They rampaged through Northumberland, seizing Newcastle and then marauded on through County Durham. Scrabbling together money from personal loans – for Parliament had not voted him a farthing – Charles raised a new army and hurried north.
In his absence, the King delegated the task of running the government to Henrietta Maria. At last, the gender-barrier had been breached: the privado entered its chrysalis, and emerged in the new, butterfly colours of First Minister.
But Henrietta Maria was heavily pregnant, so behind her wings, the new, true privado emerged. By this sudden, entirely unforeseen combination of circumstances, Jermyn felt his influence soar. Appointed to the lucrative position of Keeper of Greenwich Park, and with rumours flying that he might become both a viscount and Treasurer of the Royal Household, Jermyn was still far from the English equivalent of the all-powerful French First Minister, Cardinal Richelieu. But he was certainly hurtling in that direction – so long, that is, as the King’s authority was enforced.
As the summer heat raised the stenches and tempers of London, men on every street corner spoke boldly of Parliament’s heroic stand against royal despotism. Unwilling to blame the King directly, they swore that his Papist wife and mother-in-law were turning him against his own people. Marie de Medici was not (for once) being over-dramatic when she complained she could not sleep for fear of the mob. In mid-summer, therefore, the royal barges slipped quietly away from the Privy Stairs at Whitehall to carry Henrietta Maria and Jermyn away from this tumult to the peace of Oatlands Palace, near Weybridge in Surrey.
The great rambling complex of Oatlands Palace was built around a succession of large courtyards fronted by gabled Tudor buildings. Above these loomed a great hexagonal tower. From this vantage point, Jermyn and Henrietta Maria could see the beautiful views over gardens and vineyards to the village of Weybridge and the meadows of the River Wey. Beyond these to the north ran the wide sweep of the Thames valley, whilst to the south they could see the blue outline of the North Downs.
The most magnificent building at Oatlands was a house for silkworms, which had been designed by Inigo Jones. Behind its classical exterior the worms munched their way through the leaves of mulberry trees, before spinning their cocoons of silken thread, that the weavers of Bethnal Green, in London’s East End, would later transform into sheets of shimmering fabric.
Sitting in the shade in the Privy Garden at Oatlands, Henrietta Maria and Jermyn rested, eating sweetmeats and smelling the scent of the roses and lilies. On Wednesday, 8 July 1641, she went into labour and gave birth to a baby boy. She named him Henry, apparently honouring her father, and perhaps Henry VIII as well. But it is not hard to guess that the real Henry on her mind was the one who stood devotedly by her bedside, ready to shield her with his arms from the oncoming storm.
Despite all Strafford’s fiery counsels, Charles’s second encounter with the Scots culminated with him granting yet more concessions and also promising to summon the English Parliament again. It met in November 1640, and later became known by the ominous name of ‘the Long Parliament’.
Attempts by the court to ensure that men who would support the King were elected were generally unsuccessful. ‘Safe’ seats were in such short supply that Jermyn resigned his own seat of Corfe in favour of Secretary of State Sir Francis Windebank, so that the elderly and highly-skilled statesman could be present to fight the King’s corner in the Commons.
But even Windebank’s arguments could do little to deflect John Pym’s offensive. The rotund statesman was now the unquestioned leader of the majority of the Members, who believed in upholding Parliamentary authority against the Court.
These were extraordinary times. The Scottish army had openly threatened to march on London if Charles dissolved Parliament, nor would it retreat until Parliament had voted the King money to pay them off. By the same token the King could not dismiss Parliament until it had voted him the money he also needed to pay his own forces in the north and maintain his authority.
He could, therefore, do nought but grant his assent to whatever Parliament wanted. The machinery of the King’s personal rule – the Privy Council advising him, the secretaries of state implementing his decisions and the prerogative courts through which royal will was enforced in the country – was in disarray.
Secretary of State Coke, who had played a vital role in implementing royal decisions since 1625, had retired at the start of 1640. His replacement, Sir Harry Vane, a nominee of Jermyn’s and still ostensibly a loyal courtier, was starting to show alarming Parliamentarian sympathies. Worse, Parliament – or more particularly Pym – now attacked the leading ministers who had made Charles’s personal rule work. Poor Windebank, fiercely loyal to the King, was accused of conspiring with Jesuits and found himself impeached, that is, accused of disloyalty to his country, and faced with trial and, probably execution. Impeached too was Lord Keeper Finch, who owed his recent appointment directly to Henrietta Maria’s influence.
Both Windebank and Finch had the sense to flee abroad before they could be brought to trial. Lesser ministers were ‘caged’, as the term was, on all manner of charges. Archbishop Laud and Strafford fared worse than any. Parliament flung them both into the Tower on charges of High Treason.
Standing indignantly at the Bar of the House of Lords, Strafford was accused of having conspired to bring his army over from Ireland to oppose Parliament. By putting Strafford on trial, Parliament was in effect directing a martial challenge at the power of the King himself. Charles and Henrietta Maria insisted on attending each day of the trial, returning home exhausted every evening.
After supper they would lock themselves away with Jermyn to discuss what strategies might possibly save both their friend and indeed the Royal Prerogative itself.
During these extraordinary months of the Long Parliament, the dignified, protocol-ridden court continued, ostensibly as before. But behind its serene façade the long-established balances of power were in turmoil. It was within this maelstrom, in which Pym picked off long-established ministers one by one, that Jermyn emerged, somewhat by default, as one of the King’s most prominent – if not the most prominent – henchmen at court. One observer described Jermyn as a man ‘looked upon by the whole court, and everything approved being done by him’, while the remaining ministers found that, if they needed anything done, the best solution was to ‘speak with Mr Jermyn about it’.
There were, it must be admitted, other prominent men left. There was Bishop Juxon, the Lord Treasurer; Lord Cottington, a prominent and flamboyant member of the Privy Council, and of course Lord Hamilton, the King’s Equerry and principal advisor on Scottish affairs. Yet Juxon had no interest in politicking and Cottington had only the year before contemplated retirement. Only Hamilton could be spoken of in the same breath as Jermyn.
For all the rumours of grandiose promotions, Jermyn was still merely the Queen’s untitled Gentleman of the Horse. Yet, to all practical purposes, according to the contemporary accounts of courtiers trying to make sense of a world plunged into confusion, it was through Jermyn, more than through any of the remaining government ministers, that the King was perceived to be exercising his remaining power.
How Jermyn reacted to this advance in fortune is suggested by a contemporary observer, Sir John Temple, who commented, ‘he does with great dexterity bring all his pieces together’.
In other words, far from being daunted by his new unofficial status, Jermyn embraced it with gusto. Much as he may have dreamed about gaining such power, it would be absurd to say he had planned it. Far from it – most of his actions during this period were really reactions to the extraordinary external forces he encountered. But we can be sure the King’s henchman looked forward to a healthy promotion once the crisis was over.
Now that Jermyn was effectively in charge, it was down to him to end the crisis. To accomplish this, he was handed a number of opportunities. One of the more ambitious projects had been hatched by Marie de Medici herself.
During Marie�
�s exile in Holland, she had become friendly with Frederick Henry, Prince of Orange. Since the expulsion of the Spanish, Holland had been ruled by an assembly called the States General, and they employed the Princes of Orange as hereditary military leaders, known as Stadtholders.
Frederick Henry therefore commanded a powerful army and navy but lacked – and hankered after – the status of a sovereign ruler. Marie’s plan, then, was to marry Frederick Henry’s fifteen-year old son William to Henrietta Maria’s pretty ten-year old daughter Mary. The Prince’s family would come a step closer to royalty and the needy Charles would gain a son-in-law with powerful military forces at his disposal.
While Strafford’s trial was in full process, therefore, Jermyn participated in secret talks at Whitehall with the Prince of Orange’s two envoys, Sommelsdijk and Heenvliet, to agree on a suitable marriage settlement.
Quiet conversations in the gardens of Whitehall and the corridors of St James’s had provided Jermyn with an insight into the attitudes and motivations of a whole swathe of courtiers and members of Parliament. Acting closely with Lord Hamilton, he planned a new government incorporating staunch supporters of the King. Shrewdly, they decided to include and effectively buy-off the leading Parliamentarians, including Pym himself, whom Jermyn nominated for the exalted post of Chancellor of the Exchequer – not a bad progression for a man who had started off as an Exchequer clerk.
Whilst the conflict between King and Parliament that led to the Civil War is often thought of as a class struggle between the King and nobility on one hand, and the people on the other, the truth was far more complex. Many staunch supporters of the King, after all, sat in the Commons, whilst when the conflict escalated many titled aristocrats sided against the Crown.
Whilst many of ‘the people’ would be stabbed or shot fighting on both sides in the ensuing conflict, that nebulous mass of souls below the level of the landed gentry had very little voice in the proceedings. In reality, the Civil War was never a class war: it was a conflict waged by one half of the privileged elite against the other, both claiming to have the King’s and country’s best interests at heart, but all naturally angling for the best deal they could get for themselves.
In nominating Pym and his colleagues for governmental positions, Jermyn showed how firmly he believed that the pursuit of power through royal favour was the chief motivating factor of his contemporaries. In the case of the seven men who accepted, including the overtly Parliamentarian Oliver St John, who became Solicitor General, Jermyn was right.
Jermyn probably experienced some consternation when some of the others, led by Pym, refused. Either their principles really were superior to their pursuit of power, or they felt greater benefit would come to them by continuing their opposition. Either way, the plan to buy them all off was largely a failure, and Jermyn’s name was added to Pym’s mental list of royal officials who needed to be purged.
It is unclear whether, during this period, either Charles or Henrietta contemplated giving Jermyn an official post in the government, particularly by making him a Secretary of State. If they did, he side-stepped the position, recommending instead an older man and lawyer, Edward Nicholas.
Perhaps he did so simply because he thought Nicholas would be better at it. But more likely, he turned the job down because he already had plans hidden up his black satin sleeve. Plans that would be much easier to bring to fruition if his role in the royal power-structure remained ambiguous. They were plans that, if discovered and prevented, would bring far less harm to Charles than if Jermyn’s connection to the Crown was more clearly defined.
These were the plans on which Jermyn was about to gamble his entire future.
The ‘Ark of Union’, a metaphor for the State, is guided to safety by Cromwell, Fairfax and their chums. Meanwhile, the Royalists flounder in the sea, and Jermyn supports Henrietta Maria in a rather suggestive manner that reflects the widespread belief that they were lovers. (credit: Fotomas Index)
VII
‘DO SOMETHING EXTRAORDINARY’ 1641
What sound is that! Whose concord makes a jar?
‘Tis noise in peace, though harmony in war:
The drum; whose doubtful music doth delight
The willing ear, and the unwilling fright.
Had wet Arion chosen to lament
His grief at Sea on such an Instrument,
Perhaps the martial music might incite
The Sword-fish, Thrasher, and the Whale to fight…
Sir William D’Avenant, ‘Madagascar’ (1637).
At the start of 1641 Jermyn’s East Anglian cousin, the poet Sir John Suckling, wrote to him, urging him to advise the King to ‘do something extraordinary’. But it was Jermyn more than Charles who took this advice to heart.
Jermyn, Charles and Henrietta Maria had already discussed bringing Strafford’s army of Irish Protestants over to England to subdue Parliament and repulse the Scots. They had decided against this because the wild behaviour and bad discipline of the Irish soldiers were likely to create more antagonism between Charles and his people than there was already.
Now that Strafford was on trial, the opportunity to use that army was passed anyway. But vastly outnumbering the Protestants in Ireland were the Catholics. Jermyn was now approached by the flamboyant Catholic peer, Lord Cottington, who asked to be appointed to the vacant Lord Lieutenancy of Ireland. Once in office, he would raise the King such an army of loyal Catholic Irishmen as had never been seen before. For several months Jermyn waited, assessing the feasibility of the plan, before rejecting Cottington’s offer. If the English would find a force of Irish Protestants tramping across their fields hard to stomach, just imagine the uproar if the army were brandishing Papist crucifixes!
If no armies from Ireland could be used, then they must rely on their own people. In the north, the army that Charles had raised to guard against the Scots was still armed. Many of its officers were fiercely loyal to the King, as Jermyn knew very well.
Sir John Suckling was extremely keen on war. It was not so much the possibility of fighting, as the opportunity it might afford him to wear glamorous uniforms, that really attracted the poet to the idea. At some point in the early spring – it is impossible to say exactly when – he, Jermyn and D’Avenant resolved to ‘do something extraordinary’ indeed. They would bring the northern army down to intimidate Parliament, capture the Tower of London and free Strafford.
The idea met with the Queen’s enthusiastic approval. Probably through her persuasion, Charles himself agreed to the plan, but with the caveat that George Goring should be involved and become lieutenant general of the army. Three years younger than Jermyn, Goring was both a courtier and a seasoned warrior, who was held in high esteem by many of the officers, and trusted deeply by the King and Queen.
This whole plot seems to have existed as no more than an idea, however, until a young officer called Captain James Chudleigh came riding into London on Sunday, 21 March. He had come from the northern army and carried in his pocket a petition from his fellow officers, protesting at Parliament’s failure to allow the King any money to pay them.
Whether by accident or some design – one suspects the latter – the first person he encountered was D’Avenant, who told him his petition ‘was a matter of greater consequence that he imagined’. Quickly, D’Avenant brought him to Jermyn and Suckling.
Strafford’s trial was still progressing, and Jermyn knew that the officers’ discontent could be manipulated to make the projected Army Plot a reality. He was quick to assure Chudleigh that ‘the Parliament was so in love with the Scots that the army was not likely to be paid…’ but that ‘the king would pawn jewels rather then leave the army unpaid…’. While Jermyn had the petition copied for the Queen to see, Suckling sounded Chudleigh out about the King’s desire to appointing Goring as lieutenant general.
Jermyn was not alone in thinking up ways to use the army to good effect. It appears that, early in March, another plot had been hatched by Harry Percy, the spirited
younger brother of the Earl of Northumberland, and Prince Charles’s Master of the Horse. Percy’s cabal of co-conspirators, all officers in the army, were Harry Wilmot, the son of an Irish nobleman and commissary-general of horse in the army; Daniel O’Neill, a gentleman of the King’s bedchamber; Jack Ashburnham, the ruddy-faced son of a Sussex squire; Sir Hugh Pollard, a seasoned soldier and politician and – perhaps significantly – Jermyn’s first-cousin Jack Berkeley.
Their plan was nowhere near so bold as Jermyn’s, though. They thought it would be enough if the army merely declared its open support for the King in the face of Parliamentary opposition.
When Percy revealed his cabal to the King, Charles agreed to it but ‘desired Goring and Jermyn should be taken into the plot’. This was presumably because he already knew of Jermyn’s plot, and thought it best to combine the two separate efforts into one. It is impossible to say for sure whether he did so in order to temper Jermyn’s ambitious scheme with Percy’s milder one, or to bring Percy round to Jermyn’s bolder way of thinking. The evidence of the Tower Plot, described below, suggests the latter.
Until this point, Goring, although much discussed, had not actually been recruited. Jermyn’s opportunity to do so came on Sunday, 28 March when, as his coach passed the end of St Martin’s Lane near Charing Cross, he saw Goring’s coach. Goring described later how Jermyn sent his footman to ask him to meet him at Suckling’s house and how, once there, Jermyn invited him to the Queen’s drawing chamber that evening.
Goring turned in the Queen’s rooms as invited. Jermyn was about to take him into the Queen’s bedchamber when Charles himself appeared, looking agitated – the trial of Strafford was still in full flow – and whispered that they should meet the following day. On Monday 29th, then, the three men, Jermyn, Goring and the King, met again, and the King asked Goring enigmatically to help ‘set my army into a good posture’. To this, Goring agreed.
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