Prince Rupert: The Last Cavalier

by Charles Spencer

  Of these who perished at Marston Moor 3,200 of the 4,000 soldiers were Royalists. A further 1,500 of Rupert’s men were taken prisoner. The Marquess of Newcastle’s proud Whitecoats stood firm late in the evening, aware that the day was lost, but refusing to surrender. All but thirty of them perished, their pale tunics drenched in blood that was not, as they had intended, their enemies, but their own. Parliament’s newspaper Mercurius Britannicus reported that, among the military bounty harvested that evening, was ‘Prince Rupert’s Standard, with the Ensigns of the Palatine, near five yards long, and broad, with a red cross in the middle’.[228] ‘Besides all this,’ announced The Scottish Dove, ‘they took very good pillage, and some thousands of pounds in money, and Rupert’s Sumpter [horse].’[229]

  Under the moonlight, scavenging thieves picked over the bodies of the fallen, stripping them of clothes and possessions. ‘In the morning, there was a mortifying object to behold’, recalled Simon Ash, the Earl of Manchester’s chaplain, ‘when the naked bodies of thousands lay upon the ground, and many not altogether dead.’[230] Inspecting some of the casualties more carefully, Ash observed: ‘The white, smooth, skins of many dead bodies in the field gives us occasion to think, that they were Gentlemen.’[231] Sir Charles Lucas, as senior prisoner of war, was obliged to identify these bodies. ‘Unhappy King Charles!’ he sobbed, on seeing so many familiar faces frozen in death.

  A month later, despite local countrymen being ordered to bury the corpses, a traveller crossing near the battlefield reported that ‘there was such a stench thereabouts that it almost poisoned them that passed over the Moor.’[232]

  *

  Rupert’s beloved dog, Boy, was discovered among the casualties. This was the poodle that had been the prince’s companion since his days as a prisoner of war in Austria. He had since become a lucky mascot to Charles I’s troops. Boy had been left tied up in the Royalist camp, but he slipped his leash in the confusion of battle, running off to seek his master. Boy’s death was celebrated by the Parliamentarians and featured in Ash’s account of the battle: ‘This is only mentioned by the way’, he explained, ‘because the Prince’s Dog bath been much spoken of, and was more prized by his Master, than creatures of much more worth.’[233] Rebel propagandists had long portrayed the relationship between prince and hound as unnaturally close: perhaps, they had suggested, their bond had sinister, Satanic undertones:

  ‘Twas like a dog, yet there was none did know

  Whether it Devil was, or dog or no.[234]

  This, they claimed, would explain Rupert’s unearthly run of success. Maybe the dog was the product of the prince’s sexual encounter with a witch? If so, the death of this familiar must be a poor omen for the king’s cause:

  Lament poor Cavaliers, cry, howl and yelp

  For the great loss of your Malignant whelp,

  He’s dead! He’s dead! No more alas can he

  Protect your dames, or get victory.

  The effect of the dog’s loss on his master was the cause of vivid conjecture:

  How sad that Son of Blood did look to hear

  One tell the death of this shagg’d Cavalier.

  He rav’d, he tore his Periwig and swore,

  Against the Roundheads that he’d ne’er fight more.[235]

  Rupert made his way back from Marston Moor to York alone. On this sombre journey, it was said, he killed a handful of Parliamentarians who tried to block his way. The young general’s aura of invincibility may have been destroyed in an evening, but the myth of the man endured for now.

  Chapter Ten - Commander of the King’s Forces

  ‘The glories of our blood and state,

  are shadows, not substantial things,

  There is no armour against Fate.

  Death lays his icy hand on Kings,

  Sceptre and Crown,

  Must tumble down,

  And in the dust must be equal made,

  With the poor crooked scythe and spade.’

  The Contention of Ajax and Ulysses, James Shirley, 1596-1666.

  First reports from Marston Moor spoke of a famous victory for the prince. Such assessments were based on news of the first hour of the battle, when thousands of the allies had been seen fleeing the field. Rupert’s own account arrived with Charles at Evesham, ten days after the defeat. It was an honest appraisal of the situation, that looked to future opportunities rather than dwelling over-long on this devastating reverse. The prince knew he had been soundly beaten, but he also believed that the north was not lost: most of his casualties were in infantry, the bulk of his cavalry having been saved by the speed of their horses and the darkness of nightfall. He hoped to have a Royalist army back in action soon. In the meantime, his forces had inflicted heavy casualties on the Fairfaxes’ troops, which would make it difficult for the other rebel commanders to move their men south without leaving the north vulnerable and undermanned. Allowing York to fall to the allies, Rupert set off to regroup his men and to gather recruits with 6,000 enemy horsemen snapping at his heels.

  Rupert’s fellow northern commanders did not share his optimism. Newcastle had fought bravely at Marston Moor, rushing into battle at the head of a troop of volunteers and killing three of the enemy with a sword borrowed from his page. However, the self-regarding marquess feared that the scale of defeat would lead to ridicule at court. He had threatened resignation twice before, but this time Newcastle meant it: he set sail from Scarborough for the Continent, with Eythin in his retinue. He was to remain in self-imposed exile for the remainder of the war.

  Parliamentarians celebrated a glorious triumph over an enemy riven by dissent and lured to self-destruction — they maintained — by Rupert’s fatal pride. They ordered a Day of Thanksgiving, their propagandists gloating, ‘That when Prince Rupert had according to his own will relieved York, which (as was thought) was the greatest of his ambition, yet then he should so much glory in his own strength, as to give battle to our forces, though contrary to the advice and importunity of his own chiefest commanders.’[236] Thanks to God’s intervention, they believed, Rupert had received his long overdue come-uppance. In the flush of victory colourful tales emerged, the Scots even claiming that Newcastle had tried to stab Rupert with a knife during their final, furious meeting.

  The king was careful not to criticise his nephew, despite making it clear that it had never been his intention for Rupert to attack the enemy. The scale of the defeat shook Charles, but he could be philosophical about reverses, writing to Goring on another occasion: ‘We must expect disasters in war.’[237] Marston Moor certainly fell into this category: the biggest cavalry engagement of the war — indeed, probably the largest battle ever fought on English soil — had ended in disaster. However, Charles was loyal to his own blood, and Rupert’s past successes meant that even a debacle of this magnitude could be digested without censure.

  The king’s attitude denied Digby the opportunity to celebrate his rival’s fiasco openly. Besides, the consequences of the defeat for the Royalist cause were too serious for obvious point-scoring. Digby’s attacks had to be covert. He threw Rupert’s failure into relief by emphasising others’ heroics: ‘Noble General,’ he wrote to Goring, with a Classical flourish, ‘As we owe you all the good of the day in the Northern battle, so we owe you all the good news from thence.’[238] Next, Digby fomented suspicion that Rupert was too pig-headed to be an effective general: ‘It is given out here’, a friend warned the prince from Oxford, ‘that your commanders are unsatisfied, because you hear only private counsels, and never hear their opinions concerning your business.’[239]

  Digby used the moment to settle other scores. The secretary of state had fallen out with Lord Wilmot — Rupert’s Lieutenant General of Horse had tired of Digby’s slyness and was exasperated by his negative influence on the king. Wilmot was the epitome of the roistering, drunken Cavalier, caricatured in Puritan propaganda, but he was also a loyal and experienced general, not without talent, whose men loved him. As Clarendon observed: ‘He had, by his e
xcessive good Fellowship (in every part whereof he excelled, and was grateful to all the Company) made himself so popular with all the Officers of the Army, especially of the Horse, that he had, in truth, a very great Interest.’[240]

  In the summer of 1644, disgruntled and drinking heavily, he allowed his hatred for Digby to seep into the open: ‘Wilmot continued still sullen and perverse,’ Clarendon wrote, ‘and every day grew more insolent, and had contracted such an animosity against Lord Digby and the Master of the Rolls, that he persuaded many officers of the army, especially of the horse, where he was most entirely obeyed, to join in a petition to the King, that those two councillors might be excluded, and be no more present in councils of war, which they promised to do.’[241] Wilmot had underestimated his enemy, however. By declaring his hand, he left himself vulnerable to Machiavellian revenge.

  As the summer progressed, Digby closely monitored this noisy threat to his position. He made sure that Wilmot’s increasingly outspoken comments were relayed to the king, with the least generous interpretation attached. Wilmot’s bravery at the battle of Cropredy Bridge saved him for a while, but when it was reported that he was in secret communication with the Earl of Essex, Digby encouraged the king to strike.

  On 8 August 1644, the knight marshal, Sir Edward Sydenham, arrested Wilmot at the head of his men. The charge was high treason. Wilmot was ordered to dismount his horse and follow Sydenham into custody. Wilmot’s loyal officers greeted this dramatic move with seething disbelief — at one point, full-blooded mutiny seemed likely. Charles felt compelled to ride up to each regiment to restore order in person, offering an explanation for Wilmot’s arrest that had been concocted by Digby: Wilmot’s detention was, the king assured the cavalry, only temporary; George Goring would replace him for the time being. Meanwhile, Charles lied, it was Prince Rupert who had recommended the arrest.

  It is hard to disagree with Warburton’s view that: Digby must have hugged himself on the contrivance of making his other great enemy, Rupert, appear to be the mover in this transaction.’[242] Digby’s removal of Wilmot from his power base, and his blaming the prince for such an unpopular step, was a masterstroke.

  By this stage, Rupert was making as little effort as Wilmot to hide his contempt for Digby. Charles, blind to his secretary of state’s wiles, wrote pleading for a change of heart:

  Nephew,

  Digby, whom I must desire you (for my service’s sake because he is a useful servant) so far to countenance as to show him a possibility to recover your favour, if he shall deserve it, which I hope he will; and if not he shall repent it too late. Not doubting that for my sake but ye will make this act a greater experiment; for I assure you that, as to me, you are and shall be capable to oblige any of my servants ...[243]

  Digby, for his part, hid his dislike for Rupert under a veneer of flattery. ‘There is no occasion of my enlarging your Highness’s trouble at this present,’ he wrote to the prince, ‘further than to assure you of the great comfort and new life, as it were, which it gives to those who have the honour to be trusted by your Highness, to think that our army shall shortly be again animated by your spirit.’[244]

  Rupert greeted this obsequiousness with disdain. He wrote in cipher to his great friend and ally, Will Legge: ‘Digby makes great professions and vows to Rupert; but it will do no good upon him. Great factions are breeding against Rupert, under a pretence of peace; he being, as they report, the only cause of war in the kingdom. This party is found out, but no particulars proved: they will be, and then the King did promise to punish, or there will be no staying; which else Rupert is resolved to do, since the King’s friends are in no very good condition, and he hath promised me fair; it is well if half performed.’[245] Rupert knew that Digby was at the forefront of his Royalist enemies. He hoped that, once revealed in his true colours, Digby would lose the king’s patronage.

  *

  The latter months of 1644 produced mixed fortunes for Charles I’s cause. There had been a welcome victory at Lostwithiel, in Cornwall, when the king led his troops in a pincer movement that trapped the Earl of Essex’s army on the west of the Fowey peninsula. The rebel infantry surrendered en masse, but Essex escaped to the waiting navy in a rowing boat, and his cavalry successfully broke out to freedom when they should have been taken. Charles misguidedly allowed the defeated foot soldiers to march away unharmed, rather than be imprisoned. He could ill afford to gift his enemies thousands of troops at such a time, but the desire to be seen as a magnanimous victor was too great to resist.

  Rupert, worried that the king’s success might breed overconfidence, made his uncle promise that he would immediately head back with his men to Oxford. However, to Rupert’s intense annoyance, Charles was instead persuaded by Goring to attempt an attack on Waller, before trying to take two enemy strongholds. These delays gave the Parliamentarians the chance to catch up with the king and led to the Second Battle of Newbury — a messy and indecisive affair, fought at the end of October, at which the Royalist army was fortunate to escape serious casualties. Waller and Manchester expected too much from their artillery, an extended bombardment stopping their infantry and cavalry from joining in a concerted attack. Prince Maurice succeeded in drawing his battered infantry off into the safety of the night, while Charles rode with his lifeguards to join Rupert in Bath.

  There were reports that, in the autumn, Rupert had sunk into a depressed state. Arthur Trevor infers in his letters that the prince indulged in the sort of loose living that he was frequently accused of by Parliament, but for which no other evidence exists. He seems to have finally succumbed to the constant assaults of his courtier enemies. He also appears to have reacted to his summer defeat, one Parliamentary commentator noting that Rupert: ‘was grown dogged with the frowns he had for his miscarriage at Marston Moor, and would not come near his Majesty.’[246] Exhaustion no doubt played a part: he had been frenetically active for two years and even his famously robust constitution had reached its limits.

  On 6 November 1644, Charles demonstrated that memories of Marston Moor were banished, by bestowing on his nephew his greatest show of favour to date. During a general rendezvous of the king’s forces on Bullingdon Green: ‘The Prince was declared General of the Army and Master of the Horse’,[247] the author of Prince Rupert’s diary recorded — a succinct sentence, but a mighty promotion. The 24-year-old Rupert replaced the doddery, alcoholic, and recently wounded Earl of Forth as commander of all the king’s armies. However, Rupert was keen not to play into Digby’s hands, by being seen to overreach himself. He cleverly insisted that his cousin the Prince of Wales bear the title of General of the Royal Army, while he settled for the rank of lieutenant general, his main task the coordination of the king’s war plans.

  Rupert’s critics mourned Forth’s replacement. ‘The King’s Army was less united than ever,’ Clarendon gauged, ‘the old General was left aside, and Prince Rupert put into the command, which was no popular change: for the other was known to be an officer of great experience, and had committed no oversights in his conduct; was willing to hear every thing debated, and always concurred with the most reasonable opinion: and though he was not of many words, and was not quick in hearing, yet upon any action he was sprightly, and commanded well. The Prince was rough, and passionate, and loved not debate; liked what was proposed, as he liked the persons who proposed it; and was so great an enemy to Digby and Culpepper, who were only present in debates of the War with the Officers, that he crossed all they proposed.’[248]

  Rupert took advantage of his new powers to promote his most stalwart supporter, his brother Maurice, who took command of Wales and the Welsh Borders. Rupert also secured Goring’s promotion to General of Horse. The king soon went further, entrusting Goring to lead all his forces in the southwest. To Rupert’s fury, Goring managed to secure the dispensation that he had previously insisted upon for himself, receiving his orders directly from the king. When the Royalists most needed unified command, Charles gave them division.


  The transfer of Rupert, Maurice, and Goring to new postings was the most significant change to take place on the Royalist side during the winter of 1644-5, a season that the rebels were to use to far greater effect.

  *

  Prince Rupert returned to Oxford in early November, going into winter quarters to prepare for the 1645 campaign. His priority was to claw provisions from every available recess in the kingdom, so the Royalists could supply their men in the field. Although Rupert approached these duties with purpose, he was unable to overcome a general breakdown in discipline. Charles could not afford to pay or feed his soldiers regularly and, in lieu of wages, he allowed his men to take matters into their own hands. Sometimes, this took a practical form: soldiers cut down a coppice in Brasenose, meeting a shortage of wood in Oxford, and kept the income for themselves. However, elsewhere pillaging became more frequent. A disgusted Parliamentarian wrote, in late November: ‘The King’s Party from Oxford have lately plundered Wantage, which is about ten miles from Oxford; and have taken all away from the poor inhabitants that was portable, leaving them poorer, and more miserable, than ever.’[249]

  This disintegration of order was accompanied by war-weariness: the king’s soldiers, under pressure throughout 1644, had marched from pillar to post in an effort to keep his cause alive. Now there was a growing sense, almost tangible in Oxford, that the conflict would be lost. A peace party emerged, led by Richmond, Clarendon, and Lord Southampton. Rupert found he increasingly sympathised with them: nobody had a greater appreciation of the Royalists’ weaknesses than he, whose job was to paper over the ever widening cracks.

  Rupert also saw that Charles’s prospects were compromised by the poor quality of his closest advisers. This problem grew more serious when the king decided, for safety’s sake, to send his eldest son to establish a secondary court in Bristol: Richmond, and many of the rest of Charles’s wiser counsellors, accompanied the Prince of Wales to the southwest. Digby and John Ashburnham — the treasurer of the Royal army — were left behind, their self-interest undimmed and their guidance as flawed as ever.