Prince Rupert: The Last Cavalier

by Charles Spencer

  Emperor Ferdinand, meanwhile, received generous assistance from Catholic allies. Pope Paul V donated 380,000 florins to the Emperor’s cause. Philip III of Spain gave 3 million ducats and sent an army from Flanders under Marquis Spinola. King Sigismund III of Poland, concerned that Frederick was prepared to negotiate with the hated Turks, despatched Cossacks to help suppress the Bohemian revolt.

  In the meantime, Saxony, though Protestant, sided with the Emperor. The Elector, John George, was an alcoholic Lutheran who had turned down the Bohemian crown before it was offered to Frederick. He would not allow his Calvinist rival to profit from a gamble that he had declined. Ferdinand’s election as Emperor gave the Saxon an excuse to turn against Frederick: in fighting defiant rebels, he claimed, he was upholding his princely duty to his sovereign lord.

  A sizeable force also assembled under the banner of the Catholic League, an alliance of twenty princes sworn to counter the Protestant Union. Its founder was Maximilian, Duke of Bavaria — a Wittelsbach cousin of Frederick’s, who was famed for his penny-pinching greed. He sent an army to assist under Count Tilly, a brilliant Walloon general. Maximilian extracted a secret promise from Ferdinand: if he achieved victory for the Emperor, his reward would be the Palatine electorate.

  At the time of Rupert’s birth, Frederick’s enemies comprised a rich array of Imperialists, Catholic Leaguers, and Spaniards. There were 55,000 of them and they were converging on Prague.

  *

  Kings of Bohemia had a military tradition: one blind predecessor of Frederick’s had fought for France at the battle of Crecy, in 1346. When informed that the day belonged to the English, he ordered his men to lead his horse forward by the bridle, charging into the carnage of defeat. He and his son perished side by side, choosing death with honour over flight or imprisonment. Frederick, the new king, had no experience as a soldier, his military knowledge limited to the regulated tournaments that were a popular diversion at court. Yet now he was commander-in-chief of an army of 35,000 men, who were poorly fed and suffering from low morale. The civilian population was equally dispirited.

  The king and queen had forfeited much of the good will that had greeted their arrival in Bohemia. Instead of providing tolerant rule, Frederick had allowed his chief adviser, Abraham Scultetus, to pursue a dogmatic, Calvinist agenda. When Scultetus secretly ordered the felling of an ancient crucifix on Prague’s Charles Bridge, there was outrage. Elizabeth had already alienated many influential subjects because of her apparent frivolity, her revealing décolletage provoking indignation among the ladies, and her lack of punctuality causing consternation among courtiers and churchmen alike. Now she openly supported Scultetus against his critics and was seen to be contemptuous of her subjects’ most dearly held customs and beliefs.

  The decisive battle took place against this backcloth of discontent. On 8 November 1620 the two armies faced each other 5 miles to the west of the capital, on the broad summit of White Mountain. Despite his lesser numbers, Frederick’s defensive position was strong: his men were deployed at the top of a ridge, protected by a stream and earthworks. However, the Protestants had failed to dig in as well as they might, complaining that their old spades were useless against the frozen ground.

  Assured by his general, Prince Christian of Anhalt, that the enemy would not strike, Frederick returned to Prague for breakfast. Meanwhile, under a blanket of fog, Tilly pushed his army across the stream that separated the two armies and launched a surprise attack. It was not only the Protestants who were taken unawares: when Tilly’s colleague, Carlos Bonaventura Bucquoy, learnt of this risky manoeuvre, he called for an immediate council of war. Here the two generals clashed furiously, their tactical deadlock threatening a paralysis that would play into the Bohemians’ hands.

  It was at this point that Father Dominicus, a Carmelite monk from Maximilian of Bavaria’s retinue, stepped forward. He humbly asked permission to speak. Given the floor, Father Dominicus started his address calmly, before being transformed by religious fervour into an impassioned orator. He told the commanders it was God’s undoubted will that they attack the rebel Bohemians: He would ensure victory against an heretical enemy; they need only be the instruments of divine retribution. The Father’s inspired words put fire in the bellies of the Catholic high command. They resumed the action with unity, confidence, and energy.

  It was all over in an hour. Four thousand of Frederick’s men were killed or captured, including four of his generals. All his artillery and one hundred of his standards were also taken. The king only arrived at the battlefield in time to see his army utterly broken. He then rushed back to the city that had so briefly been his capital, to find pandemonium in the streets. Recognising his defeat, Frederick sent to Maximilian of Bavaria, requesting twenty-four hours’ grace in which to gather his belongings and quit the city. Maximilian was not feeling generous: he granted his defeated cousin just eight hours to be gone. The royal family and its retinue frantically loaded up their carriages, ready for flight. In the panic, Frederick left behind the Bohemian crown, orb and sceptre.

  Prince Rupert was also mislaid. His nurse had placed him on a sofa while she packed and then had either forgotten or deserted him. Christopher Dhona, an intellectual attached to the court from Heidelberg University, was conducting a final sweep of the palace when he was startled to hear the cries of a baby coming from the saloon. He discovered Rupert on the floor, screaming in protest after rolling off the sofa. Dhona scooped up the baby, wrapped him tight, and sprinted to the courtyard. Seeing the last Palatine coach departing, he ran alongside it and tossed the prince through its window. Rupert slipped into the boot where he bounced around among the fugitives’ crammed belongings. Again, the strength of his lungs saved him: the coach’s occupants heard his screams and pulled him to safety while the carriage sped out of Prague’s gates. However, Rupert’s mother was not at hand. Elizabeth was consoling Frederick, and comforting a lady-in-waiting. One of them had lost a kingdom that day, the other a husband.

  The fugitives made for Silesia, a neighbouring Bohemian dependency. Elizabeth was in the final trimester of pregnancy and a halt was called at Glatz, so she might rest for a few days. The party then moved on to Breslau, the Silesian capital, where Frederick stayed to organise resistance. He sent his wife, Frederick Henry, and Rupert on to Brandenburg. Frederick was sure the Margrave of Brandenburg would help: he was a fellow Protestant Elector and the husband of Frederick’s sister, Charlotte. However, the margrave proved a reluctant host, fearing Habsburg vengeance if he was seen to assist an Imperial enemy. He allowed the Palatine family to lodge in the castle at Küstrin. It was almost a ruin, half-roofed and crawling with rats. Here, at Christmas, two ladies-in-waiting helped Elizabeth to deliver her fifth child, a son. He was named Maurice after the Dutch stadtholder, Frederick V’s uncle and a rare friend in an increasingly hostile world. All around him, Frederick’s former supporters turned their back on his cause and begged for Habsburg mercy.

  The rebel nobles of Prague capitulated a fortnight after the battle of White Mountain. For several months, it seemed that Emperor Ferdinand would forgo vengeance. However, he had not forgotten the rebellion, nor forgiven the rebels. Twenty-seven ringleaders were suddenly rounded up and a scaffold was erected. The condemned were publicly paraded, before torture and execution. Their remains were hacked up and left to decompose in key positions along the Charles Bridge. They stayed on view for several years, reminders of the reward for insurrection.

  On 21 January 1621, the Emperor carried out his terrible threat: Frederick was issued with the Imperial ban, for ‘the rupture of the public peace’. There were objections from the Elector’s allies, criticising this ‘so sudden, extraordinary, and most dangerous proceeding’,[18] but Frederick was now an outlaw, who could be harmed by anyone with impunity. Young Frederick Henry chose this moment of imminent danger to report on his brothers and sisters to his grandfather in England: ‘Sir, we are come from Sewnden to see the King and Queen and my little brother Ru
pert, who is now a little sick. But my brother Charles is now, God be thanked, very well, and my sister Elizabeth, and she is a little bigger and stronger than he.’[19]

  Frederick’s imperative was to withdraw himself and his family to a place where they would no longer be vulnerable to Habsburg vengeance. The United Provinces felt a moral duty to grant sanctuary to a man who they had encouraged to fight a common enemy, but who had failed. Frederick also had a significant blood link with the Dutch — his mother was the daughter of William the Silent. The republic took in its defeated ally, who was a grandson of their most revered warrior prince.

  While baby Maurice, freshly weaned, was sent to live with his aunt in Brandenburg, and Charles Louis and young Elizabeth remained with their grandmother in Krossen, Rupert and Frederick Henry accompanied their parents to The Hague. Here they were housed and given a monthly pension of 10,000 guilders. Their residence was the Hof to Wassenaer, a large town house. Frederick immediately started plotting how best to reclaim his lands. In the summer, the Dutch lent him 150,000 guilders to raise an army.

  *

  Looking back, the risk of accepting the Bohemian crown had seemed reasonable. Frederick’s formidable pedigree seemed to be matched by an extensive network of support: ‘The great alliances which he had contracted, his high parentage; his mighty supportments, both within Germany, and without it; the considerable eminency of his House, his Estate, and the body of confederates, principally depending upon his directions; together with the hopefulness, that other Princes and Peoples had of him: these were the fair eminencies that differed him from other Princes; and these were the procurers of his election to the Crown of Bohemia.’[20] However, failure made Frederick a figure of ridicule across Europe.

  Opponents of the couple gloated at their pitifully short rule, referring to them as the ‘Winter King and Queen’. Such critics viewed their fall as the inevitable result of unreasonable ambition. There was a seventeenth-century proverb: ‘They which take upon them more than of right belongeth, commiteth a great error, and seldom escape unpunished.’[21] Frederick and Elizabeth’s fate seemed to embody this lesson. A 1621 book contains an illustration of Frederick clinging to the wheel of fortune. As it turns, he is spun from his throne into the sea. Friendly Dutch fishermen save him from the waves, hauling him, bedraggled, to safety. The text accompanying the image pulls no punches:

  Whoever wishes to understand fortune and misfortune,

  Let him observe this play of the Palatine.

  Very happy was he in the Empire,

  His like was not easy to be found.

  He lacked neither people nor lands,

  Ruled wisely and with judgement.

  A wife of royal lineage,

  Who multiplied his high name,

  Was bringing happiness with young heirs.

  His line would not soon die out.

  By rich and poor, by young and old,

  He was held in high esteem,

  Which then was but just,

  For he held the most important Electorate

  Of the four lay Electors:

  He was a jewel of the Holy Roman Empire.

  In sum, he had everything, if only he had been satisfied...[22]

  Frederick’s doomed opportunism had huge ramifications. It accelerated a conflict that had ready combatants on both sides, and breathed life into the intricate alliances and bitter religious rivalries of Western Europe. During the ensuing Thirty Years’ War, spiritual concerns would be frequently cited. However, the predominant issues confronting the German lands were political and secular.

  For Rupert and his siblings, their father’s miscalculation condemned them to a fragile future. Their childhood, instead of taking place in the glorious palace at Heidelberg, would be spent in exile.

  Chapter Two - Childhood

  ‘The news is, that the Prince Palsgrave, with his lady and children, are come to The Hague in Holland, having made a long progress, or rather a pilgrimage, about Germany from Prague.’

  Letter of James Howell, a gossip, 1620

  Rupert’s childhood was set against his family’s constant expectation of restoration. The prince’s youngest sister Sophie remembered her siblings’ favourite game: a fantasy return journey to Heidelberg. The children would sit on chairs, pretending they were coaches, and then undertake the make-believe ride ‘home’. There were stops, to rest the horses and refresh the travellers, before the longed for destination was reached. Whether this dream homecoming could ever become reality depended on their father and his ability to knit together an alliance strong enough to defeat a many-headed enemy.

  By mid 1622, Frederick had lost not just his Bohemian kingdom, but also all his Palatine lands. Their reclamation remained his focus for the rest of his life. The Spaniards proposed that the Palsgrave’s heir, Frederick Henry, be raised at Emperor Ferdinand’s court, in Austria. He would then marry a Habsburg princess and, on coming of age, would be restored to his father’s electorate. The compromise was clearly unacceptable: Frederick Henry would have to become Roman Catholic if he wanted a peaceful return of his ancestral lands. By rejecting this formula, Frederick elected to fight for his crowns, not bargain for them.

  Though grateful for the sanctuary offered by the United Provinces, Frederick was keen to minimise his period as a Dutch pensioner: ‘May it please God,’ he wrote to Elizabeth, ‘to give us a little corner of the world, to live there happily together, it is all the good fortune that I desire. But staying at The Hague hardly appeals to me.’[23] Despite his humiliating displacement, Frederick’s marriage continued to be happy and bear fruit, the nursery receiving a new royal recruit on an almost annual basis: Louisa Hollandina was born in 1622 and was made a godchild of the States-General (which resulted in a useful, additional pension, of £200 per year); Louis, the seventh child, appeared in 1623; Edward followed, in 1625; Henrietta, in 1626; Philip, in 1627; Charlotte, in 1629; Sophie, in 1630; and Gustavus, in 1632. There were thirteen children in all: Rupert had seven brothers and five sisters.

  Given the continuing expansion of their brood, Frederick and Elizabeth were thankful when, in 1623, the Prince of Orange offered the loan of one of his larger houses. The Prinsenhof had once been a convent dedicated to the memory of St Barbara. It was situated in Leyden, a town known for its learning and for its textile industry, and fronted onto a canal. A bridge over this waterway led to the town’s famed university, which produced large numbers of Protestant priests, and which the Palatine princes attended. The Prinsenhof, long since demolished, was Rupert’s family’s principal home from when he was aged 3 until he turned 21.

  Frederick also established a hunting lodge for the family at Rhenen. This was halfway between Arnhem and Utrecht, on the Lek, a tributary of the lower Rhine. The building had previously been a monastery and was a gift from the province of Utrecht, which also provided some of the house’s furniture. It had none of the grandeur of the castle at Heidelberg, but Frederick oversaw renovations, determined to provide a retreat fit for his queen. The diarist John Evelyn visited Elizabeth there in the summer of 1641. He recalled Rhenen being ‘a neat palace or country house, built after the Italian manner’.[24]

  Queen Elizabeth retired to Rhenen for much of each summer: she loved the place for its tranquillity, beauty, and, above all, its lack of ceremony, which led to a welcome reduction in household expenditure. The exiles were living from hand to mouth, selling valuables to fund their lives. It was a family joke that they frequently dined on pearls and diamonds, since pawned jewels underwrote the domestic budget. Of the children, Rupert was the one who loved his time at Rhenen the most — from an early age he had a passion for hunting and the outdoors.

  *

  It was believed that upper-class children should be taught to read as soon as they could talk. Rupert had an early and easy facility with words: ‘Rupert is here blithe and well,’ Frederick Henry wrote to Charles Louis. ‘He is beginning to talk, and his first words were “Praise the Lord” in Bohemian.’[25] B
y the age of 3, Rupert was able to speak some English, Czech, and French. ‘Little Rupert is very clever’, his father wrote to Elizabeth, in 1622, ‘to understand so many languages.’[26] While still young, he mastered Dutch, but had no time for Latin and Greek. He insisted that dead languages were no use to him, for he was going to be a soldier.

  Elizabeth and Frederick had both been brought up away from their parents. Despite this, Frederick was a warm father: Sophie recalled in middle age her father’s ‘tenderness for children, which was one of his most lovely qualities’.[27] However, Elizabeth’s maternal instincts were muted. The children remembered their mother ‘preferring the antics of her monkeys and lap-dogs to those of her babies’.[28] Indeed, she even seemed more enamoured of her guinea pigs than she was of her offspring.

  The Palatine children were placed in the care of a middle-aged couple, Monsieur and Madame de Plessen. ‘Madame Ples’ had been Frederick’s governess when he was a boy. Frederick wrote instructions, outlining the upbringing he wanted for his heir, Frederick Henry: ‘Be careful to breed him in the love of English and of my people, for that must be his best living; and, above all things, take heed he prove not a Puritan, which is incompatible with Princes who live by order, but they by confusion.’[29] Rupert and the other princes and princesses were brought up with similar guidelines in place.

  Rupert was an inquisitive child, who particularly enjoyed natural history, collecting objects of interest with his elder sister Elizabeth. He had a scientific mind that found maths and calculations easy, and chemical experiments fun. He was also artistic: he and his sister Louise were extremely able painters and they received tuition from the Court artist Gerard van Honthorst. With so many siblings, there was always someone on hand who shared your tastes.

  We do not know the exact routine of Rupert’s schooldays. The boys and the girls were educated separately, but female education was in no way inferior to that of the males. The Netherlands at this time was enjoying a flowering of intellectual life, and one of its stars was Anna Maria van Schurmann, ‘the Dutch Minerva’, who lectured at the universities of Leyden and Utrecht. Both sexes were given a thorough grounding in logic and mathematics; writing and drawing; singing and playing instruments. The school day was full and needed structure. Princess Sophie remembered a demanding schedule, which made the children greet minor illness as a fortunate release from drudgery.