The following six months of the year were spent by both sides, King and Parliament, in preparations for a war which no-one thought particularly desirable, but almost everyone now thought was inevitable. The King reacted to the Commons’ threats concerning his son by keeping Charles more closely with him, rather than less. In any case, the role of the father was made heavier by the fact that Henrietta Maria left for the Continent in February to try and raise money for arms by selling her jewels. There were happy periods of respite: another jaunt to Cambridge and a visit to the Ferrars family at nearby Little Gidding, where Charles ate apple pie and cheese in the pantry and they all played cards. But in general life was more serious, as the King prepared earnestly if sadly for the coming contest. A letter from Charles to his sister Mary in Holland, written in March from Royston, refers to the King as ‘very much disconsolate and troubled, partly for my royal mother’s and your absence, and partly for the disturbances of the kingdom’. (Mary had not travelled abroad at the time of her marriage, but did so a year later with Henrietta Maria.) It is a laborious composition, no doubt written under duress – what eleven-year-old boy ever wrote voluntarily to his younger sister? Only in the latter half does a hint of Charles’ own cheerful temperament creep in: ‘Dear sister, we are as much as we may merry, and more than we would sad, in respect we cannot alter the present distempers of these troublesome times.’6
Charles remained at his father’s side for the next three years.
Thus the origins of the intense love which the son felt for the father, the reverence which Charles II would feel for the memory of Charles I, were to be found in this period of the King’s greatest tribulation. The young Charles, in common with the rest of the Royalists, cannot have failed to admire his father for his dignity, the admirable spiritual quality which enabled the King to accept alterations in his personal circumstances with equanimity. At the same time Charles, like any other son, also had an opportunity to judge his father more harshly concerning his purely tactical behaviour. The fatal mixture of weakness and strength, in exactly the wrong proportions, was also observed first hand by Charles. So too was the use of deceit, justified by the need to preserve his royal rights.
Charles and his brother James were both at their father’s side on that ominous day, 22 August 1642, when he raised the standard of war at Nottingham Castle. The vast royal banner loomed above their heads, so heavy that it needed twenty men to grapple with it – and incidentally so unstable that it had blown down that evening. The King’s entourage included their Palatine cousin, the twenty-two-year-old Prince Rupert, a spirited young fellow with theories about warfare which would shortly be tested. The herald had difficulty in making out the exact text of the declaration of war, because the King had altered it by hand at the last moment; his speech was hard to follow. The confusion which ensued was matched by the uncertainty which many in England, Scotland and Ireland felt about the precise issues involved. Nevertheless, to the young Princes at least the issues probably seemed as simple as Clarendon would later describe them: ‘The whole business of the matter was whether the King was above Parliament, or Parliament in ruling, above the King.’
Already Charles was enjoying the privileges ensured to him by his ancient chivalric title of Prince of Wales, a title which recalled the martial days of the Black Prince. The characteristic plumes, which had been assumed by the Black Prince after Crécy, were now to be the emblem of a troop of lifeguards made up of northern noblemen and gentlemen, under the nominal command of a twelve-year-old boy.
In July at York with his father, Charles was described as putting on a brave show, at the head of a fine company. On the field itself he was presented with a rich tent and a ‘very goodly white horse, trapped most richly to the ground with velvet all studded with burning waves of gold’. Charles then put on a ‘very curious gilt armour’, and dashingly leapt onto the back of his new steed, to the general cheers of the onlookers. Later he was painted by William Dobson in those same trappings.fn3
The whole scene recalled the days of ritual chivalry. To many present the hopeful young Charles must have appeared as Hotspur once, ‘his cuisses on his thighs, gallantly armed’, vaulting with ease into his seat like feathered Mercury:
As if an angel dropp’d down from the clouds
To turn and wing a fiery Pegasus …
At Edgehill in the following October, the reality of Charles’ first battle was different. For one thing, his own position was a good deal less prominent than that of the noble Hotspur. At this, the opening contest of the Civil War, Charles found himself treated once more as a child in tutelage. That was bad enough, with Charles’ own regiment allowed the privilege of charging in the front line. But the efforts to protect his royal person, aggravating as they were, were also inadequate. With his brother, Charles had at least one and probably two narrow escapes in the course of the day, which rendered the Battle of Edgehill yet another scarring experience.
On the morning of the battle the two boys were left in the charge of Dr William Harvey, the famous physician, and told in effect to keep out of mischief. Gradually the traditional ennui of war became too much for Dr Harvey, who surreptitiously took a book out of his pocket. He was only restored to a sense of his surroundings by the impact of a cannon ball actually grazing the ground beside him. Then and only then did Dr Harvey hastily move his royal charges away to safety.
The evening’s well-known incident is recounted in various different versions, but although the details vary, there is general agreement that the Prince of Wales and the Duke of York came within an ace of being captured.8 Somehow, either with Sir Edward Hyde or Sir John Hinton (later Charles’ own physician), the Princes found themselves cut off in a field, within a ‘musket-shot’ of the enemy. For a while they took refuge in a barn, which was being used as a field hospital for the Royalist wounded. Then, in the fading autumn light, a body of Parliamentary horse was seen riding down on them from the left. Fooled by the direction – because they did not understand how the various regiments had become rearranged in the course of the battle – the little royal party moved towards this body as though to saviours.
Suddenly the Parliamentarians were recognized for what they were. Hinton begged the Prince of Wales to retreat, at first humbly, at last ‘somewhat rudely’. But ‘I fear them not!’ shouted Charles, whipping his pistol out of his holster and flourishing it hopefully in the faces of the enemy. He was resolved to charge. Suddenly one Parliamentary trooper broke ranks and rode towards them. Fortunately at this dramatic moment the Prince was rescued from the consequences of his own optimism, and of his aides’ folly, by the appearance of a Royalist on a good mount; he proceeded to pole-axe the trooper.
James remembered the experience all his life (it features in his memoirs). Charles remembered it no less. Sir John Hinton, writing up his own account of it years later, presented it to King Charles II for his approval.9
For all this drama, and the palpable excitement of a struggle in which opponents were pitting themselves against each other for the first time, Edgehill was generally regarded as a draw, in modern terms. Or rather, both sides gingerly claimed victory. It was not immediately clear who had won what in the course of the Civil War: Marston Moor, for example, a name familiar to us as the first of the great Cromwellian victories based on superior cavalry tactics, was for an instant claimed as a Royalist triumph. This was partly due to the difficulty of communications on the battlefield itself – the Marston Moor report was founded on the success of a Royalist charge on one wing, while defeat lurked on the other – and partly to the general slowness and confusion of communications within the British Isles. But Edgehill, at least, was correctly assessed as indecisive.
Both sides recoiled to regroup their existing forces and recruit the vital new men needed for a more clinching outcome to their hostilities. The King headed with his sons for Oxford.
It was sometime after Edgehill that the ten-year-old Duke of York suddenly asked his father:
�
��When shall we go home?’
‘We have no home,’ replied the King.
It was a sad statement, one of those pronouncements which linger in the minds of children.10
In fact, it was not entirely true. There was the great Royalist city of Oxford awaiting them. The loyalty of Oxford was as carefully preserved as that of Cambridge was fractured. The famous dreaming spires of the University dreamt, if anything, of a monarchical victory. The King was quickly able to set up a Parliament of his own. Its acts would subsequently be castigated as illegal by that other, so-called true Parliament of Westminster. Nevertheless, at the time there were many Royalists who considered the Oxford Parliament, enjoying the King’s backing, as the valid assembly.
Charles remained at his father’s side during his various wartime peregrinations until a violent attack of measles laid him low. The disease also went to his eyes: he suffered from conjunctivitis for some time afterwards. But he had recovered sufficiently to attend the Battle of Cropredy Bridge in June 1644. After this the King learnt of the battle at Marston Moor in distant Yorkshire, now correctly assessed as a Parliamentary victory. Charles was also present at the second Battle of Newbury in October. Newbury was one of the few engagements of the Civil War in which Cromwell took part that did not result in an outstanding victory for Parliament. The reason was the divided Parliamentary command and the growing internal struggle between the political and military arms of the party – a struggle which would virtually incapacitate Parliament as a striking force for several months until the formation of the New Model Army the following spring. At the time the action was botched, and the King allowed to escape back to Oxford. Here he resided, more or less secure, for over a year.
In recognition of his growing stature, the Prince of Wales was now given his own Council of advisers. This Council included Sir Edward Hyde, Sir Arthur Capel (created Lord Capel), Lord Hopton and a selection of Royalists of proven loyalty or military expertise. Charles’ new governor, the Earl of Berkshire, was probably also included. Berkshire was the least successful of Charles’ three bear-leaders, but since Hertford had been called away to the West Country, where it was hoped that his wide lands would enable him to organize a substantial contribution to the royal armies, some substitute had to be found.
Berkshire was middle-aged and fussy. In any case, Charles was getting too old for governors. Kicking his heels in Oxford, he got into trouble with Berkshire for laughing during a sermon in St Mary’s Church. The presence of a row of ladies sitting opposite him was not without significance. It would be a sad boy of fourteen who never laughed at a sermon, particularly with an appreciative audience: however, that was not the line that Berkshire took. He was seen to hit his young Prince on the head with his staff.
In appearance too the Prince of Wales was altering, developing. The miniature of Charles at thirteen by the court painter David Des Granges (who later accompanied him into exile) shows a face in which the heavy sensuality of the adult is beginning to mark the softness of the boy. In Dobson’s martial portrait, the black heavy-lidded eyes are proud and the rounded cheeks characteristic of all the Stuart children are beginning to thin out. The chin is firm.
The other royal children were not faring so well. Mary, the child bride, was not happy in her adopted country. Elizabeth, because she was delicate, and Henry, because he was a baby, remained in the royal nurseries in London. Here the little captives – as they quickly became, cut off from both father and mother – suffered at first from the general lack of funds. At times there was hardly enough to eat. Later they were encumbered with alien Presbyterian attendants at the orders of Parliament.
Even marking time in Oxford, Charles, the eldest brother, was infinitely luckier. Now his freedom was to be extended. As the war news reaching Oxford worsened, the King began to feel that the moment to separate himself physically from his heir had arrived. We have Clarendon’s authority that the King’s concern at this point was to do with his own possible imprisonment, not his death. The King was convinced that his existence was essential to the continuance of Parliamentary government. But they might constrain him. Therefore it was important to have his heir outside their control: ‘While his son was at liberty they would not dare to do him harm.’
Besides, an experience of responsibility ‘out of his [the King’s] own sight’ would ‘unboy’ Charles.11 And there was another advantage in using the Prince of Wales as a puppet commander in certain tricky situations where the Royalists were arguing with each other over the precise details of their authority. It was difficult to be jealous of the command of a titular overlord who was the King’s son.
Already Charles had taken part in one of his father’s Councils. Early in 1645 he was made nominal General of the Western Association – a conglomerate of the four most western counties. Here the royal cause was in unnecessary disarray due to internal disputes. Even more grandly, the Prince of Wales was made nominal Generalissimo of all the King’s forces in England. Once again rivalries were at the root of the appointment: Charles’ first cousin, Prince Rupert, desired and deserved a major new appointment to stiffen the western resistance; it was more acceptable to his enemies that he should receive it at the Prince of Wales’ hands than at those of the King himself.
Much less magnificent were the actual circumstances of Charles’ departure. Lord Hopton was sent ahead to prepare accommodation for him in Bristol. But there was so little money left in the royal coffers at Oxford that the whole operation had to be funded on the credit of Lord Capel. And it was Lord Capel who was put in command of the Prince’s meagre retinue of guards – a single regiment of horse and a single regiment of foot – all that could be spared. Charles was given a new Council by the King to represent him in the West. It included Sir Edward Hyde and John (created Lord) Colepeper. The latter had played a part in the Oxford Parliament, advising more compromise with the King’s opponents: he therefore had to be reconciled with Hyde before they could leave together for the West. Colepeper was a loyal man and a devoted negotiator, but, as will be seen, changeable in his opinions.
On 4 March 1645 Charles left Oxford, in the pouring rain, for the West. James, at eleven, was considered too young to go with him and remained cooped up in Oxford.
There could be no doubt that his recent experiences had turned Charles from a high-spirited but cosseted boy into a very different kind of animal. The exact nature of the animal was not yet known. Dr Earle, his tutor, had written of ‘The Child’ in his study Microcosmography, ‘We laugh at his foolish sports, but his game is our earnest, and his drums, rattles and hobby-horses but the emblems and mockings of man’s business.’12 Charles had passed abruptly from those martial games which enliven most childhoods to drums beaten in earnest, horses employed in the grim and sweaty vigour of the cavalry charge. Yet still he had stood aside, kept as a spectator, ready to watch but not yet ready to take part in man’s business.
Now he would leave the parental and gubernatorial restraints of the university town, melancholy under its mantle of rain. Charles would never see his father again. But of that, as of the other griefs which lay ahead, the new General of the Western Association was fortunately unaware.
1 Political nomenclature is a perpetual headache in this period, when words such as ‘opposition’, ‘party’ and ‘minister’ did not bear the easily identifiable meanings they have since acquired. For example, since it was officially treason to oppose the King, there could be no official opposition as there is today. Nevertheless, it is impossible to avoid the language of one’s own time altogether.
2 It was, nonetheless, a match of vast consequence for the future of the House of Stuart, since from the marriage issued a son, half Orange and half Stuart – the future William III.
3 At the sale of Charles I’s belongings, this armour was purchased by Edward Annesley, Keeper of the Stores at the Tower of London: it is still to be seen there today. There are also two sets of small bronze cannons, bearing his mark as Prince of Wales; these were made pre-war
.7
CHAPTER THREE
Present Miseries
‘We have so deep a sense of the present miseries and calamities of this kingdom, that there is nothing that we more earnestly pray to Almighty God than that He would be pleased to restore unto it a happy peace.’
Charles, Prince of Wales, to Sir Thomas Fairfax,
15 September 1645
It was the King’s intention, which seemed feasible from Oxford, that Charles should remain in safety in Bristol. Having been set up as a puppet commander, he should continue to act as such. The puppet master was to be Sir Edward Hyde.
Reality was very different. Once the Prince of Wales reached the West, he was the target of all the complaints and hopeful suggestions of the western gentry, who simply could not believe that his presence would not of itself bring some solution to their problems. These problems were demonstrable.
‘I expect nothing but ill from the West,’ wrote Prince Rupert gloomily on 24 March, a week after the arrival of the Prince of Wales; ‘Let them hear that Rupert says so.’1
It was an understandable point of view. The western gentry had made many loyal promises since the inception of the Civil War but had in fact raised neither men nor money. Now everyone was blaming everyone else for this unhappy state of affairs. Furthermore the two leading commanders in the West, Sir Richard Grenville and Sir John Berkeley, would neither of them agree to take orders from the other; even more unhelpfully, they both persisted in asserting their independence of the Royalist general George, Lord Goring.
Goring’s impossibly capricious personality was partly to blame. His high-handed behaviour at Marston Moor the year before had contributed to the defeat of his own side. He was now drinking heavily. As for Grenville, he was enormously quarrelsome. His recent campaign, which he had conducted under the title of the King’s General in the West, had also been inglorious. It only made matters worse that Grenville had probably enriched himself personally. Matters came to a head when he first refused to come to Goring’s aid at Taunton in March, then proved most uncooperative when he did arrive. The combination of Goring and Grenville was a nasty one.
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