudged.
NEWS OF THE IMPERIAL victory at White Mountain and the subsequent flight of Frederick and Elizabeth from Prague spread rapidly through Europe. “This be the fifteenth day since the date of that victory in Bohemia, which hath filled all this Court and town with jollity,” the English ambassador at Vienna, assigned to negotiate with the emperor, glumly wrote home to London on November 22. Ferdinand was indeed in high spirits. In his hurry to evacuate Prague, Frederick had left behind his crown and insignia as well as many important government papers. The duke of Bavaria had exultantly forwarded these items to the emperor as spoils of the campaign. The very first thing Ferdinand did with his loot was to locate the signed Letter of Majesty, the legal document ensuring the religious freedom of the kingdom, and tear it in two.
Throughout Germany, especially in those areas where Catholicism dominated, Frederick and his wife were derided and lampooned in cartoons, songs, and pamphlets; they were labeled the Winter King and Queen for having ruled only a single season. The Lutherans too joined in the general mockery, and for this reason the imperial victory has long been interpreted not simply as a political triumph but more generally as a wholesale rejection of Calvinism. Of course, the Lutheran reaction may have been genuine, but with Ferdinand’s troops hovering close by, ready to quash any resistance, it is just possible that, given the vulnerability of their position, the other Protestant sects were simply doing their best to distance themselves from so pathetic a failure. If Frederick had triumphed instead of folding up ignominiously at White Mountain and had chased down and destroyed the imperial forces, it is difficult to see the Lutheran majority of Germany voluntarily choosing to scorn him and side with Ferdinand.
By contrast, the loss of Bohemia and the Palatinate was greeted in England with profound grief, followed quickly by anger. “Everyone laments the misfortunes of the King Palatine, and the unhappy fate of the beloved queen, who in her flight never had a helping hand from her father to protect and accompany her,” reported the Venetian ambassador on December 11, 1620, in a letter to the doge. “Tears, sighs, and loud expressions of wrath are seen and heard in every direction.” Even James was sufficiently afflicted by the plight of his daughter and her family to take the unusual step of deviating from official routine. “Whereas, on the preceding days, without any concern about the bitter weather prevailing he could not have enough hunting of the hare in that cold and wind ridden country, he has since then remained constantly shut up in his room in great sadness and dejection, forbidding the courtiers any kind of game or recreation,” the envoy noted.
And now at last the situation seemed dire enough to provoke the king to action. A parliament was called for January 30, 1621, the first in seven years, to determine the English response to the crisis. (James, still wedded to the principle of the divine right of kings, did not think much of representative government, but in this case he had no choice; he had overspent his income and needed the support of the assembled legislators to raise funds.) Although in his opening statement, the king refused aid for the recovery of Bohemia, claiming that his son-in-law had gone against his advice by accepting the crown of that realm, he did vow to see the Palatinate returned to his grandchildren, who were the legitimate heirs “and had never offended anyone.” He would begin as always by negotiating, but this time if the talks did not yield progress, he committed himself to raising an army of 30,000 men and taking back the property by force, even if it meant “to imperil his three kingdoms and risk his own life and shed the blood of his own son,” and he laid his hand upon Charles’s bowed head in a particularly dramatic gesture to underscore his sincerity. The king’s initiative was hailed by the majority of the representatives present, although they rather balked at the expense and voted to raise only £160,000, nowhere near the sum necessary to provision the number of troops requested. Still, it was not an insignificant pledge of support and certainly an encouraging move after the months of indecision.
Unfortunately, it arrived too late to help Frederick recover his regiments in Silesia, forcing him to abandon the hope of a swift counterattack. By December Buquoi’s men had reached Moravia, and despite Frederick’s appeals to hold firm, the local government capitulated and went to the emperor. Faced with advancing imperial troops from the north, south, and west, the Silesians knew themselves defeated and advised their king to withdraw in the hope that he would return at some future date to liberate them. Frederick reluctantly departed Breslau and joined Elizabeth in her isolation at Custrin, arriving on December 21, 1620. Less than a month later, she gave birth to her fifth child, a boy whom the couple named Maurice after her husband’s uncle the prince of Orange, renowned for his martial abilities, because, as his mother observed, when he grew up he would “have to be a warrior.”
AS SOON AS ELIZABETH was well enough to travel, she and Frederick made plans to leave Custrin. This was out of necessity as much as desire. Ferdinand, who would have liked nothing better than to capture his adversary, had issued an imperial decree forbidding any German prince from providing shelter to the couple and their followers. The elector of Brandenburg, Frederick’s brother-in-law, had so far resisted complying, but he did not have the resources to hold out should the emperor decide to send an army to punish him for his disobedience and seize the helpless king and queen. Once again
, they had to flee.
But where to go? There is no question that Elizabeth, exhausted and frightened, wanted England. She had not been back since her marriage although she had expressed a longing to return as early as 1617, after the birth of her second son, Karl Ludwig. “The Lady Elizabeth, we hear, makes great means to come over hither… and is so bent to it that she will hardly be stayed,” a member of the English court had reported at the time. Now, especially, after such a traumatic episode, spiritually wounded by deprivation, hardship, and humiliation, she craved the solace of safety, familiarity, and love that she associated with England and home.
It must therefore have come as a particularly cruel disappointment to discover that, despite her father’s having sent her an emissary with £20,000 to help defray the costs of travel, he refused to see either her or her husband, or indeed any member of her family. On January 25, 1621, just nine days after the birth of Maurice, James instructed his ambassador at The Hague to prevent Frederick and Elizabeth from returning to England at all costs. “So great is our mislike of such a course… as we do hereby command you, in case he [Frederick] pass by that way with an intention to repair to this place… to divert him by good persuasions from proceeding any further in that journey… and if our daughter also do come into those parts, with any intention to transport herself hither you do use all possible means at this time to divert her; and rather than fail, to charge her, in our name and upon our blessing, that she do not come,” the king wrote in a panic.
Although James gave his customary worry of compromising the negotiations for the return of the Palatinate as the official reason for refusing his daughter and her family access to England, his true motivation was more complex. Above all, he feared the political power of his daughter’s popularity. There was a strong feeling against Catholic Spain in England, particularly among the growing Puritan party, and despite everything that had happened, James still cherished the idea of marrying his one remaining son, Charles, to the daughter of the Spanish king. Elizabeth’s magnetic presence in England could only aid her cause and stiffen the resistance against a Catholic alliance; should she take up permanent residence in her homeland, it was even possible that the kingdom might choose Elizabeth over Charles as its future sovereign. “I think they have reason there [Spain], if they love themselves, to wish you and yours rather to succeed unto me than my daughter and her children,” James would later write tellingly to Charles. In fact, it was not Spain who cared to prevent Elizabeth or her family from inheriting the throne of England—it was her father. So apprehensive was James about Elizabeth’s potential influence in the government that he would not allow any of her sons to visit or be educated in England, even for their own safety.
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