Copyright

William Collins

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This eBook first published in Great Britain by William Collins in 2017

Copyright © Charles Spencer 2017

Charles Spencer asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

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Cover illustration Royal Collection Trust/© Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II 2017

Map by John Gilkes

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Source ISBN: 9780008153632

Ebook Edition © October 2017 ISBN: 9780008153656

Version: 2018-10-01

Dedication

For Karen

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Epigraph

Map

Introduction

PART ONE: KING OF SCOTLAND

1 Civil Warrior

2 Royal Prey

3 A Question of Conscience

4 The Crown, Without Glory

5 A Foreign Invasion

6 The Battle of Worcester

7 The Hunt Begins

PART TWO: THE ROMAN CATHOLIC UNDERGROUND

8 Whiteladies

9 The London Road

10 Near Misses

11 Reunion

PART THREE: A LEAGUE OF GENTLEMEN

12 Heading for the Coast

13 Processing the Prisoners

14 Touching Distance

15 Still Searching for a Ship

16 Surprise Ending

PART FOUR: REACTION, REWARDS AND REDEMPTION

17 Reaction

18 Rewards

19 Redemption

Picture Section

Acknowledgements

Notes

Bibliography

Index

Also by Charles Spencer

About the Author

About the Publisher

Epigraph

I know how men in exile feed on dreams.

Aeschylus

Introduction

King Charles II had a favourite story. It was about the six weeks when, aged twenty-one, he had been on the run for his life. Those hunting him down had included the regicides – those responsible for his father’s trial and beheading – who feared him as a deadly avenger; the Parliamentary army, who viewed him as the commander of a defeated, foreign, invasion; and ordinary people, because upon his head sat not the English crown of his birthright, but a colossal financial reward.

This brief period of Charles II’s life stood alone for many reasons. While there were many other times when the bleak reality of his situation fell well short of any reasonable princely expectations, it marked the low point of his fortunes, both as man and royal dignitary. It was uniquely exhilarating for him, in a way that only a genuine life-or-death tussle could be. And it showed off personal qualities that were not always evident in an individual whose self-indulgence and sense of entitlement could infuriate even his most loyal devotees. In his hour of greatest danger, he was proud to note, had arisen within him a quickness of wit, an adaptability, and a hard instinct for survival, that had saved his neck.

In the spring of 1660 Charles returned to England, to claim his throne, on a ship whose figurehead of Oliver Cromwell had hastily been removed, and whose name had been changed from the Naseby (the battle that had been his father’s most punishing defeat) to the Royal Charles. Samuel Pepys was a fellow passenger, and wrote in his diary for 23 May 1660 of how: ‘Upon the quarterdeck he [Charles] fell into discourse of his escape from Worcester, where it made me ready to weep to hear the stories that he told of his difficulties that he had passed through, of his travelling four days and three nights on foot, every step up to his knees in dirt, with nothing but a green coat and a pair of country breeches on, and a pair of country shoes that made him so sore all over his feet, that he could barely stir.’

In the subjects of the kingdom that he had been allowed suddenly and unexpectedly to gain, Charles had found a fresh audience for his pet tale. They would hear repeatedly of their new young king’s exploits. Not that Pepys complained, for the retelling of events that had taken place when he had been a young man of eighteen, six months into his first year at Cambridge University, particularly intrigued him. They awoke, in this most famous of English diarists, the tracking instincts of an investigative journalist. He decided to check how much of the king’s recollections of the six weeks’ adventure were true, and to what extent they had been seasoned by royal fancy, or compromised by forgetfulness.

Two decades later, during one of the royal court’s stays in Suffolk for the horse-racing on Newmarket Heath, Pepys managed to obtain an audience with the king. In his scratchy shorthand (his eyesight had been failing for more than a decade) he took down what Charles remembered of the most electrifying time of his life. Riveted by what he had heard, Pepys quickly secured a second session, his manuscript revealing additions where he included fresh details that Charles had forgotten the first time round.

Meanwhile Pepys resolved to trace those still alive from the motley bunch that had helped the king on his journey from shattering defeat to miraculous delivery. An exceptionally busy man, being at different times a Member of Parliament for two constituencies, and Chief Secretary to the Admiralty, Pepys had hoped to piece together the whole, correct, version of the astonishing tale of escape, and present it as the definitive account. It appears that he had completed almost his entire collection of relevant documents by December 1684, two months before Charles’s sudden death at the age of fifty-four, for that was when he had it bound. A few additions were kept with this volume, including Colonel George Gunter’s report, which arrived at some point during the first seven months of 1685.

There is a paragraph, near the start of Colonel Gunter’s offering, which underlines the way in which those intimately involved in Charles’s escape attempt felt they had been chosen, for whatever reason, to be participants in an event whose eventual outcome had been determined by God. Gunter wrote:

Here, before I proceed in the story, the reader will give me leave to put him in mind, that we write not an ordinary story, where the reader, engaged by no other interest than curiosity, may soon be cloyed with circumstances which signify no more unto him but that the author was at good leisure and was very confident of his reader’s patience. In the relation of miracles, every petty circumstance is material and may afford to the judicious reader matter of good speculation: of such a miracle especially, where the restoration of no less than three kingdoms, and his own particular safety and liberty (if a good and faithful subject) was at the stake.1

Pepys was not in awe of royalty to anything like the same degree as Colonel Gunter. He had been in the crowd at the beheading of Charles I on 30 January 1649, and it is clear that he had some sympathy with the ruthless Parliamentary justice meted out that day. During his time as a naval administrator he never shirked from locking horns with Royalists if, in his view, they were holding back the progress of the service. His disagreements with Prince Rupert of the Rhine, the poster boy of the Crown’s cause in his youth, and Lord Admiral of England in middle age, show a lack of deference to those of the highest birth if he judged them to be wrongheaded, and therefore dangerous to the nation. Pepys was a loyal patriot, but not a fawning one. He therefore makes for an appealing midwife in the delivery of the king’s tale.

There was a great appetite for this unique royal story during the king’s lifetime, even amongst his most intimate circle. James, Duke of York, wrote to Pepys in the middle of 1681, saying he wanted to read for himself his elder brother’s description of his time on the run after the defeat at Worcester. It was his second time of asking this favour of Pepys. Even though the duke promised not to take a copy of the account, Pepys dared to set out that this was a journalistic project that was still very much in progress, and one that he felt especially protective of: ‘My covetousness of rendering it as perfect, as the memory of any of the survivors (interested in any part of that memorable story) can enable me to make it,’ he wrote, ‘has led me into so many and distant enquiries relating thereto, as have kept me out of a capacity of putting it together as I would, and it ought, and shall be, so soon as ever I possess myself of all the memorials I am in expectation of concerning it. Which I shall also (for your Royal Highness’s satisfaction) use my utmost industry in the hastening.’2

He eventually sent the transcript to the duke, while mentioning that he was still awaiting the key testimony of Father John Huddleston, a Roman Catholic priest who had taken a prominent role in the tale of royal derring-do. Pepys received this in March 1682 from Lady Mary Tuke, a lady-in-waiting to the queen, who forwarded it to him on Huddleston’s behalf.

Pepys died in 1703, never having completed his task of stitching together the threads that he had gathered together so painstakingly. Perhaps the death of the central figure in the tale made the undertaking one that seemed less pressing.

Whatever the reason, the testimonies he had assembled, and which he left behind in one place, are invaluable to those that have followed. Indeed, the accounts of Charles II himself, as well as those of Father Huddleston, Thomas Whitgreave and Colonel Phillips, are priceless testimonies to a factual tale that reads like fiction. All four have long been recognised as the key first-hand records of one of the greatest escapes in history.

Thomas Blount provided another sparkling contemporary account of the getaway. Blount was a Roman Catholic, and a Royalist, who gloried in the miracle of the tale, and so might have been tempted by his predispositions to stray from the truth. But he was also a lexicographer and an antiquarian, who studied law. His intellectual discipline, when compiling dictionaries of obscure words or studying the distant past, set a standard for his painstaking research in this field of recent royal history. In his introduction to Boscobel Blount assured his readers: ‘I am so far from that foul crime of publishing what’s false, that I can safely say I know not one line unauthentic; such has been my care to be sure of the truth, that I have diligently collected the particulars from most of their mouths, who were the very actors in this scene of miracles.’

Nearly all of Blount’s sources were still alive at the time of Boscobel’s completion. Far from disputing his version of events, they were happy to contribute further recollections, which he included in his next edition. It seems that he accurately assembled the memories of his interviewees, many of whom had little or no literacy. They were relying on Blount to disperse their experiences to his readers.

How best to use such remarkable sources? Unlike the king’s version of what had happened during the six weeks, the other contributors, of course, concentrated on what they remembered from their own few days or so in the core of the narrative. It is obvious that nothing else in their lives came close to the excitement of being involved in their king’s survival. As a result, extraordinary details are remembered – the opening of a bottle of sherry releasing two hornets from its neck; the way the king cooked his collops of lamb; the sight of his battered and bloody feet.

Equally understandable would be the embellishment of tales over time, and the exaggeration of services rendered. I have weighed up the likelihood of things happening as recalled, the closeness of the witness to the action, and the inevitability of human foibles clouding the picture, as best I can. There remains one imponderable, which I try to deal with even-handedly: the competing accounts of Captain Alford and William Ellesdon as to what upended the escape attempt at Charmouth. At least one of them has to be lying, but both had supporting witnesses, so it is hard to draw a conclusion either way.

Charles II himself’s memory of events seems to have been accurate, the day-to-day order of events apparently seared into his mind. For a man of hearty appetites, the recall of when and if he was fed, and what with, seems to have been a perpetual concern: when he first spoke to Pepys, he was feasting on pease-pudding, and two different types of roast meat. On the other hand, Charles chose not to deal with fears, or other emotions, in his account. This is a great shame for the modern reader. Perhaps admitting to what might, in the late seventeenth century, have been perceived as weaknesses, was considered a little much.

Those mistakes that Charles makes in his recollections seem to me to be understandably human: he was, for instance, wrong to think that one of his collaborators, Thomas Whitgreave, had the surname of ‘Pitchcross’, or ‘Pitchcroft’. That was, in fact, the name of the field to the north of Worcester where the Royalist troops had mustered before the dismal defeat that brought about his need to run. If anything, such an error simply suggests that Charles’s recollections came direct from his memory, rather than from written notes.

Intriguingly rich sources aside, I have also sought, more than many others who have written on this subject before me, to set the narrative in its wider context. The battle of Worcester is pretty much forgotten, even in England. This is something that two future American presidents, Thomas Jefferson and John Adams, condemned when they insisted on visiting the battlefield in 1786. Adams wrote:

Worcester were curious and interesting to us, as scenes where freemen had fought for their rights. The people in the neighbourhood, appeared so ignorant and careless at Worcester that I was provoked and asked, ‘And do Englishmen so soon forget the ground where Liberty was fought for? Tell your neighbours and your children that this is holy ground, much holier than that on which your churches stand. All England should come in Pilgrimage to this Hill, once a Year.’

Adams had, I believe, a point.

In England we may pass one of the more than 400 pubs called the Royal Oak, and be briefly reminded of the most lyrical part of this tale. But my conclusion at the end of writing this book is that Charles’s escape attempt was not some jolly adventure, but a deadly serious race against an enemy eager to spill fresh Stuart blood on an executioner’s block.

In the final analysis, this is a tale of grit, of loyalty, and of luck.

PART ONE

KING OF SCOTLAND

1

Civil Warrior

Now all such calamities as may be avoided by human industry arise from war, but chiefly from civil war, for from this proceed slaughter, solitude, and the want of all things.

Thomas Hobbes, ‘De Corpore’, 1655

Charles, Prince of Wales, witnessed the English Civil War up close from its outbreak till its end. He was present at the battle of Edgehill, in October 1642. This was the first major engagement of a conflict that erupted over differences between the Crown and Parliament, concerning the limits of the king’s power, and clashing religious beliefs. Nine years later he would command an army at Worcester, the final action in the most bloodstained chapter in British history. By that time the Civil Wars in England, Ireland and Scotland had claimed hundreds of thousands of lives in the three kingdoms.

At Edgehill Prince Charles, then a twelve-year-old honorary captain in the King’s Horse Guards, had proved to be a handful. It had been hard to stop him from leading a charge against the rebel cavalry. At another point he and his younger brother James, Duke of York, were nearly captured, and had to take cover in a barn packed with wounded soldiers.

The boys had spent part of that clear autumn afternoon at Edgehill in the care of their father’s elderly physician, Dr William Harvey, the English authority on anatomy. It was Harvey who had, in 1628, been the first to write about the circulation of blood in the body. The distinguished doctor took the pair of princes to shelter under a hedge, where he hoped to divert them from the violent bloodshed taking place all around them by reading a book. This distraction did not go to plan, Harvey telling his biographer John Aubrey that ‘he had not read very long before a bullet of a great gun grazed on the ground near him, which made him remove his station’.1

Despite the dangers, King Charles I remained keen to keep his eldest son by his side during the first two and a half years of the conflict. Towards the end of 1644 he gave the fourteen-year-old prince the title ‘first Captain-General of all our Forces’, although such duties were in reality performed by the king’s nephew, Prince Rupert of the Rhine.

In early 1645, as Parliament began to gain a decisive upper hand in the war, Charles I decided to prevent the possibility of his being caught or killed at the same time as his heir. Keen ‘to unboy’ his son, ‘by putting him into some action, and acquaintance [him] with business out of his own sight’,2 he sent him away to his own, separate, command. The prince was created general of the Royalist forces in the west of England, with real responsibilities. On 5 March 1645 he parted from his father for what would prove to be the last time, riding out of Oxford into a ferocious rainstorm.

With the prince went an escort of 300 cavalrymen. He was safely delivered to Bristol, but it could easily have ended otherwise. On their return journey a large force of Charles’s guards were ambushed near Devizes, in Wiltshire. Forty of them were killed, while twenty officers were among the many captured Cavaliers.

A handful of advisers, hand-picked by the king, rode with Charles to Bristol. Prominent among them was Sir Edward Hyde, who had long been involved in the prince’s life. In early 1642 he had looked after Charles while his French mother, Queen Henrietta Maria, had sailed to the Continent to raise funds and forces for her husband. It was the start of a relationship that would run the gamut of service, trust, disappointment, triumph, rejection and disgrace.

Twenty-one years older than the prince, Hyde was at heart a traditional patriot who believed in political stability. He had hoped for a peaceful resolution to the tensions between Crown and Parliament, believing a compromise was both possible and desirable. But there was too much fear and suspicion on both sides for reason and sense to prevail.

As civil war became increasingly likely, Hyde’s hopes for order gradually turned him from being a critic of Charles I into a Royalist. When the king finally declared war, raising the royal standard at Nottingham in August 1642, Hyde was by his side. After that he lent his fine brain and brilliant oratory to Charles I’s cause. Hyde was made Chancellor of the Exchequer, the king justifying the promotion with a rather downbeat endorsement: ‘The truth is, I can trust nobody else.’3

Hyde found court life complicated. It was hard for him to negotiate a landscape that was pitted with factions, and where insincerity and self-interest were the perpetual themes. Meanwhile a supreme confidence in his own views made it challenging for him to accommodate those of others when they differed.

He brought this inflexible mindset on campaign, when he accompanied Prince Charles as he took up his command in the west. Hyde hoped to bring order to the Crown’s resistance there, but his prickly attitude, perhaps fired up by the raging gout that often dogged him, instead diminished what remained of morale in this corner of England. It was a sphere of the war that was going as poorly for the Crown as any other, not helped by the king’s leading generals in the region being at odds with one another. One, Sir Ralph Hopton, was a man of sobriety and religion, who once refused to join battle until his men had finished hearing divine service. Another, Lord Goring, was remembered even by his fellow Royalists as the epitome of the hard-drinking, roistering Cavalier. A third, Sir Richard Grenville, had been condemned as ‘traitor, rogue, villain’ by Parliament after switching allegiance to the Crown. Grenville, grandson of a great Elizabethan naval hero of the same name, had a violent temper and a reputation for ruthlessness in the field. He refused to serve under Goring or Hopton, and would be imprisoned for his disobedience.

Prince Charles arrived in Bristol in early April to find apathy among the area’s leading Royalists, and plague erupting in the city. He decided to move thirty-two miles south-west to Bridgwater, a town whose castle was believed to be impregnable, and whose governor, Sir Edmund Wyndham, he knew. Sir Edmund’s wife, Christabella, had been Charles’s wet-nurse and assistant governess from when he was one until he turned five.

Christabella Wyndham was noted for her great beauty, and for her bossiness. Samuel Pepys noted in his diary that she ‘governed’ Charles ‘and everything else … as [if she were] a minister of state’.4 Sir Edward Hyde dismissed her as ‘a woman of great rudeness and a country pride’.5 But she had her charms. Christabella, in her late thirties, and Charles, yet to turn fifteen, became lovers during his stay in Bridgwater Castle in 1645. Afterwards, far from exercising discretion, Christabella appalled the prince’s advisers by being shamelessly familiar with him, showering him with kisses in public. When Charles proved unable to concentrate on matters of state, thanks to Christabella’s distracting influence, his advisers moved him on from Bridgwater as quickly as they could.

That summer Parliament’s New Model Army arrived outside Bridgwater in huge numbers, to test its impregnability. Hearing that Oliver Cromwell, the rebel force’s second-in-command, was examining the town’s defences from the far side of its imposing moat, Christabella Wyndham decided to act. As an insult to the enemy, and as a reminder of her previous role as royal wet-nurse, she is reported as having exposed one of her breasts, picked up a loaded musket, and fired. The shot missed Cromwell, but killed his sergeant-at-arms.

The Roundheads, outnumbering the garrison by eight to one, attacked Bridgwater soon afterwards. With victory rapidly assured, the Parliamentary commander Sir Thomas Fairfax invited Sir Edmund Wyndham to recognise the hopelessness of his position and surrender. Lady Wyndham scoffed at the suggestion: ‘Tell your masters,’ she told the Parliamentary herald, ‘that the breast which gave suck to Prince Charles shall never be at their mercy. We will hold the town to the last!’ But Bridgwater was soon ablaze, strong winds whipping flames along as the enemy pushed forward, and Wyndham was forced to capitulate.

The fall of Bridgwater was part of a summer of heavy Royalist losses. After the worst of these, at Naseby, the king wrote a letter to his eldest son from Hereford. It contained a handful of strict instructions that were to remain secret unless the prince’s closest advisers absolutely needed to know them. Until that moment, the letter’s contents must remain between father and son.

The defeats continued into the autumn of 1645 and beyond. After the surrender of Bristol in September, the young prince was forced to move ever westwards, the demoralised Royalist forces in Devon no match for the rampant New Model Army. Bad luck played a small part in bringing forward the Crown’s inevitable downfall in the county. At the siege of Tiverton in October, a cannonball struck and severed the chain holding up the garrison’s drawbridge, sending it thudding to the ground in slack-jawed surrender. At the battle of Torrington, in February 1646, a spark found its way into a church where the king’s men had stored eighty barrels of gunpowder. The huge explosion that followed brought an end to the engagement, as well as to the lives of the Parliamentary prisoners being held in the church. Now the remaining Royalists withdrew from Devon to Cornwall, the most westerly county on the English mainland.

Lord Colepeper, one of Charles I’s leading advisers, warned that, with nowhere else to go, the prince had now entered ‘a very Cornish mousetrap’.6 The king sent instructions for his son to be taken to France for safety. Hyde and the prince’s other advisers questioned the call, though, claiming that abandoning England for another country would become ‘an argument against his Majesty’s sincere intentions’.7 They put forward the alternatives of the Scilly Isles or Jersey, both Crown dominions.

After continued pressure from the enemy Prince Charles was forced to abandon the English mainland. He sailed on the Phoenix to St Mary’s, the largest of the Isles of Scilly, landing there on 4 March 1646. This was only thirty miles from Cornwall, but Parliament’s dominance of the seas meant it was low on supplies, no food having reached it from England for six weeks.

Lady Fanshawe, the heavily pregnant wife of one of Charles’s retinue, noted on arrival: ‘Meat and fuel, for half the court to serve them for a month, was not to be had in the whole island. And truly we begged our daily bread of God, for we thought every meal our last.’8 The king’s followers grew sick of the taste of salted fish, one of the islanders’ main products.

St Mary’s was soon realised to be as militarily vulnerable as it was poorly provisioned. Despite the recent arrival of 300 Irish troops, the garrison was unable to defend the sprawling coastline. Lord Colepeper was sent to France to tell Henrietta Maria that reinforcements must be sent immediately.

Parliament, aware of the prince’s vulnerability in his new island surroundings, tried to lure him into captivity. A silky letter was delivered by a rebel trumpeter in early April:

Sir,

The Lords and Commons assembled in the Parliament of England, being informed that your highness is lately removed into the Isle of Scilly, have commanded us, in their names, to invite you to come forthwith into their quarters; and to reside in such place, and with such council and attendants about you, as the two houses shall think fit to appoint.9

Charles waited, and then composed a reply laced with equal insincerity. He thanked his enemies for their kindness, and promised to continue to correspond with them, adding how much he looked forward to any further advice that they might choose to send him.

It was inevitable, the prince’s advisers realised, that Parliament would now attack St Mary’s, to seize Charles and take him to England as a prisoner in all but name. Even before they had got round to sending the prince’s reply, a fleet of two dozen ships had been dispatched to the Scilly Isles under Vice-Admiral William Batten, with instructions to bring him in. With Batten went Colonel Thomas Gollop, a Royalist who had recently surrendered the island and castle of Portland to Parliament. Gollop had promised his captors that he would help deliver the prince into their clutches.

As soon as Henrietta Maria learnt from Colepeper the danger that her son was in, she wrote to Hyde stressing her great concern at the inadequacy of the Scilly Isles as a safe haven for the talisman of the Royalist cause: ‘I need not remember [remind] you of what importance to the king, and all his party, the safety of the prince’s person is. If he should fall into the rebels’ hands, the whole would thereby become desperate.’10 Not for the last time, Charles’s freedom would be inextricably linked to any future hopes that the Royalist cause might cling to in the face of humiliating setbacks.

It was at this point, with his liberty and life in real danger, that Charles produced the letter his father had sent to him from Hereford ten months earlier. He realised that its terms were precisely relevant to the peril he now faced. In the letter the king had insisted that Charles must never surrender on dishonourable terms, or do anything to undermine the concept of regal authority. This must be the case even if his father’s life (or his own) were at stake. Equally, the prince must not risk death, because on him rested the future hopes of the Crown. It was clear that the preservation of Charles’s life was the priority now, with the enemy closing in fast.

When the Parliamentary fleet sent to capture the prince on St Mary’s was scattered in a timely two-day storm, Charles took the opportunity to flee to Jersey. He arrived there on 17 April 1646, as the sun was going down, the pilot of his frigate mistakenly steering a course that would normally have guaranteed shipwreck. The royal party was luckily spared, thanks to an abnormally high spring tide covering the rocks below. ‘God be praised,’ Lady Fanshawe wrote, ‘his Highness, and all of us came safe ashore through so great a danger.’11

It was a silent entry into the harbour. There was no salute of cannon fire, from land or sea. Everyone knew that this visit, far from being part of some triumphant royal progress, was instead uncomfortable proof that the king’s cause in England was in a calamitous state. Charles was coming to Jersey as a forlorn refugee.

But the largest of the Channel Islands was a relatively safe place for him to find himself in. Jersey had a good-sized Royalist force, and a network of established defences. The granite Mont Orgueil Castle, on the east coast, had been the site of fortifications since Roman times, and the two wards of Elizabeth Castle, which Sir Walter Raleigh had improved while Jersey’s governor at the start of the century, added solid assistance from their rocky islet. There was a further tower at the entrance to St Aubin’s harbour that had recently been freshly fortified, and half a mile off the coast of Guernsey, Castle Cornet stood in distant support.

Sir George Carteret, from the ancient Jersey family of de Carteret, was the island’s bailiff and lieutenant-governor. Samuel Pepys described this larger-than-life character as ‘the most passionate man in the world’. It was a world that Carteret, a seafarer since boyhood, had seen plenty of. Before the Civil Wars he had served with distinction against the Barbary pirates of North Africa, rescuing Christian captives from Salé in modern-day Morocco. In 1643 Carteret captured Jersey for Charles I, ejecting the island’s Parliamentary garrison within a month of landing. Two years later, by now a Royalist vice-admiral, he was knighted. Soon after Prince Charles’s landing on Jersey Sir Edward Hyde noted that Carteret was perhaps ‘the best seaman of England’, and certainly ‘a worthy and most excellent person, of extraordinary merit towards the crown and nation of England’. Carteret was determined to keep the prince safe.

The neighbouring Channel Island, Guernsey, had a strong Puritan element, and was keenly supportive of Parliament. With this enemy lying less than thirty miles away, Carteret insisted that all of Jersey’s regular soldiers and militia publicly profess their loyalty to the Crown. He had an open Bible placed on a drumhead, and as he watched, ten men at a time stepped forward, each placing a hand on the canvas, before being led by a priest through an oath of commitment to the king of England.

Carteret also equipped ten frigates to prey on Parliamentary shipping. This man, who had made his name fighting against pirates, now oversaw a network of privateers, operating in the name of the king. They caused consternation to the enemy at sea, and provided prizes that were sold to fund increased defences and supplies on land.

Anticipating that Parliament would soon send a task force to try to recapture Jersey and seize Charles, Carteret stocked and secured his strongholds. Their stores were filled with salted fish, corn, peas, biscuit and beef. His reserves were so plentiful that he filled the church at Castle Cornet with them, while stripping back its roof to form an additional artillery platform. Further cannon were placed along the island’s coast at all likely landing points.

Sir George had two new cisterns, capable of holding more than eighty tons of water, installed in the upper ward of Elizabeth Castle. He established his headquarters there, and had the prince stay with him as his guest. Despite the military threat, and the visiting prince’s reduced circumstances, the show of royal ceremony was painstakingly maintained.

We know, from a diarist living on the island, that at dinnertime Charles would hear grace bareheaded, before putting his hat on to eat. He would then sit alone at the head of the table, where silver cutlery had been laid out for him. A priest would stand to his right, while his lords and courtiers remained bareheaded and on their feet behind him while he ate. As he waited for his food to arrive, a kneeling pageboy would help him to wash and dry his hands.

Dinner was offered in a succession of silver serving dishes, containing selections of meat, fish and game, which were placed before him. Food that Charles liked the look of was taken to a carvery, where a taster tested it. Sliced up, it was returned to the prince on a silver platter.

Two pages waited, on bended knee, while he ate. One was constantly ready with a silver dish containing slices of bread. The other was the cupbearer. When Charles beckoned this servant forward, he held the goblet to his master’s lips with one hand, while with the other he positioned a second cup to catch any drops before they could splash onto the prince’s clothes. There was no stinting on pomp for the prince even when his court was minute, he was effectively in exile, and his dominion was a dot of an island.

Charles remained under Carteret’s protection on Jersey from April till June 1646. Already tall, and with the tufts of a moustache sprouting, the prince seems to have had an affair with the lieutenant-governor’s daughter Marguerite, who was five years older than him. A key subplot of Charles’s life, his pursuit of women, continued as the First Civil War reached its conclusion, and progressed steadily from this point on.

Henrietta Maria was insistent that her eldest son should come to her in France. There she hoped to keep him safe, and under her control, while her husband continued his increasingly hopeless resistance in England. This was very much against the wishes of Sir Edward Hyde and the other conservative advisers travelling with the prince. They wanted to keep him out of the orbit of France, because it was the historic, Roman Catholic, enemy of England. Hyde believed that what the queen was asking Charles to do breached ‘the fundamental rules of policy’.12

Hyde had planned to be an Anglican priest, until the death of an elder brother left him as his father’s potential heir. Becoming a lawyer and a Member of Parliament instead, he remained wedded to the strictest principles of the Church of England. These made him pious in some eyes, but priggish to others. In many ways he seems to have seen himself as the keeper of his young master’s conscience.

Furious that her instructions were being ignored, Henrietta Maria sent a delegation to Jersey to insist on Charles’s removal to France. It was led by her great favourite, Henry, Lord Jermyn. The distrust of Hyde and his allies for the queen’s judgement, and for her inner circle’s trustworthiness, was intense. Hyde had developed a particular dislike of Jermyn on a number of grounds, ranging from his promotion of the plan to take the prince to live in France, to his having impregnated a beauty at court and then refusing to marry her. Jermyn was also the hereditary governor of Jersey, and there were strong suspicions that he was planning to sell the island to France.

To the traditional supporters of the Crown, such as Hyde, Jermyn epitomised the sort of insufferable and devious character that the queen liked to surround herself with. ‘The English about Her Majesty, most favoured and consulted by her,’ recorded one observer, ‘were generally subjected to betray her counsels, and were too well known to have little regard to virtue, or to be acted by any settled principle of religion or honour. The old cavaliers did not care to trust any of them, and when they confided their sentiments, advices, & measures to Sir Edward Nicholas [a leading Royalist in exile, who was often at odds with the queen], they positively insisted that he should not communicate any of them to those confidants of Her Majesty, nor even to the Queen herself, who could conceal nothing from them, but consulted them in all affairs.’13

Eventually Charles was persuaded to obey his mother’s wishes and go to France with Jermyn. Only one of the councillors appointed by his father accompanied him to St-Germain-en-Laye, west of Paris, where Henrietta Maria resided. The rest refused to do so. The division in the senior Royalist ranks, between the ‘Louvre group’, who supported the queen and her French leanings, and those traditionalists who saw things in a narrower and more patriotic light, could hardly have been more starkly shown.

Hyde stayed behind in Jersey, where he began to write the early parts of The History of the Rebellion, his celebrated chronicle of the English Civil War. He knew that, for now, he had lost the battle for influence over the Prince of Wales to Henrietta Maria, and had to accept that, just like his father, young Charles was ‘irresolute’. This was Hyde’s polite term for being open to, and acting on, dangerously bad advice.

Charles left for France in June 1646. He was included in the activities of the French court at Fontainebleau that summer, his future value to the English Royalist movement attached to his liberty, and his eligibility as a royal bachelor.

Henrietta Maria hoped to engineer a marriage for him with her niece Anne Marie Louise of Orléans, Duchess of Montpensier. ‘Mademoiselle’, as she was known, was three years older than the prince, and not lacking in self-esteem. One of her pleasures was listing her many physical attributes in a journal. She relished the fineness of her height and figure, the glory of her auburn hair, the oval prettiness of her face, while not forgetting the finer details, from the coral bud of her lips, down to the daintiness of her feet: ‘There were not wanting those who complimented me on the beauty of my face and form’, she wrote, or ‘the fairness of my complexion, the brilliancy of my hair; no less admirable, they confessed, than all the riches which bedecked my person’.14

To Henrietta Maria, the good looks were a bonus. It was her niece’s vast inheritance and royal blood that made her an especially desirable daughter-in-law. But Mademoiselle was more interested in the idea of marrying the Holy Roman Emperor, who had been widowed that May, than in contemplating life with the gauche English prince, whose French was poor, and whose only conversation seemed to be about horses, hunting and dogs.

Besides, while she heard endlessly from Henrietta Maria how smitten Charles was with her, she saw little supporting evidence from her young cousin himself. Mademoiselle wrote: ‘Had he spoken for himself there is no knowing what might have been the result, but this I do know, that I was little inclined to listen to proposals in favour of a man who could not say anything for himself.’15

The gangly Charles was noticeably ill at ease at the various balls and entertainments that Henrietta Maria forced him to attend. His clumsy attempts to woo Mademoiselle, under maternal duress, soon made him an object of pity at court. Meanwhile, the duchess found him coarse. At a dinner where ortolans were offered up as the finest of delicacies (the tiny songbirds, drowned in Armagnac, were eaten whole, brains, beak, bones and all), Charles was believed to have let himself down by instead gorging on a shoulder of mutton and a side of beef. After eating, the other guests left the royal teenagers together to flirt. But, Mademoiselle would remember with dismay, Charles did not utter a word. After a quarter of an hour of silence, she gave up.

While Charles’s awkwardness was upending his mother’s matchmaking schemes, the queen in turn upset her son by continuing to treat him like a child. Henrietta Maria insisted that he carry on being bareheaded in her presence, an unusual protocol for a prince of his age and seniority. She also excluded him from important meetings, and insisted on receiving the pension paid to him by the French Crown, so that he was dependent on her for his allowance. Charles’s thoughts focused increasingly on getting away from France, and his mother, and doing what he could to fight for his father’s cause, as soon as the opportunity arose.

In the spring and summer of 1648 the Second Civil War crackled into life in England and Wales, the king’s cause spearheaded by a Scottish invasion from the north on his behalf. That July Charles went from France to The Hague, on the Netherlands coast, to lead a force of English ships that had mutinied against the Commonwealth and declared for the Crown. This fleet was urgently needed to support the Royalist uprising in southern and eastern England. While it prepared for deployment Charles spent time with his younger siblings, Mary, Princess of Orange, and James, Duke of York, who had recently arrived in the Netherlands after escaping from imprisonment in London. Also on hand were two of his first cousins, Princes Rupert and Maurice of the Rhine, who had served as leading Royalist generals in the Civil War.

It was during this month of family reunion and preparation for action at sea that Charles met, and fell for, Lucy Walter.

Lucy was the daughter of William and Elizabeth Walter. Her father was a minor landowner from Pembrokeshire, in south-west Wales, while her mother was from a similar social background, with a small injection of aristocratic blood. Theirs was a poisonous marriage, the diarist John Evelyn referring to both parents as ‘very mean creatures’.16 Taking accusations of her husband’s abusive behaviour and abandonment to the House of Lords, Elizabeth achieved a judgement against him in 1641. This ruling was overturned six years later, in February 1647, when counter-accusations against Elizabeth, including that of infidelity, held sway. Lucy refused to obey the Lords’ ruling that she and her two brothers return to their father’s household in Wales.

Lucy was a raven-haired, blue-eyed seventeen-year-old beauty, endowed with a shrewdness to match her striking looks. John Evelyn, who shared a carriage ride with the teenaged girl, marked her down in his diary as a ‘brown, beautiful, bold, but insipid creature’,17 while James II thought her ‘very handsome, of little wit, and some cunning’.18

What marked Lucy out for relentless male attention, from a young age, was a pulsating sexual magnetism. So many men desired her that she was quick to appreciate her exceptional bedroom value. It was the start of a livelihood that had Evelyn looking back on her as nothing more than ‘a beautiful strumpet’.19 She would become the kept woman of important and wealthy men, including two of the sons of Robert, Earl of Leicester.

The first of these was twenty-four-year-old Algernon Sidney, a dashing colonel in the rebel army who had been wounded in battle, and who would later declare the execution of Charles I to be ‘the justest and bravest act … that was ever done in England, or anywhere’.20 James II would maintain that Algernon had contracted for Lucy Walter’s services with forty gold coins. Others believed her favours had cost him fifty. Either way, it was a small fortune, especially given the brevity of the affair: Sidney was suddenly sent with his regiment to bolster the garrison of Dover Castle, leaving Lucy on her own.

Lucy then moved to the Netherlands, where she was pleased, though probably not surprised, to find herself surrounded by eligible Royalist exiles, wealthy enough to compete for the pleasure of her company. She was soon taken up by Algernon’s younger brother, Colonel Robert Sidney. He was a courtier to Prince Charles, with what was to prove the apt title of Groom of the Bedchamber: Robert was Lucy’s lover when Charles appeared in the Netherlands to prepare his ships for the expected foray against Parliament.

Some contemporaries believed that Charles was already aware of Lucy’s charms, having glimpsed them for himself when younger: ‘Her beauty was so perfect that when the King saw her in Wales, where she was, he was … charmed and ravished and enamoured,’ a French noblewoman claimed.21 However, it was Lucy who engineered the meeting with, then the seduction of, Charles in July 1648. At this time, aged eighteen, Charles was, according to an admiring Scot, ‘One of the most gentle, innocent, well-inclined Princes, so far as yet appear, that lives in the world [with] a trim person, and a manly carriage’.22 The account of Madame de Motteville, a French courtier, largely tallies with this generous description, recalling Charles at this time as ‘well-made, with a swarthy complexion agreeing with his fine black eyes, a large ugly mouth, a graceful and dignified carriage and a fine figure’. Whatever Charles’s physical characteristics, Robert Sidney realised that it would be unwise to compete with the heady attention of his royal master, and stood aside.

During the time the prince spent in The Hague that summer, awaiting the readiness of his fleet, Lucy became pregnant with the first of what would eventually be more than a dozen of Charles’s children by various mistresses. Their son, James, was born in Rotterdam on 9 April 1649, ten weeks after the execution of his grandfather Charles I, and nine months after the start of Charles and Lucy’s liaison. Gossips pointed out that there had been no discernible gap between the conclusion of Lucy’s relationship with Robert Sidney and the beginning of her affair with the prince, and rumours attached to Lucy’s son all his life that questioned whether he was in fact of royal blood. Charles, though, always accepted that James was his son, and publicly acknowledged the fact when giving him the title of Duke of Monmouth.

Meanwhile a shortage of funds kept Charles’s fleet at anchor, so that his efforts to help his father’s cause in the Second Civil War largely came to nothing. When he eventually sailed, his ships harassed and captured a few lesser vessels, before squaring up to the rebel navy in the Thames estuary in August 1648. In the preparations for the battle Charles impressed his men with his insistence on sharing their danger, the courtier Sir Robert Long reporting: ‘I must not forget to tell you, the Prince behaved himself with as much gallantry and courage in this business as ever you saw; for when his lords and all the seamen came to desire him to go down into the hold, under the decks, he would not hear of it, but told them his honour was more to him than his safety; and desired them not to speak of it any more.’23

But a last-minute storm made engagement impossible. After six fruitless weeks at sea Charles returned to The Hague in September 1648, leaving the Royalist fleet under the command of Prince Rupert of the Rhine. It seems probable that he then resumed his relationship with Lucy Walter. The scandalous liaison had taken place while Sir Edward Hyde, the adviser who sought to make the prince a worthy monarch-in-waiting, was still absent in Jersey. With his moral guardian away, Charles spent time with the more dissolute members of his mother’s entourage, including Lord Wilmot.

Hyde would characterise Henry Wilmot as ‘A man proud and ambitious, and incapable of being contented; an orderly officer in marches and governing his troops. He drank hard, and had a great power over all who did so, which was a great [many] people.’24 Wilmot gained Charles’s friendship through their shared sense of what comprised a good time. He also won the prince’s gratitude by being a willing helper in his romance with Lucy Walter: Wilmot put his carriage at her disposal so she could travel to and from the prince’s side with ease.

Hyde was reunited with Prince Charles at The Hague in mid-September 1648, after more than two years’ separation. He found his young protégé not only expecting to become a father, but surrounded by a court in exile that was turned in on itself in despair at the recent failure of the Second Civil War. The Scots had been crushed by Cromwell at the battle of Preston, and English resistance to the New Model Army had been firmly stamped out.

In his first speech in the prince’s council Hyde voiced his continued deep opposition to future alliances with any powers that were hostile to the Church of England. He delivered his fatalistic view: ‘It may be God hath resolved we shall perish, and then it becomes us to perish with those decent and honest circumstances that our good fame may procure a better peace to those who succeed us than we are able to procure for them, and ourselves shall be happier than any other condition could render us.’25 Continued loss of power was, for Hyde, infinitely preferable to a sacrifice of principles. Nobody worthy of the English Crown, he believed, could lower himself to a shameful alliance with the enemies of the Anglican religion. Anyone who claimed a throne in such circumstances could only keep it for the briefest of times, before inevitable overthrow. If Charles found himself without viable foreign allies, then he must await a turn in fortunes, either through his own becoming better, or those of the rebels deteriorating. Hyde hoped that the Commonwealth’s politicians and soldiers might turn against one other, and pull the republican regime apart.

Henrietta Maria and her supporters ridiculed Hyde for choosing to wait for miracles. They preferred to actively plot a return to royal power, and were prepared to contemplate all possible means of doing so.

In the meantime the Royalists of both factions watched in impotent disbelief and despair during January 1649 as their king was taken to London to be tried by a hastily created court, of highly questionable credentials. Prince Charles was determined to have his father released, whatever the cost. He sent a blank sheet of paper to Charles I’s captors, to which he had applied only his signature and his seal. This ‘carte blanche’ signified that there were no terms that he would reject in return for his father’s liberty.

When he learnt that his great gesture had failed to save his father from execution, Charles was reduced to terrible, violent sobbing, while, Hyde recalled, ‘all about him were almost bereft of their understanding’.