The Cradle King: The Life of James VI and I, the First Monarch of a United Great Britain

by Неизвестный

  Historians have long derided James for his arrogance and naivety in this matter. ‘The Spanish suggestion was, of course, a bit of trickery,’ writes D.H. Willson, typically. ‘The King accepted it so quickly, without caution or reservation, that he all but invited the Spaniards to cheat him.’14 But, in truth, the battle lines were not well drawn. Spain by no means immediately committed herself to the embattled Austrians. As Cottington reported, when news first reached Madrid of the rebellion the Spaniards were ‘not a little troubled’, not least for financial reasons: they ‘already groan under the excessive charge and expense which they are daily at for the subsistence of those Princes of Austria, and especially this King of Bohemia’, Matthias.15 Moreover, the Twelve Years’ Truce between the Spanish and the Dutch had only three years to run: once that expired, and if they were to engage in this new conflict, Spain could very easily find herself fighting in both Bohemia and the Low Countries. James still withheld his reply from the Bohemians, instead allowing Buckingham to act on his behalf. Buckingham’s ascent had continued unabated. After his successes in Scotland, he was created Marquis of Buckingham on New Year’s Day 1618, and the following day the new Marquis threw a great feast for James and Charles in the Cockpit at Whitehall. While supper was still in progress, James stood up and took his son by the hand. Walking to the other table, he toasted Buckingham. ‘My lords, I drink to you all and I know we are all welcome to my George. And he that doth not pledge it with all his heart, I would the Devil had him for my part.’16 Now the personal favour was translated directly into political influence on the international stage.

  Buckingham forwarded the Bohemians’ declaration of grievances to Madrid, to ascertain Philip’s verdict. At the same time, he told the English ambassador in Spain, Cottington, James was ‘very glad that the winter is so far advanced that there is hope that both parties may be hindered from engaging with one another any further by way of arms’.17 The Venetian ambassador in London commented wisely that although James loved to pass himself off as ‘the chief of a great union in Europe’, the English were likely to ‘resolve upon nothing, and by offering a league as they have so often done, wish to bind others without binding themselves, or with little idea of carrying it into effect’.18 But as winter drew on, peace seemed less possible. Cottington reported from Madrid that 200,000 ducats had finally been sent from Spain to support Matthias’s troops in Bohemia, and provision made for the future payment of the army there; he also expressed concern at reports that ‘the Prince Palatine doth therein no good offices’ and Philip ‘was much assured he observed not the orders given him’ by James.19

  For the first time in his lengthy reign, James was dangerously implicated in what promised to be a major international crisis, but his attention was suddenly absorbed by matters closer to home. On 2 March 1619 Queen Anna died at Hampton Court after a lengthy illness. On her instructions, her faithful Danish maid Anna Roos had refused to let anyone visit her until her final hours, when the Queen lost her sight, and Roos called Charles to be with his mother as she died. An inquest found the Queen to be ‘much wasted within, specially her liver’. James was not with his wife in her final days nor did he attend her funeral, which was postponed for several weeks due, it was rumoured, to the King’s unwillingness to commit the necessary cash. But the image of a callous, indifferent husband is misplaced. As Anna lay dying, James was himself sick at Newmarket with a combination of arthritis, gout and ‘a shrewd fit of the stone’.20 The news of his wife’s death sent him spiralling down into a serious melancholy. After the Queen’s death, his physician Theodore de Mayerne observed ‘pain in his joints and nephritis with thick sand’. Moving to Royston, James suffered from ‘continued fever, bilious diarrhoea, watery and profuse throughout the illness. Hiccoughs for several days. Aphthae all over mouth and fauces, and even the oesophagus. Fermentation of bitter humours boiling in his stomach which, effervescing by froth out of his mouth, led to ulceration of his lips and chin. Fainting, sighing, dread, incredible sadness, intermittent pulse’ – this last a frequent symptom in the King – and a continuation of nephritis ‘from which, without any remedy having been administered, he execreted a friable calculus, as was his wont. The force of this, the most dangerous illness the King ever had, lasted for eight days.’ In the process he had voided three stones, and the pain had caused such violent vomiting that his life seemed to be in danger.21

  Charles, Buckingham and the leading Privy Councillors were summoned from London to hear James’s deathbed speech. According to John Williams, Bishop of Lincoln, there was ‘not a syllable in all the same, but deserves to be written in letters of gold. How powerfully did he charge him with the care of religion and justice, the two pillars (as he termed them) of his future throne? How did he recommend unto his love, the nobility, the clergy, and the commonalty in the general? How did he thrust, as it were into his inward bosom, his bishops, his judges, his near servants; and that disciple of his whom he so loved in particular?’ In Williams’s account, James was still looking forward to a great Catholic marriage for his heir, concluding ‘with that heavenly advice, to his son, concerning that great act of his future marriage, to marry like himself, and marry where he would. But if he did marry the daughter of that King, he should marry her person, but he should not marry her religion.’22 More practically, James recommended to Charles that when he became king he should take as his principal counsellors Lennox, Arundel, Pembroke and especially Hamilton and Buckingham. But the good advice was not needed: within days James began to recover, although he remained extremely weak for some time to come. In April he moved to Theobalds, borne in a litter and in a portable chair carried on his men’s shoulders; arriving at his favourite estate, ‘weak and weary as he was’, he ‘would not settle within doors till he had his deer brought to make a muster before him’.23 Still too frail to attend his wife’s funeral on 13 May, it was not until June that James felt strong enough to make a solemn entry into Whitehall.24 Later in the summer he was observed trying one of his own cures: ‘On Saturday last the King killed a buck in Eltham Park and so soon as it was opened stood in the belly of it and bathed his bare feet and legs with the warm blood; since which time he has been so nimble that he thinketh this the only remedy for the gout.’25

  The King’s return to health, celebrated in sermons up and down the country, provided only a momentary boost to his waning popularity at home. By the time an English embassy of a hundred and fifty men, headed by James Hay, now Viscount Doncaster, left for Bohemia in April 1619, Emperor Matthias was already dead. Londoners were abuzz with the possibilities of what they called these German ‘combustions’: it was even rumoured (on no grounds whatsoever) that Matthias would be succeeded as Emperor by the Elector Frederick.26 In August, Archduke Ferdinand was elected Emperor at Frankfurt; in Prague, at the same time, the Bohemians deposed Ferdinand as their King and offered the throne of Bohemia instead to the Elector Frederick. Frederick, unsure what to do, sent to James for advice, and his wife Elizabeth wrote to Buckingham to point out that her father ‘hath now a good occasion to manifest to the world the love he hath ever professed to the Prince here. I earnestly entreat you to use your best means in persuading his Majesty to show himself now, in his helping of the Prince here, a true loving father to us both.’27 The King’s answer was not immediately forthcoming. To James, the fact that Frederick could keep the Bohemian throne Protestant was irrelevant: this was not a matter of religion, but of kingship. ‘What hath religion to do to decrown a king?’ he asked. ‘Leave that opinion to the Devil and to the Jesuits, authors of it and brands of sedition. For may subjects rebel against their prince in quarrel of religion? Christ came into the world to teach subjects obedience to the king, and not rebellion!’28 But by the time James’s response, urging caution, was delivered to his son-in-law’s hands, Frederick had already accepted the throne. ‘He wrote to me to know my mind if he should take that crown,’ James later complained, ‘but within three days after; and before I could return answer, he p
ut it on.’29 It was said that it was Elizabeth who had persuaded Frederick: she wrote to him that as God directed all things, He had undoubtedly sent this; if Frederick felt it advisable to accept, she would be ready to follow the divine call, to suffer whatever God should ordain – if necessary to pledge her jewels and whatever else she had in the world.30

  Frederick and Elizabeth entered Prague in late October 1619 to scenes of unalloyed joy. Then eight months pregnant, Elizabeth had insisted (against general advice) on accompanying her husband on his journey. The royal couple’s popularity was only enhanced when Elizabeth gave birth to another son, Rupert, in December, who was immediately proclaimed as Duke of Lusatia. Britain shared in the popular rejoicing, which soon transmuted into a widespread call for action against Spain, on the streets and in the pulpits, as the Archbishop of Canterbury preached that the Book of Revelation was about to be realised as Roman Catholic power was toppled. Prince Charles wrote to assure the Elector Palatine that ‘I will be glad not only to assist him with my countenance but also with my person, if the King my father would give me leave’,31 a formulation that suggests only too clearly how James and Charles were not in agreement on this point. At the Privy Council table, a hawkish pro-war faction emerged, headed by Buckingham. With Buckingham aboard, surely now the King would fall into line? The Earl of Pembroke seemed sure enough. ‘It is true that the King will be very unwilling to be engaged in a war,’ he admitted. ‘And yet I am confident, when the necessity of the cause of religion, his son’s preservation, and his own honour call upon him, that he will perform whatsoever belongs to the Defender of the Faith, a kind father-in-law, and one careful of that honour which I must confess by a kind of misfortune hath long lain in suspense.’32

  But James remained adamant and angry. In his eyes, the Bohemians had rebelled against their natural leader, and, by accepting the throne, Frederick had endorsed the rebellion, and effectively usurped the kingdom, threatening ‘to set all Christendom by the ears’. James turned his scholarly attention to poring over Bohemian public law to ascertain whether or not Frederick’s election was legal. He held long, aimless conferences with ambassadors. He refused to let the Privy Council express its opinion – since he knew they wanted to help Frederick. But James had his weaknesses. Frederick instructed his five-year-old son, Frederick Henry, to write a letter to his grandfather, appealing for help: James, fancying himself the family man, was deeply touched. To the new Spanish ambassador Father Diego Lafuente (known as Padre Maestro) James deplored how he had been put ‘in a great strait, being drawn to one side by his children and grand-children, his own flesh and blood, and to the other side by the truth and by his friendship to Philip and to the House of Austria’ – but Lafuente noted that the equation placed the ‘truth’ with Philip rather than with the King’s flesh and blood. Nevertheless James’s paternal pride could not but be stirred by the fact that he now had a King for a son-in-law – and, more important, a Queen for a daughter. As the Venetian envoy Piero Antonio Marioni wrote, ‘those who converse familiarly with his Majesty tête à tête easily perceive his delight at this new royal title for his son-in-law and daughter’.33 Cracks appeared in his friendship for Spain: occasionally he would blurt out that they were playing with him, and pined for the company of Gondomar, who had returned to Spain the previous year.34 At other times, he became afraid that it would be thought he had plotted for Frederick’s election, and blurted out, on his word as a Christian Prince, that he was innocent. Foreign observers lost patience with these mixed messages and even began to doubt that James was in full control of his faculties. The French ambassador Count Leveneur de Tillières wrote home that ‘It seems to me that the intelligence of this King has diminished. Not that he cannot act firmly and well at times and particularly when the peace of the kingdom is involved. But such efforts are not so continual as they once were. His mind uses its powers only for a short time, but in the long run he is cowardly. His timidity increases day by day as old age carries him into apprehension and vices diminish his intelligence.’35

  Meanwhile, Catholic powers on the Continent were plotting. Maximilian of Bavaria, the leader of the Catholic League, offered to provide assistance to the ousted Ferdinand on the condition that on defeating Frederick he, Maximilian, would inherit the title of Elector Palatine, and a good proportion of his estates. In secret, Ferdinand agreed to the deal; Philip of Spain was let in on the pact, and agreed with some reluctance to provide a diversion by attacking the Palatinate from the Netherlands.36 Preparations for this attack from Spain became evident to observers in early 1620, but James refused to believe it. If the Princes of the Union were in any danger, it was self-inflicted, brought on by their plotting in Bohemia. His alliance with them was purely defensive, and he would not assist them in what he saw as offensive attacks.

  Finally, in the spring of 1620, Gondomar made his return to James’s court. Now James found himself placating the ambassador, asking for his patience, and swearing that he was doing all he could to avoid giving offence to Spain, though he was surrounded by anti-Spanish zealots and must not be squeezed. ‘I give you my word, as a king, as a gentleman, as a Christian, and as an honest man, that I have no wish to marry my son to anyone except your master’s daughter, and that I desire no alliance but that of Spain,’37 he exclaimed heatedly, taking off his hat, and wiping his head with a hankerchief. He looked to Gondomar for the answers. ‘All that is needed,’ James said, ‘is that we two should talk over these matters together.’ Would the Emperor attack the Palatinate? he asked. ‘What would you do,’ replied Gondomar tartly, ‘if anyone had taken London from you?’ James had no answer. He hoped that God would arrange matters for the best.38 James fell to secret scheming with Gondomar. In public, he contradicted himself daily, with promises that he would send armies to the Palatinate and grand pledges of support to the Princes of the Union, followed almost immediately by querulous excuses that he did not have the funds. Finally, he allowed volunteers to be raised in England (four thousand signed up), a strategy that allowed Englishmen to fight for the Palatinate, but let him off the hook.

  When news came in April 1620 that Frederick was considering an alliance with the Turks to pursue his causes, James finally lost sympathy. At table – and therefore in public – the King declared that even if the Turk ‘moved against Christendom in force, even in favour of his son-in-law, he would use all the forces of these realms to oppose him, and would not stand even at fighting against his own daughter’.39 To Gondomar, he declared: ‘The Palatine is a godless man and a usurper. I will give him no help. It is much more reasonable that he, young as he is, should listen to an old man like me, and do what is right by surrendering Bohemia, than that I should be involved in a bad cause. The Princes of the Union want my help; but I give you my word that they shall not have it.’40 The bond with Gondomar was tightened when news arrived in May of Dutch attacks against English merchants in the Spice Islands. James and Buckingham took their complaints to Gondomar, and plotted with him to launch an attack on Holland; Gondomar was allowed to convey it to Spain as a serious, royally sanctioned proposition. He reported home that it was now safe for the Palatinate to be invaded: England would not go to war to save it.

  On 28 July 1620, James set off on his annual summer progress, visibly relieved to be leaving this complex international power-brokering behind. The Venetian envoy reported that he started ‘with so much the more satisfaction as in leaving the city behind he throws off the weight of negotiations and removes himself from the annoyance of ministers and ambassadors, from whom he is naturally always ready to remove himself and of whom he wishes to be rid, especially in these days of trouble and involved affairs, and to get as far off as possible’.41 The King, he added in cipher, ‘seemed utterly weary of the affairs that are taking place all over the world at this time, and he hates being obliged every day to spend time over unpleasant matters and listen to nothing but requests and incitements to move in every direction, and to meddle with everything. He remarked: “I
am not God Almighty.”’42