Exhilarated with her new independence from the ‘protection’ of the Spaniards, and keen to deliver them a vengeful blow, Christina soon became embroiled in a longstanding anti-Spanish plot. The great Habsburg Empire of Spain, though now declining, still had control of many territories beyond its natural boundaries, including the ‘Kingdom of the Two Sicilies’, effectively the island of Sicily and most of the Italian mainland south of Rome, ruled from the city of Naples. Taking advantage of Spain’s protracted war with France and uprisings elsewhere, the powerful Barberini family, together with Pope Innocent X, had made plans to seize Naples and incorporate the region into the Papal States. Through his office at the Cifra, Azzolino had been drawn into it all; his detection of a spy within the Vatican – in fact, the Papal Nephew himself – had saved the Barberini to fight another day, and probably brought Azzolino his cardinal’s hat.
The French, meanwhile, had been making plans of their own to take Naples, at the invitation of an influential group of locals. Some years before, outraged by a heavy new tax imposed by the Spanish Viceroy, the working people of Naples had taken up arms against the tax collectors; rioting had followed, then open rebellion, and the Viceroy had been tossed unceremoniously into prison. The first phase of independence had not lasted long. The rebels’ leader, a booming-voiced young fishmonger’s assistant named Tommaso Aniello – Masaniello – had at once adopted the haughty and vicious ways of his former rulers, and within a few days, he had been lynched by his own followers, the Viceroy emerging from prison just in time to see his body being dragged through the streets by the rebels he had led.
Masaniello’s henchmen had then claimed power for themselves, maintaining a rough and ready rule for several months before declaring Naples a republic. Some of their older compatriots, meanwhile, supported by the city’s anxious merchants, had decided to approach Cardinal Mazarin with a request for French rule of the Kingdom. The King’s younger brother, Philippe, the Duc d’Anjou, might be persuaded to accept the throne, they felt. French rule would restore order and add prestige as well to their region, impoverished and backward after 150 years of Spanish voracity. Mazarin had been amenable to the idea, but the Prince was as yet too young. The King himself was still only a boy, and until he could marry and produce a son, his immediate heir could not compromise the succession by accepting a throne outside France. Mazarin had suggested that the Prince de Condé take it instead, but le Grand Condé had declined the honour – greater plans were already swirling in his head. The Cardinal had decided to capture Naples, anyway. He had appointed the Duc de Guise his generalissimo, and the Duc had set off with a will, accompanied by Christina’s escapee ambassador to Paris, Marc-Duncan de Cérisantes, opportunist extraordinaire, former devout Lutheran, currently Catholic by convenience. They had succeeded, and the Duc had become as bloodthirsty a tyrant as any who had yet ruled the troubled Kingdom. His reign had been fortunately brief; the Spanish had intervened, the Viceroy was reinstated, and the Duc in his turn was thrown into prison – in Madrid, whence he had been eventually rescued by le Grand Condé himself.
Mazarin had not given up. Seven years later, with France’s own civil war behind him, he had attempted once again to take Naples. A fleet of ships had set out to challenge the Spanish, but, overtaken by a storm, they had been blown back to port, and the invasion abandoned. He now decided that a third attempt must be made, but before this, a temporary king must be found for Naples. Louis, now aged eighteen, was still unmarried; the succession had still to be secured before his brother could be spared. Some other monarch must be found to keep the throne warm for Philippe, some royal person with no great responsibilities of his own, some older person, perhaps, some person without heirs to raise their own claims in years to come. Happily for Mazarin, the very person was waiting, restless for action, in Rome.
There is no clearer indication of Christina’s regret for her crown than her eagerness to have the throne of Naples. Had she wished, she might have stayed quietly in Rome among her new friends, enjoying the cultured environment, establishing herself as a patron of the arts. But in Rome, she would never be preeminent. The Pope himself must of necessity take first place, and as for patronage, there would always be Barberini or Pamphili or some other family of fabulous wealth to steal the limelight from her. In Naples, she would be a real Queen again, a Queen with a crown and a kingdom, and money, no doubt, from France. And Naples was just 100 miles away, along the sparkling coast – an easy journey for Azzolino to make, and for her to make to him.
The red plumage of Christina’s other cardinal friends now began to fade, as birds of a brighter feather drew her attention. They were men she had met on her journey to Rome, and they were now seen at the Palazzo Farnese at all hours of the day and night. They were Italians – Pompeo Colonna, Prince of Gallicano, the alchemist Marchese of Palombara and the Marchese Gian-Rinaldo Monaldeschi – notorious Neapolitan patriots all, though none actually Neapolitan. Monaldeschi in particular was just the kind of rogue Christina enjoyed most. He came from a family of minor nobles in the little town of Orvieto in the Papal States, and, being without great resources, he had been obliged to make his own way in the world. So he had managed to do, by fair means and foul, as occasion had arisen. The rebellion in Naples had provided one opportunity: while the French fleet battled the winds, Monaldeschi himself had been waiting at the head of a militia behind the town, ready to support the invasion. Now living in Rome, still in the pay of the French, he began to ingratiate himself into the Queen’s favour, encouraging her anti-Spanish sentiments, and at some point, it seems, suggesting the dramatic action which was to replace her angry talk.
In the first months of 1656, Christina began a secret correspondence with Cardinal Mazarin, and gradually, a firmer plan emerged: French forces, under the titular leadership of the Queen herself, would secure the throne. Once installed, Christina would rule as she wished for the rest of her life, with France a certain ally, and Philippe of Anjou her agreed heir. So the agreement was concluded, to the anticipated satisfaction of both Cardinal and Queen. Four thousand soldiers were to capture Naples, and 400 cavalrymen were to accompany the new sovereign thither. Mazarin envisaged them as an escort for her, a triumphal retinue to announce the new regime to the local people as much as to Spain. But Christina saw it differently. Since her childhood she had dreamed of leading an army into battle. Mazarin’s 400 cavalrymen would allow her to do so at last. They would be her own little army, and she would be more than their titular head. She at once created Monaldeschi her Grand Écuyer – her Master of the Horse – an apt name since, for the moment, apart from the pretty palfrey the Pope had given her, she had hardly another horse to boast of. Confidently, she placed an expensive order for the new armour and liveries that would be needed when she assumed the throne, a vast wardrobe which included six Commander-in-Chief outfits for herself. And, in her excitement at the prospect of military action at last, she charged up to the top of the Castel Sant’ Angelo, and there fired off a cannon, forgetting to aim, however, so that instead of going into the air, the huge lead ball flew down into the town. It struck the Villa Medici, a Renaissance palazzo with a façade of sculpted Florentine lilies – now one less than before, however, with Christina’s cannonball lodged in its place.
Fair Wind for France
The quickest way from Rome to Naples, or so it seemed to Christina, was via Paris. There she could meet Cardinal Mazarin in person to discuss the plan. Certain things were best not left to chance – or to couriers, even with her new codes in place. It was all as yet too secret, so secret, in fact, that not even Azzolino had been told of it. So she must go herself to France, but no suspicion must be raised; a pretext must be found for her leaving Rome so soon after her arrival.
To conceal her intentions, she let it be understood that she was returning to Sweden to arrange certain financial matters. Malicious Spanish tongues whispered a different reason for her departure – the Queen was pregnant, they said, later attributing the missin
g infant to a convenient miscarriage – but no real scandal was needed to justify her departure. Her lack of ready money was public knowledge, and the need to get hold of some more seemed a perfectly good reason for her to go. An added impetus was quite suddenly provided by a serious outbreak of plague in Rome, which closed off or closed down much of the city. Most who could afford to do so made a swift escape, Azzolino and the Pope himself being among the courageous exceptions who remained to organize relief measures. It was a stroke of perversely good fortune for Christina, since the usual way northwards was now impossible. The cautious Swiss and Germans had quarantined themselves by closing their borders to all traffic from Rome, and a route across France was the obvious alternative. So she began her preparations for a supposed route to Stockholm, writing to Cardinal Mazarin to tell him of her journey, and receiving from him an encouraging reply.
Christina was so short of money that she could not actually afford to go at all, and she was saved only by a gift of 10,000 scudi from the Pope to speed her on her way. Though a handsome sum, it was not enough to cover all the likely expenses, and she fell back on her regular ploys of pawning or selling jewels, and whatever else she retained of any value. These business arrangements she entrusted, as was now her wont, to Santinelli and Monaldeschi, and, as was now their wont, they shortchanged her. Unnoticing or uncaring, she approached Cardinal Barberini for a substantial extra loan; His shrewd and wealthy Eminence agreed to lend it, but insisted on receiving security in the form of Bernini’s magnificent carriage.
Besides his cash gift, the Pope had provided almost everything else that would be required, from a small fleet of ships to little parcels of food for refreshment along the way. Christina may have resented this generosity, or perhaps her need of it, for she accepted it lightly, and showed no sign of gratitude. She attended a last mass at the Basilica, and kissed the feet of the statue of Peter, after which she had no devotion left, she said, to go and kiss those of the Pope. His Holiness had no time to reprimand her, overfilled as his days were with efforts to combat the plague. He could hardly have given her less, in any case. Christina was a famous and recent daughter of the Church. She could not be allowed to traipse about Europe, and especially Protestant Europe, without due splendour, and he had declined to lock her away in a convent, as his Spanish courtiers had recently suggested. He shook his head and turned back to his hospitals, relieved, if anything, to see her go – he was heard to remark that at least one heavy burden had been lifted from his shoulders. ‘They begin to be weary at Rom of theyr new ghest the quien of Sweden,’1 an English spy reported, and from the Palazzo Farnese, a worn-out Marchese Giandemaria wrote to the Duca: ‘We’ve been singing the songs of the children of Israel after their escape from Egypt. I can hardly believe she’s gone. Every moment I’m afraid of seeing her still in the place.’2
Christina’s Spanish retinue had been dismissed some time before, and now, with a suite of some 60 persons, almost all Italian, and including only three women, she set off for the coast. Santinelli led the entourage as Captain of the Guard and Lord Chamberlain of the Royal Household – though the guard was a band of roughneck adventurers and the household a motley group of rogues – and Monaldeschi rode along with equal impudence as Master of the Horse. The Queen’s departure from Rome was as muted as her arrival had been blaring. She went without ceremony, without ambassadors, without civic dignitaries. Cardinal Azzolino was the only member of the papal court to accompany her, and this loyalty she repaid by weeping devotedly over his miniature portrait once he had turned back towards the city. Santinelli led the travellers to the little anchorage of Palo, where four gaudily painted papal galleys lay waiting for them.
Palo was only a small harbour, but it was safely distant from the plague-infected areas around the usual Roman port of Civitavecchia. It lay on land owned by the Orsini family, and the scions of this great house now cheered Christina with a lavish welcome. They saw her on board, and on a lovely midsummer’s evening, the little court sailed for Marseilles, the papal arms prominently displayed on the hull of each of their galleys. In three of them, the San Pietro, the San Domenico, and the Santa Caterina di Siena, Christina’s unsaintly retinue was accommodated, and in the fourth, aptly named the Padrona – Mistress – Christina installed herself. Her apartments on board were sumptuously furnished in red silk damask, and her every requirement had been foreseen – even to a vast, throne-like armchair, covered in rich Neapolitan velvet. Less luxurious were conditions below deck, for these were slave galleys, manned by pitiful crews of criminals and prisoners of war, who pulled the great oars day and night to the accompaniment of drum and lash. Small circles of light reached them through the oarholes, and when the sea was high, so too did rushes of cold seawater, drenching their ragged garments and leaving traces of salt behind to sting their open lashwounds.
The week-long journey was hot and stormy. According to the custom of the time, they did not take a direct route across the open sea, since the danger of pirates from the ‘Barbary Coast’ of North Africa was felt to be too great. Instead, they ‘coasted’, keeping always in sight of land – a longer route, but safer. Christina claimed to have seen pirates along the way, but she decided they were Turkish, and allowed herself a daydream of life in the harem. Whatever their origins, the other ships did not approach, and the little flotilla met its first confrontation in Genoa, where they were refused permission to land on account of their origin from plague-ridden Rome. Supplies were refreshed, however, and tributes of expensive delicacies sent out to the ships, to show that there should be no hard feelings between the Genoese Republic and those who bore the papal arms.
Towards the end of the month, they reached Marseilles, and here they met fresh objections to their landing: the local people staged a noisy and violent demonstration, claiming that the galleys were plague-infected and demanding that they be turned away. The city authorities acquiesced, and pronounced the quay off-limits. A representative of Cardinal Mazarin intervened, insisting that a royal salute be fired in greeting: the sound of cannon was duly mixed with the hostile shouts of the crowd. The Cardinal’s stout-hearted representative boarded the Padrona, and pleaded with Christina to make a discreet landing along the way, taking a few companions with her in a small rowing-boat. Christina insisted that she and her entire suite of 60 would disembark on the quay and nowhere else, and at length they did so, accepting only the compromise that the galleys themselves should be moored at some distance from the shore. Three days of public festivities, by way of eventual official welcome, proved enough to reconcile the locals to their visitors. They acclaimed Christina’s royal blood and her many signal virtues, including her male attire, and Christina took it all in good part, remarking that the French had had plenty of good things and bad to say about her, and adding provocatively that now they would discover for themselves that there was not so much bad in her as they’d said – nor so much good.
While in Marseilles, Christina took the time to visit the blind mystic, François Malaval.3 Only a few months younger than Christina herself, Malaval was a leader of the new Quietist movement. Quietism taught a kind of Christian passivity, a will-less devotion to God, a quiet contemplation; its followers believed they represented the true tradition of Christian mysticism. Christina had probably first learned about it through Johann Scheffer, ‘Angelus Silesius’, a young German philologist and poet who had come to Sweden at her invitation, and who had since embraced Catholicism. Despite its essential passivity, it had taken the interest of her active soul, and had retained a curious hold on her. She may have needed its restfulness; if so, the noisy splendour of Baroque Catholicism can only have pushed her the faster towards it. She was also drawn to its personal emphasis, its linking of the individual soul with God, without the intervention – or interference – of pastor or priest. This answered her almost instinctive conviction of her own sovereignty, that there was no authority above her but God, that God’s will for her was for her alone to interpret. One might pray howev
er one wished to pray, the Quietists thought. It was perilously close, for Christina’s rebellious power-seeking nature, to believing whatever one wished to believe, and she was soon declaring without a second thought that her only religion was ‘the religion of the philosophers’. She visited Malaval only once, it seems, but they began to correspond. Her interest in Quietism fell dormant, but the seed had fallen on fertile ground.
From Marseilles she set off with her entourage on the first day of August. They made their way northward through the beautiful region of Provence, past fields shimmering purple with lavender in the midsummer heat. By the standards of the day, their going was not hard, for the roads in France were well maintained, and the main thoroughfares the envy of all Europe. They were ‘paved with a small square freestone,’ John Evelyn had noted a year or two before, ‘so that the country does not much molest the traveller with dirt and ill way, as in England’.4 The Queen and her companions encountered their share of potholes, nonetheless, some filled in with little branches of boxwood, some not filled in at all. Before them, dodging the holes, a detachment of local militia marched complete with trumpets and drums, and past them, now and then, a public stagecoach made its way. Christina saw hardier travellers, too, taking the cheaper way of hired relay horses, their baggage strapped on behind them.
Christina Queen of Sweden: The Restless Life of a European Eccentric Page 28