by Allan Massie
Any attempt to make sense of the ‘Ruthven Raid’ must start with the Earl of Gowrie. He was no friend to James and had indeed been involved in rebellion when he was only sixteen. His grandfather had been one of Rizzio’s murderers and his father the leader of the group who had taken James prisoner in 1584. That failed coup had cost him his head. Young Gowrie had financial grievances too: James still owed him more than £80,000 (Scots) for expenses incurred by his father when treasurer. It may be that he intended to hold the King in custody till his debt was settled.
On the other hand, his ambitions may have flown higher. Gowrie had only recently returned to Scotland. He had spent five years at Padua University studying law; also, reputedly, necromancy. (After his death, a piece of paper with strange cabbalistic designs and figures was reputedly found in his pocket.) From there he had gone to Geneva, where he had been entertained by Calvin’s successor, Theodore Beza. His journey home had taken him to Paris, where the English ambassador described him to Elizabeth’s secretary of state, Robert Cecil, as ‘a man of whom there may be exceeding good use made’. A visit to the English court followed, and Gowrie is said to have made a good impression on Elizabeth.
Back in Scotland, he established himself as one of the leaders of the extreme Presbyterian party who were displeased by the King’s Church policy. No doubt the time spent with Beza gave him credibility. He was certainly popular, at least with those who were dissatisfied with the King – one reason why James’s account of the events of 5 August was greeted with considerable scepticism. Moreover, Gowrie had royal connections himself, even if somewhat distant ones. His formidable mother, Dorothea Stewart, was the granddaughter of the Earl of Methven (himself a Stewart), who had been Margaret Tudor’s third husband after her divorce from the Earl of Angus. It is not inconceivable that Gowrie aimed at the throne. While his brother Alexander was described as ‘a learned, sweet and hurtles gentleman’, the Earl was a different proposition.
His intention was to seize the King. Whether James was to be held prisoner or murdered is debatable. The former is more likely, a repeat of his father’s ‘Ruthven Raid’. There were precedents galore. Whoever held the King might control policy. Only if James proved obdurate would his life be in danger. As to the means intended, these seem clear enough. Alexander was to detain James in the gallery chamber until the Earl could persuade the King’s men that their master had already left Gowrie House. The King would then be taken through the garden to a boat and carried to the Ruthven castle of Dirleton in East Lothian, which was being held by the Earl’s mother. Alexander’s role was to play the dupe.
Why did the King fall into the trap? An answer might be found in two letters he wrote, one to each brother, on 2 August. Unfortunately, these have disappeared, and we know of them only because of the record of a payment made to the messenger who delivered them. So one can only speculate.
The official story about the Jesuit and the pot of gold is improbable in itself. Had there been such a discovery, the obvious course would have been for the King to command that the arrested man be brought to him under guard. Second, James spent much of the afternoon closeted with Alexander, more than enough time to question the mysterious man, who in any case disappears even from the King’s version of events and has never been identified. Had he existed, he would surely have been produced to substantiate James’s story. Moreover, given that the King was a cautious man, alert with good reason to the dangers of being taken prisoner or assassinated, there must have been some other inducement.
James might be a married man and the father of a family, but Anne had already begun to bore him, and his fondness for handsome young men had already been remarked on. (The current favourite was John Ramsay, who was perhaps not yet twenty.) A plausible explanation for his willingness – even eagerness – to accompany Alexander back to Gowrie House is that he was promised what he had been demanding. The assignation may even have been the subject of the lost letter to the Master. If Alexander showed it to his brother, that would have been enough to set the plot in motion. After the event of course, none of the King’s company could explain why they had not been suspicious of the story about the Jesuit without alluding to what they knew of the King’s sexual tastes. That knowledge explains also why they do not seem to have been concerned when James disappeared upstairs with Alexander and remained there throughout the afternoon.
Two other pieces of evidence support this version of the day’s events. John Ramsay was on edge, unable to keep still. He had reason to be disturbed. Fear that Alexander was about to supplant him in the King’s affections was cause enough for jealousy. He at least could have no doubt as to what was happening in the upper room.
Second, more damning still, are James’s words to Ramsay when he entered the room to find the King struggling to free himself from Alexander’s grip: ‘Strike him low. He wears a pyne dowlit.’ How could the King know about this doublet if it hadn’t already been removed while they made love?
This explanation has the merit, which no others have, of making sense of the day’s events. Alexander would keep James in play till his brother had persuaded Lennox and the other member of the King’s retinue that he had already left Gowrie House. When they set off after him, Gowrie himself would appear and make James his prisoner. But the timing went wrong. James, having got what he had come for, was himself anxious to be off. Alexander, obedient to his brother’s orders, tried to prevent him. James forced his way to the window and called for help, with Alexander holding on and trying to stop his mouth with his hand. The anxious and jealous John Ramsay hurried to the rescue, and the Gowrie brothers were doomed. One would like to think that young Alexander spoke the truth when he cried out that he had no ‘wyte’ or knowledge of the plot, but that seems unlikely.
The true story could not be told. It was too shameful. So James stuck with his cock-and-bull version. Few may have believed it, but it was rash to call the King a liar.3
In March 1603 Queen Elizabeth died after a reign of forty-five years. Till almost the last moment she had refused to name a successor, but few doubted that it must be the King of Scots. All the chief men of her court, notably the secretary of state, Robert Cecil, had been in communication with him for years. Now at last, when she was beyond speech, the question was put directly to her, and she signified by a motion of her hand that she approved. As soon as she was pronounced dead, her cousin, Sir Robert Carey, who held the office of Warden of the Marches, took horse and rode hard for Edinburgh. A fall at Norham delayed him, and when he arrived in Edinburgh he was told that the King had already gone to bed. But he insisted on seeing him.
I was quickly led in and carried up to the king’s chamber. I kneeled by him, and saluted him by his title of England, Scotland, France and Ireland. He gave me his hand to kiss and bade me welcome. After he had long discoursed of the manner of the Queen’s sickness and of her death, he asked me what letters I had from the Council. I told him, none: and acquainted him how narrowly I escaped from them [they had wanted someone other than Carey to bring the news north] and yet I had brought him a blue ring from a fair lady, that I hoped would give him assurance of the truth that I had reported. He took it, and looked upon it, and said, ‘It is enough; I know by this that you are a true messenger.’ Then he committed me to the charge of Lord Home, and gave straight command that I should want for nothing.4
It is appropriate that James VI, the least dignified of the Stuarts, should have learned that he had achieved his life’s ambition, uniting the crowns of England and Scotland, when dressed in his nightgown.
He made haste to be off south to take possession of his Promised Land. But before he left he found time to write a letter of fatherly advice to his elder son, Prince Henry, who was with his tutors at Stirling Castle.
Let not this news make you proud or insolent; for a King’s son and heir was ye before, and no more are ye yet. The augmentation that is here like to fall unto you, is but in cares and heavy burdens…Look upon all English men that shall c
ome to visit you as upon your loving subjects, not with that ceremony as towards strangers, and yet with such heartiness as at this time they deserve.
The letter, both sententious and affectionate, is typical of James. Yet, while he might speak to his son of ‘cares and heavy burdens’, he himself was now free of the burden of uncertainty and determined to enjoy himself.
James left Scotland promising to return every three years – one of the many promises he did not keep, though it may have been made in good faith at the time. Though it would not be long before many in England were speaking nostalgically of the days of ‘Good Queen Bess’, the new King was received enthusiastically. Elizabeth had been long in dying, and the feeling that it was time for a change is not confined to democratic electorates. When he reached York on his journey south, a conduit running from the Minster flowed with claret, to the delight of the citizens, even though the quality of the wine was doubtful. There was good reason for the English to be happy. The fear of a disputed succession such as might lead to civil war had been removed. The new King was an experienced ruler, known also to be a good Protestant. Moreover he was so obviously delighted to be among them that he could be forgiven even his strong Scots accent. He was genial and approachable, and though his extravagance would soon cause concern and put him at odds with his parliaments, it was at first welcome after Elizabeth’s mean economy and reluctance to spend any money except on her own adornment.
James and Anne were crowned in Westminster Abbey in July of that year, but it was a hurried ceremony and festivities were curtailed, for plague was rife in London, and the city was not safe to stay in. So King and Queen almost immediately withdrew to a rural retreat.
James retained Robert Cecil, Elizabeth’s ‘little beagle’, as his chief minister, but others who had been out of favour with the Queen now looked for advancement. Chief among these were Cecil’s cousin Francis Bacon, and Henry Howard, Earl of Northampton. Both were remarkable men, with qualities to commend them to the King, not least that both were, like him, homosexually inclined. Bacon, scholar, scientist, lawyer and poly-math, would have to wait before being rewarded with the high office he believed, with reason, his talents deserved. There were two reasons for this.5 First, his cousin Cecil was jealous of him and also distrusted him. Second, Bacon had been among the entourage of Elizabeth’s last favourite, Robert Devereux, Earl of Essex. James too had admired Essex, Cecil’s bitter rival, and when he met his son soon after his arrival in England, embraced him as the heir of the noblest knight England had known. But Essex’s career had foundered, and, foolishly, he had raised what seemed a rebellion against Elizabeth. Its failure brought him to the executioner’s block, and Bacon had abandoned him and even given evidence against him to save his own career and perhaps his neck. So James first looked on Bacon with suspicion.
Henry Howard was a younger brother of that Duke of Norfolk who had proposed himself as a husband for James’s mother, and had suffered for his presumption. Elizabeth had had no time for Henry. His ornate manners repelled her. He was pro-Spanish and believed to be a crypto-Catholic. He was a schemer and a sinister aura surrounded him. But he was highly intelligent, an unusual nobleman, who had actually been a lecturer at Cambridge University. He was a great flatterer who had taken pains to ingratiate himself with the King of Scots, and though James mocked the flowery ‘Asiatic’ style of his letters, his genuine scholarship commended him to the King. Queen Anne detested him, but Howard shrugged that off, and established himself in James’s favour. His machinations would involve the King in the worst scandal of his reign.
James’s intentions were good, and he was confident of his ability to put them into practice: ‘We are an old and experienced king,’ he told the Commons. He quickly put an end to the war with Spain, which had dragged on without either success or much meaning since the year of the Armada. This may not have been popular, but it was sensible. One of James’s merits was his preference for peace rather than war. He believed, with some reason, that there were few disputes between states that could not be settled by diplomatic means, and, with less reason, that he himself was a master diplomat.
Two dissident groups looked on the new reign with especial eagerness: the Roman Catholics, who hoped that Mary’s son would relax the Penal Laws, which forbade the legal practice of their faith, exposed them to fines for resistance, and made the celebration of the Mass a treasonable act; and the Puritans, who thought Elizabeth’s Anglican settlement an insufficiently pure Reformation and who hoped that the king of a Presbyterian Scotland would look kindly on their demands. Both would be disappointed.
Though James was no fanatic, and even, like his mother and his grandsons, the future Charles II and James VII and II, inclined to toleration of religious differences, so long as his legal authority was respected and civil order maintained, he had been reared in the reformed faith and held to its doctrines. He might have little wish to persecute Catholics, but he could not but believe they were in error. When, disappointed in their hope of relief, some of the most fervent Catholics engaged in the conspiracy that goes by the name of the Gunpowder Plot in 1605, he could scarcely be expected to alleviate the unhappy condition of their co-religionists. Nevertheless, the Penal Laws were more leniently enforced than in Elizabeth’s time, and when, some years later, Queen Anne herself converted to Catholicism, James did no more than grumble and shrug his shoulders.
As for the Puritans, the King was indeed anxious to restore the uniformity of religion for which Elizabeth’s parliament had legislated, but which had gradually crumbled, and he summoned a conference at Hampton Court in 1605 to enable Church of England divines of all shades of opinion to debate matters of religion. But when the Puritans called for the abolition of episcopacy, James, who had struggled successfully to impose bishops on the Kirk in Scotland, would have none of it: ‘No Bishop, No King,’ he cried, and that was that. Time would render this opinion ridiculous, but in the seventeenth century it made sense. A Church without bishops was a species of republic. Without hierarchy in the Church, you were but a short step away from rejecting the royal authority. In this James was prescient. Episcopacy would be abolished in the 1640s, and within a few years England would indeed be a republic.
James styled himself King of Great Britain and was eager to bring about a more perfect union of his two kingdoms. By this he meant amalgamation into a single state. That had not been achieved by the Union of the Crowns of England and Scotland, so that for more than a century the constitutional reality would be best expressed by the formula ‘One King, Two Kingdoms’. James was, he explained in his pawky manner, a Christian king married to his kingdoms, and it was unseemly that he should have two wives. So commissioners were appointed to consider how such a union might be made. The English ones were merely required to examine the means of creating one ‘convenient and necessary for the honour of His Majestie, and the weale and common good of both the said realmes’, while the Scots were asked to ‘consult upon a perfyte union’, which should not however derogate from the ‘fundamentall lawes, ancient privileges, offices, richtis, dignities and liberties of this kingdome’.
The different instructions show the King’s understanding of the difficulty of effecting a union between a large, rich country and one which was much smaller and poorer, for in any such union the former would have little to gain, while the latter would fear that union meant subjection or incorporation. Nevertheless, while the Scots parliament, obedient to the King, actually passed an Act of Union in 1607, it was conditional on English acceptance of the proposal. This was not forthcoming. As far as the English were concerned, the Union of the Crowns was enough; England no longer had a dangerous northern frontier. Meanwhile there were quite enough needy Scots flocking to London and the court in search of jobs and pensions as it was. So the project failed. James was ahead of his time.
The day-to-day business of government bored James and he was content to leave it to Cecil (now Earl of Salisbury) and other ministers. Besides, after his harsh ch
ildhood and the dangers he had run as a young king in Scotland, he felt entitled to enjoy himself. He indulged his passion for hunting. Often poor misshapen Salisbury had to trail round the shires trying to catch the King, weary after a day in the field and now perhaps showing the effects of the wine he had been constantly sipping, in order to get him to attend to official business. Most of the time what James wanted from his minister was money, for he was extravagant and generous, and the royal coffers of England were not as well stocked as they had appeared to be from poor Scotland. On the other hand he was happy to address Parliament, in his capacity as ‘the great schoolmaster of the realm’, and feed them with his wisdom, which his faithful Commons were less and less happy to receive. In other ways too England was not quite as satisfactory as he had expected. When he told the Lord Chief Justice, Sir Edward Coke, a stiff, opinionated man, that he, the King, was the guardian and protector of the law, Coke replied that the case was otherwise; it was the law that protected the King. This was not an answer he could have given either Henry VIII or Elizabeth with impunity, but times were changing, and in any case James, accustomed to the rebukes of the Kirk in Edinburgh, was a less formidable figure than his Tudor cousins.
James’s court lacked the dignity and order of Elizabeth’s. Sir Walter Scott, who was uncharacteristically unjust to James, and strangely believed this most successful of Stuart kings to have been ‘the least talented’ of his line, nevertheless gives a vivid and probably accurate picture of the disorderly fashion in which James chose to live. The young hero of The Fortunes of Nigel is introduced to the King’s chamber, and
