Anne the King’s King
Anne, duke of Joyeuse, 1561–87
Having wantonly ousted a host of court favourites, the capricious and louche Henry the MAN-MILLINER appointed Anne (a male name in sixteenth-century France) as his new right-hand man, hoping that this ambitious champion of Roman Catholicism would maintain administrative order while he engaged in the serious businesses of fashion design and puppy-training.
As the new duke of Joyeuse, Anne revelled in his near-absolute authority and in his nickname of ‘the King’s King’, which suggested where true royal power lay. But he was as arrogant, selfish and foolish as his monarch and met his nemesis when facing the Protestant forces of Henry of Navarre, the future Henry the GREAT, at the battle of Coutras in October 1587.
Anne amassed a brightly coloured army, double the size of Henry’s plainly dressed and rather shabby Huguenot troops, and, confident in his cavalry and of victory, he and his men scoffed as the Huguenots sang a psalm before the engagement. Disobeying royal orders (not for the first time), Anne had his troops attack, but the better-prepared Protestants slaughtered them in their thousands, and ‘King Anne’ was killed in the act of surrender.
[L]
John Lackland
John, king of England, 1167–1216
As the youngest son, John had no immediate inheritance and thus received the nickname ‘Lackland’ –an entirely appropriate epithet as it turned out, since during his reign he succeeded in losing nearly all of England’s territories in France. His exploits in Ireland when still a prince, however, should have alerted his nobles to the humiliations that were to come. Dispatched there in 1185 to conclude the conquest begun by his father, Henry CURTMANTLE, all John managed to do was alienate the friendly native kings by ridiculing their dress and appearance, and infuriate his own soldiers by spending their pay on himself.
If ‘Lackland’ was an apt epithet, that of ‘Softsword’ was undeserved. Although certainly no warrior like his brother Richard the LIONHEART, he was no coward either, and it was merely sniping malcontents who dubbed him ‘Mollegladium’ after he signed the peace treaty of Goulet with Philip the MAGNANIMOUS in 1200. Similarly, the French unjustly nicknamed him ‘Dollheart’, in contrast to his lionhearted brother, after he famously retreated from the siege of La Roche-aux-Moines in 1214 even though he had the superior force. A more fitting nickname might have been ‘the Restless’, since, as attested by his need for many mistresses and his habit of writing notes in church telling the preacher to hurry up as he wanted his dinner, he could never sit still.
Albert the Lame
Albert II, duke of Austria, 1289–1358
Until his early thirties Albert was a tall, good-looking man with a commanding presence, but when an illness left him paralysed from the waist down and unable to move except in a litter or on horseback, his ability to govern Austria was in the balance. But thanks, undoubtedly, to the encouragement of his permanently merry brother and co-regent Otto the JOLLY, an undaunted Albert demonstrated for a further fifteen years a deftness and generosity that endeared him to his subjects and won him the additional nickname ‘the Wise’.
David the Last King of Paradise see David the MERRY MONARCH
Charles the Last Man
Charles I, king of England, 1600–1649
Deliberately avoiding the word ‘king’, Parliamentarians called Charles ‘the Last Man’, implying that he would be the last person to sit on the throne of Great Britain as monarch. When he was not, they refused to be daunted and with admirable determination dubbed Charles II ‘the Son of the Last Man’.
Unlike his son, Charles was in no way a merry monarch. Standing five feet four inches, his sad, dispirited face with its mournful, heavy-lidded eyes showed no trace of affection even towards his closest colleagues. His stammer, meanwhile, which he tried (unsuccessfully) to cure when a boy by cramming his mouth with pebbles, made strangers uncomfortable. And though devoutly religious, the king did not impress William Laud, the archbishop of Canterbury, who remarked, ‘He neither is, nor knows how to be great.’
The morose Charles had few close friends apart from his wife, Henrietta Maria, but had many enemies. Puritans dubbed him ‘the Man of Blood’ for his leadership in the Civil War, and had him beheaded in January 1649. His many distant supporters, however, considered his execution an act of religious persecution and conferred upon him the title ‘the Martyr’.
Alfred the Last of the Dandies
Count Alfred d’Orsay, French nobleman, 1801–52
The political and artistic elite of early Victorian London, including Charles Dickens, Benjamin Disraeli and Napoleon III, ‘the Man of December’, loved to visit Alfred’s opulent residence. They were intrigued by his tight trousers, loud waistcoats and strong perfumes, they were thrilled and scandalized by his simultaneous affairs with both the count and countess of Blessington, and they were eager to hear him hold forth on matters of taste in English society. That is, until the money ran out. In 1849 d’Orsay went bankrupt, and he fled back to France where he died fighting off his many creditors.
Alfred the Last of the Dandies
Harold the Last of the Saxons
Harold II, king of England, c.1020–66
Whether Harold was killed at the battle of Hastings by an arrow in the eye, as the Bayeux Tapestry famously appears to suggest, is a matter for debate. Certainly no mortal arrow wound is mentioned in any contemporary account of the battle. Writing in 1070, William of Jumieges merely states that ‘Harold himself was slain, pierced with mortal wounds’ by four Norman soldiers. ‘The first, cleaving his breast through the shield with his point, drenched the earth with a gushing torrent of blood; the second smote off his head below the protection of the helmet and the third pierced the inwards of his belly with his lance; the fourth hewed off his thigh and bore away the severed limb.’ The Chronicle of Battle Abbey, meanwhile, records that he was ‘laid low by a chance blow’.
Henry of Huntingdon, however, writing some sixty years later, is adamant that a shower of arrows ‘fell around King Harold, and he himself sank to the ground, struck in the eye’. And although he does not describe how he died, the contemporary historian William of Poitiers writes that the king’s body was ‘recognized not by his face’, suggesting such mutilation as an arrow might cause.
To this day, the precise nature of Harold’s death is unclear. What is clear is that the death of Harold Godwinson spelled the end of the Anglo-Saxon phase of English history and ushered in Norman rule under William the CONQUEROR.
Magnus the Law-Mender
Magnus VI, king of Norway, 1238–80
Magnus is the last Norwegian king to be featured in the Icelandic sagas, but in covering his life, stories of heroic valour and errant knights are noticeably absent. Instead, we learn how he devoted his life to the legal reform of his nation, revising and codifying previous laws and establishing among his nobility a hierarchy along European lines, with the introduction of dukes, earls, knights and barons. We find out that, under him, the punishing of criminals was considered a public affair, meted out by official courts rather than private individuals with a score to settle. We are told, furthermore, that belligerent bishops ensured that the only area of law not to be changed was the governance of the Church. It was a time of serious, unromantic politics, and Magnus – a serious, unromantic king – was the right man for the job.
Edward the Lawgiver see Edward the HAMMER OF THE SCOTS
Suleiman the Lawgiver see Suleiman the MAGNIFICENT
John with the Leaden Sword
John, duke of Bedford, 1389–1435
John with the Leaden Sword
During the Hundred Years War Archibald the LOSER taunted John, the regent for Henry the MARTYR of England, with this nickname. Archibald was feeling confident after winning a couple of morale-boosting, if militarily insignificant, skirmishes, and mocked John for possessing a ‘leaden sword’, a term suggesting incompetence in the field. In response John invited Archibald ‘to dine w
ith him at Verneuil’ and in the ensuing battle the nickname lost its validity and Archibald his life.
Alfonso the Learned see Alfonso the ASTRONOMER
Frederick the Learned see Frederick the WISE
Baldwin the Leper
Baldwin IV, king of Jerusalem, 1161–85
For a king to continue ruling when crippled by a debilitating disease, two things are essential: an indomitable spirit and the devotion of his subjects. Baldwin had both in spades. William of Tyre, Baldwin’s tutor, writes of his first suspicions that his charge had leprosy when he noticed the prince’s failure even to flinch when pinched by his playmates. And leprosy was a very public disease. ‘It grew more serious each day,’ remarks William, ‘specially injuring his hands and feet and face so that his subjects were distressed whenever they looked at him.’ Despite his condition, however, Baldwin became not only king but also perhaps the greatest warrior of the age, inspiring his troops to frustrate the dynastic ambitions of Saladin the CHIVALROUS SARACEN.
Baldwin rode at the vanguard of his army, even though he could not remount should he be unsaddled, and he continued to lead his men even when failing sight and the inability to use his arms and legs meant that he had to be carried in a litter slung between two horses. In 1182 he wrote a heartfelt letter to Louis VII (‘Louis the Young’) of France, humbly recognizing his limitations and offering to abdicate in favour of a healthier man. ‘It is not fitting,’ he conceded, ‘that a hand so weak as mine should hold power when fear of Arab aggression daily presses upon the Holy City and when my sickness increases the enemy’s daring.’ A replacement failed to arrive, however, and so, aware of his imminent death, he crowned his eight-year-old nephew king. Even though defeat was guaranteed, Baldwin died adored by those he served.
Henry the Liberal
Henry I, count of Champagne, 1152–81
Henry’s brothers must have been shocked and delighted when, after their father’s death, he plumped for the province of Champagne as his inheritance rather than wealthier territories such as Chartres or Blois. But Henry, son-in-law of ‘Louis the Foolish’, was himself no fool. Recognizing the province’s growth potential, he instituted a set calendar for six massive trade fairs and guaranteed the security of all who visited; in so doing, he transformed Champagne into the undisputed commercial centre of Western Europe. The province, and in particular its count, became very rich.
Being a devout Christian, Henry wanted to share his good fortune. So he set about endowing local abbeys and monasteries with land and privileges and, in gratitude, the amazed and delighted monks and abbots were the first to give him his nickname.
Sigismund the Light of the World
Sigismund, Holy Roman Emperor, 1368–1437
Sigismund won his grand nickname among chroniclers for his high intelligence, winning demeanour and ability to speak at least six languages, but he died having contributed little to the betterment of his empire or Europe as a whole. One of the main factors behind the dimness of ‘the Light of the World’ appears to have been his chronic indecision, as demonstrated by his dealings with his half-brother Wenceslas the WORTHLESS of Bohemia.
While king of Hungary and margrave of Brandenburg, Sigismund looked to expand his territories, and debated whether to invade Wenceslas’s kingdom. At first he decided not to, and allied himself to Wenceslas, who was at war with most of Bohemia’s nobility. But he then threw his support behind the nobles, only to change allegiance again and again until he finally plumped for Wenceslas, whom he then imprisoned and then released again.
On Wenceslas’s death, Sigismund inherited the Bohemian crown and undertook a series of wars against John Hus and his followers, but was unable to win a single battle of significance. The Hussites, meanwhile, referred to him as ‘the Red Demon’ alluding, in part, to the colour of his beard.
Lightning see Bejazet the THUNDERBOLT
Louis the Lion
Louis VIII, king of France, 1187–1226
In depicting the city of Avignon as ‘a sewer where all the muck of the universe collects’, the Italian poet Petrarch was referring to its reputation for heresy and debauchery. A century before, in 1226, when Louis laid siege to it and eventually starved its inhabitants into submission, it was literally filthy as well. Though small, pale and often ill, Louis was an effective soldier and, for his ruthless tactics in establishing royal power in Poitou in the west of France, and Avignon and the rest of Languedoc in the south, was dubbed ‘a Reborn Alexander’ and ‘the Lion’ by his sycophantic court poet Nicholas of Brai. The capture of Avignon may have been the pinnacle of Louis’s military career but it also proved his downfall, for after a mere forty months as king he succumbed to dysentery, which he had contracted while fighting there.
William the Lion
William I, king of Scotland, 1143–1214
William was not nicknamed ‘the Lion’ for his military record, which makes pretty dismal reading. During an invasion of England in 1173, for example, he mistook a group of his own troops returning from a raid as an attacking English force and ran them down with one of his siege machines. The next year, while laying siege to the castle at Alnwick, he foolishly managed to get himself captured. One foggy day he and sixty other men went riding in the castle grounds, oblivious to the dangers of such a jaunt. The fog suddenly lifted, and William found himself surrounded by Englishmen, who whisked off their prey to Richmond Castle. There William languished at the pleasure of their Majesties Henry CURTMANTLE and Richard the LIONHEART until the latter freed him in exchange for money to pay for a crusade.
The nickname of the grandson of ‘David the Saint’ instead derives from his choice of a red lion rampant for his heraldic device, and even though, according to one chronicler, William ‘never had much affection for those of his own country’, it remains to this day an integral element of the arms of Scotland.
Haile Sellassie the Lion of Judah
Haile Sellassie I, emperor of Ethiopia, 1892–1975
The Jesuit missionaries who educated Ras (meaning ‘prince’) Tafari at the Ethiopian imperial court must have followed their pupil’s career with bewildered interest, as claims to divinity, Christian and otherwise, accompanied the entire life of this most extraordinary African statesman.
When he became emperor in 1930, Tafari changed his name to Haile Sellassie – Amharic for ‘Power of the Trinity’. At the same time he embraced the additional title of‘the Lion of Judah’, a soubriquet that derives from a verse in the Book of Revelation where Christ is described as such. By taking these titles, Ras Tafari was comparing himself with Jesus. The religion of Rasta-farianism, which emerged in Jamaica in the early part of the twentieth century, however, goes one step further and claims that Sellassie is indeed the one, true Messiah, and Ethiopia paradise on earth.
Opinion is divided as to Sellassie’s success as emperor. Some praise him for his abolition of slavery and his establishment of a national assembly. Others accuse him of being a brutal dictator. Certainly his authority was absolute: even the lions and cheetahs on his estates would allow him to feed them by hand. When he was angry, we are told, he spoke in a low voice. And when he spoke in a low voice, those around him cowered in fear.
Not everyone was scared of him, however. Italy’s invasion of Ethiopia in 1935 led to five years of exile, and in 1974 Marxist revolutionaries overthrew his government and slung him in prison. When he died in captivity the following year, his jailers showed their utter indifference to the king by burying him beneath a toilet. To cite the words of the biblical King David, ‘How the mighty have fallen.’
Richard the Lionheart
Richard I, king of England, 1157–99
Without a doubt Richard ‘Coeur de Lion’ was a splendid soldier, and his conquests of Cyprus, Acre and Jaffa were the highlights of a crusade that fast acquired mythical status. One story that quickly circulated, and goes some way to explaining his specific nickname, was that on his travels he had physically ripped the heart out of a lion and eaten i
t.
His epithet ‘Lionheart’, or the less mellifluous ‘Lionhearted’, indicative as it is of courage and generosity, is somewhat misleading. In truth, Richard was a brutal and haughty tyrant and his fellow crusading princes deeply resented his limitless insolence. When, for example, Leopold, archduke of Austria, had planted his banners on one of the towers of Acre – as he had every right to do – Richard had them publicly torn down and flung into the latrines. His cruelty, meanwhile, was astonishing. In order to punish Saladin the CHIVALROUS SARACEN for delaying in sending him 200,000 dinars after Acre’s capitulation, he had 3,000 prisoners beheaded.
On his death from a crossbow wound while laying siege to some forces belonging to Philip the MAGNANIMOUS, many chroniclers and eulogists praised Richard for his bravery, patronage of the arts and ability to rally his troops when all seemed lost. With greater hindsight, later historians have acknowledged his hot temper, barbarism and irresponsibility, which made him, according to one contemporary source, ‘bad to all, worse to his friends, and worst of all to himself.
Little Charles see Charles the FAT
Napoleon the Little Corporal
Napoleon Bonaparte, emperor of the French, 1769–1821
‘I am the successor, not of Louis XVI,’ Napoleon wrote to Pope Pius VII in 1804, ‘but of Charlemagne.’ Patently he was referring to his military genius rather than physical stature, since Charles the GREAT stood over six foot three, while Napoleon was comfortably a foot shorter. His limited size and propensity to stoutness naturally made him a sitting target for caricaturists (the English derisively referred to him as ‘Tiddy-Doll’ as well as the less imaginative ‘Boney’). And yet, while not physically commanding – his colleague General Lasalle thought he looked more like a mathematician than a general – Napoleon impressed everyone he met with his natural authority and, above all, his large greyish-blue deep-set eyes, which had an almost hypnotic effect. His troops adored him, not least when he used to ride among them, employing his phenomenal memory to address each one by name. Beautiful women, drawn by his magnetism, forgave him his bouts of hysterical cruelty (while never cruel to women, he at least once kicked a priest in the testicles) to be at his side.
The Good, the Bad, and the Unready: The Remarkable Truth Behind History's Strangest Nicknames Page 14