King Charles II

by Fraser, Antonia

  At home in July 1683 there took place a royal event which might even, had Providence decreed, have granted one final satisfaction: a peaceful future for the monarchy. This was the marriage of James’ daughter Anne to Prince George of Denmark. In this same year Bishop Burnet had made ‘a melancholy speculation’ on the withering of the Protestant succession in ‘this family that [once] put forth so fair and promising a blossom’.44 It was true that at the time of Anne’s marriage the legitimate succession, Protestant or Catholic, was problematic. As had happened once before to the royal family of Stuart in Scotland, the harvest of descendants of James I had suddenly become a very meagre one; this despite the fruitful marriages of Charles I and Elizabeth of Bohemia, with six and thirteen surviving children respectively.

  The two Catholic daughters of Madame were as yet childless: Marie Louise was married without children and Anne Marie, from whom Madame’s line descends, did not marry until the following year. The Catholic Mary Beatrice Duchess of York had not yet succeeded in producing offspring who survived childhood. As for the Protestants, Mary of Orange had been married for six years and showed no signs of producing any heirs. The vast family of Elizabeth of Bohemia had proved itself as yet astonishingly infertile: the Elector Palatine was childless, while one sister had succeeded Madame as the next Duchesse d’Orléans, which put her within the unsuitable French Catholic orbit. Prince Rupert had died a bachelor at the end of the previous year.

  The hand of the eligible Anne had been sought within England itself, notably by the Earl of Mulgrave. The King angrily snubbed his pretensions. An outside claimant was the Prince of Hanover, the son of Anne’s youngest Palatine cousin the Electress Sophia (from his line, ironically enough, was to spring Anne’s own successor). George of Denmark was widely rated to be a French-inspired choice, because the King of Denmark fell within the diplomatic network controlled by Louis XIV. In the Cambridge University epithalamiun celebrating the match, Matthew Prior referred to it gloriously as the mating of Venus and Mars. Given the protagonists, that was perhaps going a little far.

  Nevertheless, very soon this amiable Protestant pair did produce a child. Little significance was attached to the fact that this first baby died: it was merely one of the commonplace griefs of the time. The important point was that Princess Anne had proved herself fertile. Other children would surely follow. No one could foresee that the unfortunate woman would be condemned to bear seventeen children, not one of whom survived childhood.

  As the last year of the life of King Charles II dawned, from the point of view of the monarchy there was no longer any reason to fear and much reason to hope.

  1 The actual date changed; first it was too close to the birthday of George III on 4 June; then, in the 1920s, it was too close to the Chelsea Flower Show, celebrated in its grounds. Founder’s Day and its Parade is now held on the Thursday of the first week in June.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  The Dregs of Life

  No one would live past years again,

  Yet all hope pleasure in what yet remains,

  And from the dregs of life think to receive

  What the first spritely running could not give….

  John Dryden

  The last year of the King’s life was exteriorly a tranquil one. His country was at peace and he took care that it should remain so. A soft sunlight of prosperity illumined the perilous landscape of his finances: however transient these shafts, they were enough to light him to the end of his reign. No major domestic embroilment ruffled the calm of these autumnal days – neither the angry debates of a Parliament nor the demands of a Pumpkin Plot nor official cries of anguish on the subject of the succession.

  The French subsidy, which had been phased over three years, came to an end in theory (although the money had not yet been paid in full).1 In any case the King remained openly, even gaily pro-French. He sent a message of congratulation to Louis XIV on his acquisition of Luxembourg. The Truce of Ratisbon in the summer of 1684 confirmed the French monarch not only in that precious possession but also Strasbourg. Without English help, there was no way that the United Provinces could play an aggressive part in keeping the French wolf at bay: the checking of this all-conquering animal would have to wait for another day, another reign.

  The foreign policy of Charles II gave him no trouble at all during the last year of his life because, while it was emotionally pro-French, that meant being practically neutral.

  Two matters could however have plagued him, had he allowed them to do so. One was the continued incarceration of Danby in the Tower of London, five years after he had been consigned there (without a formal trial). The other was the return of Parliament, which had now been dissolved for over three years; this was a significant period, although the Act of 1664 left it conveniently to the King to decide to call Parliament; there was no machinery to compel him to do so. One matter bothered the King, the other his opponents. As it fell out, one was resolved successfully, the other not. In both cases the result was only to further the King’s mastery over the political scene.

  The freeing of Danby on bail was not quite such a simple matter as the alterations in the character of the judiciary, stressed earlier, might have promised. Indeed, the anxiety of the judges concerned not to act in any way outside their own consciences illustrates an important point about them. Merely believing in the sanctity of the royal prerogative did not make the judges corrupt: it was a question of political conviction leading (generally) to docility, rather than a built-in pliability.

  Danby in the Tower became quite desperate early in 1684, when there was a change of judges on the Court of the King’s Bench. Holloway and Wallcott, the newcomers, asked for a longer time to consider the matter of giving Danby his freedom. On learning from his daughter-in-law, Lady Scroop, that the King had ‘good intentions’ towards him, Danby wrote back to Charles in alarm, ‘But I would find that was not sufficient….’ As to the new judges’ plea for more time: ‘If your Majesty will please yourself to let these two Judges know your mind and not let them be left to be informed by others I shall have relief this term.’ Otherwise Danby feared to wait for the next legal term, and then any judge would once again ask for more time and so forth and so on. ‘The way to my liberty is very obvious,’ cried Danby.2 He meant through the exercise of the royal will.

  The judges did free Danby. The supposition is that the King had a private word in the ear of Holloway and Wallcott. Certainly Charles swore to Danby’s son, as the latter duly reported back to his father, ‘If the judges would not bail you … by god he would free you himself.’3 But it did not come to that. The judges, including Jeffreys, satisfied their consciences and Danby was bailed against an enormous surety of £20,000 to appear in the House of Lords in the next session to answer the charges against him. Four peers put up £5,000 each. The very day of his release Danby appeared before the King and, on kissing hands, bewailed his long imprisonment. The King shrugged off the complaint: he replied that it was against his will and left it at that. At least Danby was free to commence his ascent back into public service and would, it seems, have formed part of a new administration in 1685 had not such a development been cut off by the King’s death.4

  The question of Parliament was equally resolved, but negatively. Within the King’s own councils, Halifax at least believed that the spirit of the Triennial Act should be respected. But in March the King told Barrillon that he had ‘no thought’ of summoning a Parliament. In case the point should be missed by those further from the centre of power than the Byzantine Barrillon, Sunderland sent a circular letter on the King’s behalf to the Lords Lieutenant and others. There were rumours that there was to be a new Parliament: but his subjects were to be disabused immediately of the notion, ‘he [the King] having as yet no such intention’. As to the idea that there were or might be tumultuous petitions from the country for a Parliament (remember those odious Whiggish petitions which had made the time of the Popish Plot additionally uncomfortable): the King ‘cannot b
ut utterly dislike and condemn any such attempt’. He regarded such petitions as ‘seditious practices inconsistent with the peace and quiet of the kingdom’.5

  By October, as a result, the Whigs were reported to be quite cowed: ‘I never knew the Whigs in London so wary of managing their discourse and of their company. If three or four be together on the Exchange talking of news or what each has to communicate, if two or more of their own party join them, part of the rest walk away….’6

  In May 1684 the Duke of York took his place in the Privy Council once more. It was the final step in his restoration. He had been absent for eleven years. Now the King was confident enough to introduce him without fear of trouble. At about the same time Titus Oates was arrested at a coffee-house in London on a charge of scandalum magnatum against the Duke of York for calling him a traitor. Tried briefly by Jeffreys, he was sentenced to a token fine of £100,000 – token because of course there was no question of his paying it; thus Oates was consigned to prison and irons were put upon him. This preliminary fall of Oates (far worse things were to happen to him once James ascended the throne) marked a reaction against him which had begun just about the time that James’ own star began to rise. From 1681 onwards Oates was no longer the secure and boastful rascal he had once been; in August 1682 he had lost his government pension.

  James, triumphant, was restored to his former post as Lord High Admiral in all but name: the King continued to sign documents since the provisions of the Test Act were still officially in force, but the moving spirit was that of James.

  It was a fortunate restoration for the Navy itself. The Navy, once a favourite child, had suffered signally not only from the departure of James in 1673 but also from that of Samuel Pepys in 1679. Pepys, that mastermind of creative organization, had acted as secretary to the Lord Commissioners after the fall of James, when the Admiralty was put to commission. He was driven from office and into the Tower of London – repository for the unlucky as well as the damned in this period – by intrigues based on his connection with the Catholic Duke of York.

  Thereafter the King had been both too poor and too busy to remedy the situation. Those sums of money which were voted by Parliament were inefficiently administered. Matters drifted downwards until only twenty-four ships were actually at sea, and some of the new ships had never managed to leave the harbour.7 Now the brothers were united to invigorate the Navy as it deserved: and Pepys, rescued, drew up a scheme for its reformation (put into commission in 1685 and finished in 1688).

  Appropriately enough, to the last year of Charles’ reign also belongs his support of Captain Grenville Collins, the royal hydrographer. A survey of the coasts of Great Britain was to be undertaken, for which the King recommended subscriptions and practical help, especially from naval officers and traders. The result, which the King predicted correctly would be ‘of great use for the safety of navigation’, was printed in 1693, and emerged as Collins’ Great Britain’s Coasting Pilot.8 It was good that, where the Navy and navigation were concerned, the reign ended as it had begun, on a high note of investment for the future.

  The rebirth of the Duke of York as a public (as opposed to private) figure of influence was also at the bottom of the government changes which occurred in August 1684. Slightly mysterious because their effects were so soon blighted by the King’s death, these changes were clear in one thing: they worked to James’ advantage by diminishing the power of Rochester and enhancing that of James’ ally Sunderland.9

  Having left Scotland with some feeling of accomplishment, James now turned his attention to Ireland. The plain truth was that Ireland had prospered under Charles II – if only its riches had not been drained out of the country to meet the needs of the King and Court. Some of its riches, although siphoned off, had not even got that far. Lord Ranelagh, the Lord Treasurer, was finally dismissed for peculation and the collection of taxes handed over to Revenue Commissioners under Lord Longford, a talented financier. James’ aim, a laudable one by the standards of Ireland today, if not of England then, was to introduce more Catholics into the administration there.

  The palace revolution at Whitehall could be made to fit into the overall Irish plan. Rochester was kicked upstairs, losing his post as First Lord of the Treasury for that of the Lord President of the Council. ‘The King hath given me a great deal of ease and a great deal of honour,’ commented Rochester wryly. Charles himself was careful to note that ‘he did not make these Alterations out of any Dissatisfaction’.10 But the hand of Rochester’s open critic, Halifax, can be detected. Halifax, while his attitude to such major topics as Parliament and foreign policy was ignored, could still be made useful. It was however Sunderland, not Halifax, who ultimately benefited. The coveted post at the Treasury went to Sunderland’s ally Godolphin.

  Rochester was also promised a more lucrative position, that of the Lord Lieutenancy of Ireland, occupied over a long period of time, if intermittently, by the great Ormonde. There Rochester had the prospect of making himself both rich and secure. Once again Sunderland stepped in, and, acting in alliance with the Duke of York, saw to it that Rochester would not enjoy the independent viceregal style of an Ormonde. As Ormonde’s son reported, matters were to be very differently organized in Ireland and therefore Rochester, ‘who fears no odium’, had been selected for that purpose. Ormonde himself had no great regrets at losing the Lord Lieutenancy under the new deal: for now the power of making army appointments was to be stripped away from the Lord Lieutenant. All such decisions and appointments were to be made in London. ‘From this difficulty, I thank God and the King I am delivered,’ commented Ormonde vigorously.11

  Rochester never took up his emasculated appointment, the King’s death bringing about yet another revolution in the political situation. But the whole handling of affairs both in London and Dublin demonstrated the new control of the York–Sunderland axis. It is unlikely that Halifax himself would have survived long at the centre and the King’s reign been further extended.12

  Where the succession was concerned, neither Monmouth nor William of Orange had now the muscle to bar the smooth ascent of the Duke of York towards his legitimate goal. In the autumn the King felt particular indignation all over again at the news of William’s ‘extraordinary caressing’ of Monmouth in Holland. Charles forbade his own envoy to visit William for the time being; furthermore, the royal anger was to be conveyed both to the Dutch States and to William’s ministers. In vain William’s own ambassador in London protested his master’s innocence of any conspiracy. The King’s response was forthright.

  ‘It is as if a man going to a brothel should ask me to believe and accept the excuse that he had done no wrong because he had only gone in to convert people …,’ exclaimed Charles in derision. The Ambassador was left rather feebly responding that although anyone entering a brothel must be ‘suspect’, yet his general character should also be taken into account, and if he was a man of ‘probity and honour’, the King should be prepared to listen to his explanation.13 The Ambassador should perhaps have realized that where the English succession and the Whig opposition were concerned, Charles considered neither his nephew nor his son men of probity or honour.

  There was a wistful notion entertained by Monmouth’s admirers after the King’s death – still occasionally resurrected even now – that some time during the last autumn Monmouth was actually promised the succession.14 Monmouth himself spoke wildly on the subject after his father’s death, when there was no-one to contradict him. It is true that the forbidden favourite did slip into England from Holland at the end of November. He was accompanied by Henrietta Wentworth. The Duke of York, for one, when he got wind of the foray, comforted himself with the thought that Monmouth was after a settlement of his mistress’s estates upon himself. As for a reconciliation, ‘there is no real danger of it,’ James wrote firmly up to Scotland, ‘H.M. having no inclination to receive his [Monmouth’s] deceiving submissions again….’15

  In one sense, the Duke of York was wrong. There was pro
bably some kind of limited reconciliation, although the King in his secretive way left no record of the encounter and did not even confirm to his brother that it had taken place. An enthusiastic letter written to Monmouth from Halifax on 3 February spoke of his ‘business’, which he had heard was ‘almost as well as done’ but must be ‘so sudden as not to leave room for 39 [code for the Duke of York]’s party to counterplot’.16

  Yet given the King’s knowledge of Monmouth’s character and given what had only just transpired in Holland, it is unlikely that this reconciliation amounted to more than the mere prospect of Monmouth returning to England. The conditions would probably have been stringent and, as after the Rye House Plot, humiliating. The Duke of York was therefore right in his further assumption that no ‘real danger’ to his own cause was presented by Monmouth’s clandestine journey. Had the reconciliation genuinely produced a violent change in the King’s feelings he would hardly have kept his mouth shut on the subject. As we shall see, he maintained this silence even on his death-bed. Once again in his enthusiasm Monmouth was the victim of his own over-optimistic and self-deceiving nature. The tranquillity of the King’s public life was not disturbed at last by the maverick sortie of his erstwhile favourite son.

  So far as we can tell, the interior man was tranquil too. Of all people in the world, King Charles II was in a position to test the truth of Dryden’s dictum on the subject of old age: