Prince Rupert: The Last Cavalier

by Charles Spencer

  Setting off eastwards from Bentheim, the small force was soon in action. Rupert was riding with the advanced guard near Rheine when attacked by a unit twice the size of his detachment. The prince drew up his men and, for the first time, ordered the manoeuvre that would become his signature piece: the full-blooded cavalry charge. The enemy reacted, in a manner that would become familiar to Rupert, by breaking formation and fleeing in terror, pursued by his men’s slashing blades all the way back to the town. ‘We must not pass over one remarkable providence more upon this adventure’, the prince’s secretary later recalled, ‘a soldier, with a screwed gun, snapped at the Prince within ten yards of his body, but happily missed fire.’[63]

  Joy at the outcome of this skirmish was short-lived. The Imperialist high command now knew the exact position of Charles Louis’s army and appreciated how small it was. A nearby force under General Hartzfeldt was despatched to annihilate it. Hartzfeldt realised that the Palatine army’s only possible escape route through the surrounding high land lay via the Minden Gap. Charles Louis would have to approach this via Vlotho (also known as Flota), where he could cross the River Weser. When the Protestants arrived at the pass, however, an army as diverse as their own stood before them. The main body of the cavalry was Austrian, the infantry was mixed, and the dragoons, commanded by Colonel Devereux, were Irish. Devereux had gained lasting infamy by murdering Wallenstein, one of the Thirty Years’ War’s great mercenary commanders, in 1634.

  The battle that took place at Vlotho on 17 October 1638 was a one-sided affair. This was largely owing to Conigsmark’s inept leadership. He drew up his men in a narrow gorge in four rows, the third of which was commanded by Rupert, while he rode in the comparative safety of the fourth. The impact of the Imperial heavy cavalry against this static defence was devastating: the front two lines, comprised of Palatine cavalry, buckled and broke in the first moments of battle.

  Rupert now found himself directing the front line of his brother’s army. Clad in full armour, his visor down, and with Lords Grandison and Northampton by his side, he led his men forward at the charge. The enemy cuirassiers faltered, and then fled the field, pursued by Rupert’s force. However, inexplicably, Conigsmark failed to reinforce the counterattack. Rupert suddenly found himself far from his own lines, surrounded by superior numbers of Imperialists under Marshal Gotz. Lord Craven tried to come to the prince’s assistance, leading forward two troops of Charles Louis’s lifeguards. This brave intervention was too small to succeed: the Austrian cavalry rolled up Rupert and Craven’s men, sending them back into the gorge where they had started the battle. As they milled around in confusion, they were caught in a flanking attack. The Imperialists charged down the hillside and joined in the massacre of the prince’s men. Rupert was only spared from the slaughter because, by chance, he was wearing a white band in his helmet, similar to the one that the Austrians were sporting that day.

  Finding himself alone among his fallen men, Rupert rode to help one of Craven’s ensigns, who was defending Charles Louis’s standard with the last of his troopers. Soon all these men were also slain. Rupert was cornered, the sole Palatine survivor in this pocket of the battlefield. He killed the soldier who was holding his brother’s captured colours, then, in a desperate escape attempt, dug his spurs into his horse’s flanks while pointing him at a wall. However, after the day’s exertions, the height was too great for his mount and instead of jumping, it slowly sank to the ground, utterly exhausted. On foot now, Rupert killed the first enemy soldier who approached him. He refused to surrender, but his position was quite hopeless. He was quickly overpowered. Lippe, a veteran enemy colonel, pulled up the prince’s visor, and demanded to know his prisoner’s identity. ‘A colonel!’ replied Rupert. ‘Sacre met!’ replied Lippe, ‘You’re a young ‘un.’[64]

  Rupert was recognised by Count Hartzfeldt, the Imperialist cavalry general, and was handed over to Colonel Devereux’s care. The prince began furtive negotiations with the Irishman, giving him five gold coins, while promising more if he would allow him to escape. Devereux would probably have obliged, but Rupert was too valuable a prisoner to be left without a special guard, and Hartzfeldt returned with one before the bribe could take effect. The prince was sent for safekeeping at Warendorf.

  What of Rupert’s comrades? Conigsmark never committed his soldiers and fled from the battlefield without a scratch. Charles Louis took flight with him, nearly drowning in the chaos of retreat when his carriage overturned in the fast-running River Weser. He hauled himself out by a willow branch, while his coachmen and horses were swept to their death. King was suspected of treachery: it was later learnt that he had sent his baggage train, containing his silver and personal chattels, to safety, the night before the battle. Unless blessed with extraordinary foresight, he must have known of the enemy’s plans. Captain Pyne, an eyewitness, was of the opinion ‘that the wilfulness of the Elector and the treachery of King ... lost the day’.[65] The loyal Craven, by contrast, shared Rupert’s fate, and was taken prisoner. He had been seriously wounded in the thigh and the hand, but would live. Craven was subsequently able to buy his freedom with the huge ransom of £20,000. When he offered to pay more to be allowed to stay with Rupert, he was refused.

  Among the other prisoners was Sir Richard Crane, who Rupert was allowed to send to England with an account of the defeat. The scribbled message on a page torn from a notebook was the first confirmation that the prince’s family had of his survival: early reports had counted him among the dead. Elizabeth of Bohemia reacted to the news of his capture with immense self-pity, declaring that it might have been better if Rupert had perished. As a prisoner, he would be vulnerable to Catholic conversion — a thought not worth contemplating. She had greeted the suggestion with horror, claiming: ‘I would rather strangle my children with my own hands.’[66]

  Rupert was defiant in the face of his enemies, the London Post recording: ‘The Emperor that then was pitying his youth, and hearing that he had the face and physiognomy of a Soldier, did send unto him to change his Religion, assuring him, that he would restore him to the Electoral Dignity, and make him Generalissimo of his Army. Prince Rupert returned this answer to the Emperor: That he thanked him for his promised favours, but for matters of Religion, they were out of his element. If the Emperor had sent him a bale of dice (he said) he knew what answer to return him. This wild answer of his being brought unto the Emperor, the Emperor replied, that he might have the face of a soldier, but it appeared by his answer, he but had the condition of a fool, & in choler protested, that he would he troubled no longer with him.’[67]

  Rupert was moved to the forbidding castle of Linz, overlooking the Danube. So important a captive was he, that 1,200 men accompanied him there. By contrast, as a prisoner he was allowed a skeleton retinue, comprising just a pageboy and two other servants. Ferdinand III, now Emperor in place of the dour bigot whose armies had triumphed at White Mountain, chose the prince’s gaoler with care: Count von Kuffstein was a respected military veteran and an enthusiastic convert to Catholicism. The Emperor hoped Kuffstein would be able to win Rupert’s respect and confidence, before laying siege to his soul. Kuffstein enjoyed discussing military theory with Rupert and soon grew to like his prisoner. He never forgot his mission, though, and soon suggested that the prince might enjoy the company of two Jesuit priests. Rupert flatly rejected the offer, unless he was also allowed the companionship of Protestant guests of his own choice. This was out of the question. The war of spiritual attrition continued.

  Rupert busied himself with science and art. He worked on a variation of an instrument originally devised by Darer, which helped in the drawing of perspective. The prince also drew: one of his etchings from this period shows a full-length mendicant friar in a landscape with a city, a river, and a handful of soldiers in the background. This is a precursor of his later, more celebrated, innovations with the mezzotint method of engraving. However, his ability to indulge in his favourite pursuits did not detract from the harshness of
his confinement. Rupert would refer to it as ‘a wretched close imprisonment’, and point to his ability to endure it with pride. It was only his unshakeable Protestant faith that stopped him from accepting the Emperor’s ‘stately large promises’,[68] which included not just freedom, but also generalship in the Imperial army and the grant of a small principality, which he would be able to call his own.

  From time to time the prince joined the count’s household for dinner and he was allowed occasional access to the castle’s gardens. It is not recorded where he first met Kuffstein’s daughter, Susan, but we know the two of them fell in love. Rupert recalled her much later as ‘one of the brightest beauties of her age, no less excelling in the charms of her mind than of her fair body’.[69] ‘He never mentioned her without admiration’, remembered a contemporary, ‘and expressing a devotion to serve her with his life.’[70] Given the strictness of his confinement, it seems unlikely that this relationship could ever have progressed beyond the platonic.

  Rupert was an intriguing figure to his captors. Ferdinand III’s brother, the Archduke Leopold, went to examine the prince during the second year of his imprisonment. Leopold felt that Kuffstein was keeping the prince on too tight a leash, and saw to it that Rupert be allowed to play ‘ballon’ — tennis — and practise military skills, including the use of a gun with a rifled barrel. He became an extremely accomplished tennis player, and a very accurate shot. Provided he gave his word not to escape, Leopold felt that Rupert should be granted greater physical freedom. He was given three-day passes that allowed him to join surrounding noblemen on hunting expeditions. His favourite host was Count Kevenhüller, whose residence was at Kamur, in Bavaria: ‘It was’, Rupert’s manuscript biographer wrote, ‘a most pleasant place, and the count received him with all the honour imaginable.’[71]

  The prince’s family seldom received news of his well-being, but Elizabeth of Bohemia never wavered in seeking Rupert’s release. When the Earl of Essex visited The Hague, she urged him to go on to Austria and intercede with the Emperor on her son’s behalf. When Essex declined, Charles Louis was disappointed. He felt that only somebody of the earl’s stature could reasonably undertake such a mission, because any lesser figure would be vulnerable to the effects of Rupert’s hot-headedness: ‘Essex should have gone’, Charles Louis wrote, ‘because there was no one else would, neither could I force any to it, since there is no small danger in it, for any obstinacy of my brother Rupert’s, or venture to escape, would put him in danger of hanging.’[72]

  Charles I sent Sir Thomas Roe, Elizabeth of Bohemia’s devotee, as an ambassador to reiterate English support for Rupert’s release. Favourable reports reached The Hague of Roe’s progress, the Countess of Lowenstein writing: ‘I hope by the solicitation of Sir Thomas Roe we shall have our sweet Prince Rupert here: he hath been long a prisoner.’[73]

  Ferdinand III eventually agreed to free Rupert, if he apologised for taking up arms against the Empire. The prince refused, saying that he had nothing to apologise for: he had only been doing his duty. This message reached Ferdinand when he was being visited by the Palatinate’s greatest foe, the Duke of Bavaria. Maximilian persuaded his host that such impudence demanded severe punishment. Rupert’s imprisonment now entered its toughest phase: his trips from the castle, his ability to play sports, and his contact with Kuffstein’s daughter were all forbidden. A detachment of twelve musketeers and two halberdiers was ordered to keep the prince under 24-hour watch.

  Rupert’s only consolation lay in the company of pet animals. The Earl of Arundel was an eminent, cultured, English aristocrat who had joined the retinue accompanying the newly married Elizabeth to Heidelberg, after her marriage to Rupert’s father. Arundel, permanently disabled after being thrown from his carriage in London, had subsequently been a benign presence in the life of the Palatines since 1632, when he was sent to the United Provinces in a futile attempt to persuade Elizabeth of Bohemia to bring her fatherless family to live in her brother’s kingdom. Subsequently, the earl had greatly enjoyed Rupert and Charles Louis’s company during their visit to England, commissioning Francois Dieussart, a French sculptor, to sculpt busts of the two princes.

  Arundel was deeply upset by Rupert’s protracted imprisonment and sent the prince a white dog, which seems to have been a rare strain of poodle. Rupert named him ‘Boy’ and made him his constant companion. The Grand Turk heard of the dog’s beauty and ordered his ambassador to find him a puppy of the same breed. The prince also domesticated a hare, which followed him at heel. Rupert had inherited his mother’s affinity for animals.

  Once, the prince was nearly sprung from his cage. A Franco-Swedish force struck towards Linz, with Rupert’s release its main aim. It was met and defeated by Imperialists under Archduke Leopold. Soon after the engagement, Leopold rode to visit the captive once more, and his friendship with Rupert resumed. Meanwhile, Ferdinand’s Empress, who had been born a Spanish princess, began to advocate the prince’s liberty. With domestic problems escalating dangerously in England, Charles I increased his pressure on the Emperor: he needed his nephew to help lead whatever army could be mustered, if hostilities broke out. The concerted efforts eventually persuaded Ferdinand to grant Rupert his freedom, provided he promise never to fight against the Empire again. This was a considerable undertaking from a prince who was keen to avenge his father’s humiliations and whose vocation was the military. However, worn down by years of captivity, and eager to resume life as a free man, Rupert’s stubbornness gave way. He reluctantly agreed to this far-reaching restriction.

  A symbolic act was needed, to bring about the prince’s release. When Ferdinand was hunting near Linz, it was arranged that Rupert would pretend to come across the hunting party and pay homage to the Emperor. This would be enough to trigger his freedom. Rupert arrived at the appointed time and place, to find a particularly ferocious wild boar holding hounds and hunters at bay. While everyone else hung back, Rupert rushed forward with a spear and slew the boar. The Emperor proffered a hand to the brave prince and Rupert kissed it. From that moment, he was free.

  Ferdinand made a final offer to the prince of a senior command against the French and Swedes, and promised that he would be allowed to continue in the Protestant religion while serving. Rupert declined: he had compromised enough.

  The prince was keen to surprise his family by reaching home before official messengers could bring them news of his release. He arrived back at the Prinsenhof in December 1641, just ahead of Sir Thomas Roe’s letter announcing his freedom, and remained with his delighted mother for two months.

  Rupert returned to find Elizabeth recovering from the loss of another child. Gustavus had died in agony on 9 January 1641, five days before his ninth birthday. Rupert’s youngest brother had been in acute pain for much of his short life, but none of the many doctors the family had called on had been able to establish the cause of, or think of a cure for, his affliction. Gustavus’s final days were so terrible that they left a lifelong impression on Sophie, Rupert’s youngest sister. She later recalled that, ‘on opening him stones were found in his bladder, one of which was the size of a pigeon’s egg surrounded by four others that were pointed, and one in his kidneys in the shape of a large tooth that has been pulled out with its root.’[74] Only then did family members understand the full ghastliness of the ordeal that the little boy had endured for so long.

  Rupert’s return provided a fillip for the grieving, impoverished family-in-exile, most of whose financial reserves had been spent on the ill-fated expedition that had resulted in the prince’s incarceration. That winter Rupert busied himself joining in scientific experiments with his sister Elizabeth. Active service soon reclaimed him, however. The uncle who had helped secure his freedom demanded Rupert’s presence across the North Sea, for Charles’s kingdom was facing the imminent prospect of civil war.

  Chapter Five - To His Uncle’s Aid

  ‘Though I will never fight in any unrighteous quarrel, yet to defend the King, Religion and Laws of a
Kingdom against subjects, who are up in arms against their Lord and Sovereign ... such a cause my conscience tells me is full of piety and justice: and if it please God to end my days in it, I shall think my last breath spent with as much honour and religion, as if I were taken of my knees at my prayers.’

  Prince Rupert His Declaration, 1642

  From 1629 until 1640 England experienced what royal opponents termed ‘the Eleven Years’ Tyranny’, when Charles ruled without Parliament. The king managed to obtain funds through various controversial means, including the sale of commercial monopolies, the appropriation of tonnage and poundage customs dues, and by raising the naval war tax of Ship Money during peacetime. These methods helped to foment dissent, at a time when there was no national forum where it could be expressed. The king’s personal rule polarised the political nation.

  The tensions that led to civil war became discernible, with increasing vividness and frequency, from the late 1630s onwards. The problems were not new, as an intractable king and an ambitious Parliament clashed with escalating force. Two of James I’s later Parliaments had been short-lived, as traditional monarchy failed to react with tact or understanding to strong social, economic, religious, and philosophical shifts.