Prince Bernard of Lippe-Beisterfeld: A German Prince in the RAF

by Linda Fetterly Root

A replica of the Beech 17S flown by Prince Bernard of the Netherlands
in WWII; Courtesy of Mike Freer, Touchdown Aviation,
with Robert Lamblough in the cockpit

When I discovered the post I had planned to display on my birthday was too similar to one I had published here two years ago, I frantically searched for another event occurring on the 24th of April which readers might find equally interesting.

In desperation, I researched the date on several sites including www. OnThisDay, and found an intriguing snippet there: on April 24, 1941, Prince Bernard of the Netherlands became a pilot in the RAF.  I had never heard of the gentleman and would have glossed over it had it not juggled a personal memory. My Cleveland-born cousin Guy Patterson had joined the RCAF as a glider pilot in April, 1940. In my family, everything about Guy became a legend. He had been a musician in the '30s, a bassist in the George Duffy Orchestra, who expatriated a few weeks after his heiress wife, my godmother Helen Cooper Patterson, died of tuberculosis. Their tragic romance had a very Eddie Duchin Story tone to it. Although I knew what had prompted my kinsman to renounce his citizenship and risk his life, I wondered what might have precipitated such a move on the part of a European royal. I searched further and discovered Prince Bernard was German by birth, and in his youth had been a National Socialist. I was hooked.

Ian Fleming, by Andrew Lycett

The more I read, the more I became convinced I had uncovered the material for a blockbuster historical novel. I did not discover until much later that a British spymaster and author named Ian Fleming had beat me to it.

The Early Life of Bernard (Bernhard) Lippe

Prince Bernard (Bernhard) of Lippe-Biesterfeld was born in Jena, Germany, in 1911. He was the elder son of the brother of Leopold, Prince of Lippe, an independent German principality until the disasters of WWI. Bernard’s parent’s marriage was morganatic, that is a royal marriage between people of divergent social classes, which did not effect Bernard’s legitimacy but did limit him from the succession unless there were no other Lippes left. At birth, he was given the title of Count, but he was not considered a prince. That deficit was remedied in 1916, when Leopold elevated Bernard and his mother to royal status. The figure at the right is his Coat of Arms.

The family principality and its related revenues were lost at the end of World War I, but the Lippes were far from destitute. Prince Bernard's branch established a base in East Brandenburg in what now is modern Poland, where Bernard was home schooled until age twelve, possibly due to his fragile health. According to an obituary published in the Telegraph in 2004, his nurse was Chinese and English, and English became his first language Thereafter, he attended gymnasiums in Switzerland and Berlin before advancing to the University of Lausanne in Switzerland to study law in 1929. At some point, he studied in Munich and later transferred to The Humboldt University Unter den Linden in Berlin. At this time, his life took a turn that continued to vex him whenever his character came under scrutiny.

The Political Metamorphosis of Bernard Lippe

While Bernard was a law student at Humboldt, he joined the Nazi Party and was a member of its paramilitary wing, the S.A., commonly known as the Brownshirts. He also was on the rolls of the Reiter-SS. Although he had not yet resigned his membership, he ceased his participation in the movement when he graduated and went to work for I.G. Farben in Paris in 1934. His membership in Nazi organizations during his years as a student has been one of several sources of controversy, especially since he denied them when his participation was well documented. He later excused them as necessary if he wished to earn a law degree, although he conceded that space to garage his car was a compelling perk of membership.

There is some evidence he harbored a growing concern about Hitler's seizure of power well before he resigned his membership in the Nazi party. Apparently by 1935-36, his apprehensions had grown to a point where he considered leaving Europe. Acquaintances described the youthful Bernard Lippe as a nationalist but not a racist. Although he had met Hitler on at least two occasions, he was never considered a protégé. One story has Hitler referring to him an an idiot. Bernard had not spoken out publicly against Hitler at the time he formally resigned from the party in 1937, and he signed the letter 'Heil Hitler.' When asked about it later, he confessed to being an pragmatist, not a Nazi.

How Bernhard Lippe Became Bernard of the Netherlands

In 1936 while attending the Olympics, Bernard met Princess Juliana of the Netherlands. After serious vetting by Queen Wilhelmina, he and Juliana became engaged. Not all Dutch were enthusiastic about the match, but there was a paucity of suitable Protestant royals on the horizon, and the forceful queen had her way. She is quoted as stating: "This is the marriage of my daughter to the man she loves...not the marriage of the Netherlands to Germany."

Following the engagement, Bernard became a Dutch citizen and changed the spelling of his names to the Dutch versions. He avoided speaking German on public occasions. Living in the Netherlands, he was comfortable going public with his criticism of Adolf Hitler.

Once married to Princess Juliana, he adopted the attitudes of a royalist Dutchman, and severed all connections with members of his family who were Nazis. Insofar as his politics were concerned, it appeared Queen Wilhelmina had chosen well.

WWII and the Birth of James Bond: The British Connection

There were other causes of concern beyond Bernard's political past, not the least of which was the bridegroom’s tendency toward acts of derring-do. Some analysts speculate that he translated his survival of poor health in childhood as a victory over death. Whatever the case may be, Prince Bernard enjoyed living on the edge of the abyss. He raced, collected and demolished expensive high-powered race cars. Ferraris were his favorites. He crashed two airplanes. In one of his misadventures, he broke his back and fractured ribs. He had at least two extramarital affairs yielding daughters, risky business when your mother-in-law is the queen. He showed no fear in confronting Hitler’s advancing army. When Hitler’s forces invaded the Netherlands, Bernard organized the Palace Guard into a fighting force to shoot at German airplanes with machine guns. He was critical of the queen when she elected to flee to England. He preferred to stay and fight. But, when Hitler’s forces overran the country and German victory seemed inevitable, he escorted his family to England but returned to lead the resistance. When the overwhelmed Dutch defenders surrendered, he escaped to England with a remnant of his men.

During the Blitz, Bernard escorted Princess Juliana and their daughters to safety in Canada, but he returned to England to resume the fight. He learned to fly a variety of fighters and bombers and sought a commission with the RAF. At first the English did not trust him quite enough for that, but trained pilots were scarce and eventually they relented. During his days with the RAF, the Prince flew thousands of air miles of missions into occupied Europe under the alias Wing Commander Gibbs. Among his many medals are English campaign ribbons for service in France and Germany. He was an advisor on the Allied War Council, and the military head of the Royal Dutch Army in exile. However, not all of his wartime exploits were in the air.

When Prince Bernard expressed a desire to aid the intelligence efforts, the request met with the same reluctance he had experienced earlier. Flying was one thing, but trusting a former member of the S.A. with military secrets was quite another.

However, Sir Winston Churchill was reluctant to let a man of such obvious talent and connections go to waste so he ordered him assessed by his famous spymaster, Ian Fleming. Fleming was impressed and cleared him for work at the highest levels of planning of the Allied Offensive.

There are rumors that the suave Fleming and fearless Bernard were combined to give life to the spy James Bond. In an article that appeared at the MI6 Community site [1], Gustav Graves recalled an incident from Andrew Lycett’s biography Ian Fleming, describing a caper of Bernard’s during a dinner with Fleming at the Lincoln Inn. A German bomb exploded, destroying a 200 year old staircase leading to the entrance of the hotel. Bernard descended with great panache to the lowest point and loudly thanked Fleming for ‘a most enjoyable evening,’ as if the incident was an everyday occurrence. Fleming does not report how Bernard made it down to the demolished lobby. Gingerly, I presume. Lycett also notes that according to Fleming, Prince Bernard's cocktail of choice was a martini made with ‘Wodka’ rather than gin, an unusual cocktail made to His Highness's exacting specifications.

Bernard served on the Allied War Council and personally led the Dutch forces during the Allied Offensive in the Netherlands. He was present at the negotiations for the Armistice and the surrender of Germany. Throughout the proceedings, he spoke English and Dutch, but not a word of German. He was highly decorated by governments throughout the world, was friendly with Harry S. Truman and a colleague of the usually distant Field Marshall Bernard Montgomery, as seen in the photo below.

In spite of post war scandals regarding his financial dealings and a reluctance of some to overlook the affiliations of his youth, he remains a popular hero in the Netherlands and a larger-than-life character of flamboyance and charm to the rest of us--the quintessential sophisticated man of action who took his vodka martinis straight up, always shaken, not stirred, a deviation from the customary martini of which Ian Fleming took note and used. How much else of Commander Bond is borrowed from the Prince is a matter of conjecture.

Prince Bernard followed Princess Juliana in death by mere months in 2004 [2]. There is no question that he suffered from an advanced cancer, nor is there any doubt his remaining days were shorten by Princess Juliana's death. I am delighted to have made his acquaintance.

Queen Juliana and Prince Bernard
Sculpture by Kees Verkade

Author's Note

There is much more to Prince Bernard Lippe-Biesterfeld’s story after WWII. However, this chapter is the one most appropriate to the timeline and subject matter of the English Historical Fiction Author’s blog. As stated above, both he and Juliana died in 2004. Referring to Juliana as a Princess in this post and not as a queen is not an error. The times mentioned are before she succeeded her mother or after she abdicated in favor of her daughter Queen Beatrix.

References

[1] MI6 Community: The Largely Unknown 'Ian Fleming- Prince Bernhard of the Netherlands' Connection.

[2] BBC Obituary of Prince Bernard, December 2004

An Editor's Choice from the #EHFA Archives, originally published April 23, 2017.
~~~~~~~~~~

Linda Fetterly Root is a retired major crimes prosecutor and a historical novelist writing of events in 16th and 17th century Scotland, France and England. She lives in the Morongo Basin area of the California desert with two wooly malamutes, a flock of chickens and assorted wild things. Her books are on Amazon.

Rambling through 17th century Ireland

by Cryssa Bazos

by Helen Allingham - Irish Cottage
[Public Doman] via Wikimedia Commons

In the course of researching day to day life in 17th century Ireland, I came across an interesting little volume called Teague Land or A Merry Ramble to the Wild Irish (1698). It's a series of letters by John Dunton, written during his travels through Ireland, or as he liked to call them, rambles. The letters were eventually published when he returned to London.

Dunton was a London bookseller who enjoyed travelling and often combined both passions. Before hitting Ireland, he travelled to the New England states where he auctioned off a huge stack of books and made quite a neat profit doing so. Years later, hoping to replicate his success, he travelled to Ireland with a parcel of books and stayed mainly in Dublin. While that venture may not have been as lucrative as the earlier one, it did allow him the opportunity to travel through parts of Ireland and write about the people and places he found. Being English and staunchly Protestant, Dunton certainly had his prejudices; however, even with that caveat, his accounts are invaluable for opening a window into 17th century Ireland.

So what tidbits of information have I treasured? Being a historical fiction writer, social customs and day to day life interest me the most.

Food and Drink

The 17th-century Irish diet was rich in dairy and reflects how prized herds of cattle where in their society and as an indication of wealth. One only needs to look at Ireland's early poems, Táin Bó Cúailnge, or the Táin, which was involved an epic cattle raid.

Treamhanta was a curdled milk drink made by mixing sour and fresh milk, similar to non-alcoholic version of a posset. Dunton commented on how refreshing the drink was.

The bonny clabber, a breakfast dish, took advantage of similar ingredients but with a different preparation. Scalded new milk was mixed with buttermilk creating a probiotic rich offering. The dish was often served topped by fresh butter.

Kenneth  Allen / Oat cakes,
Ulster American Folk Park
Wikimedia Commons 

Oat cakes were also a common staple. Oats were hand milled, ground between two circular stones, together called a quern. The ground oats were mixed with water and formed into a cake then baked. Serve with fresh churned butter.

When not using oats to make cake, black oats were brewed into a strong drink called bulcaun. I suspect it was an early version of spirits, possibly not dissimilar to whiskey. And to hold it, try drinking from a "meadar", a wooden vessel that Dunton described as being carved from a single piece of wood.

Hares, mutton, eggs, deer and fish provided additional protein. For those who had status enough to own one, the Irish wolfhound was invaluable for hunting hares and deer. In the 17th century, this breed was usually called a greyhound, which is not to be confused with the modern greyhound.

Housing and Shelter

Dunton described the long cabin as a typical dwelling, with few (if any) internal partitions and room enough to bring in the cattle in the night (to protect them from hungry wolves). Houses were often framed by wattle (possibly hazel for the flexibility) while the walls were made of a mixture of clay and cow dung. Turf or thatch formed the roof. Instead of a fireplace and chimney, the fire pit was situated in the centre of the cottage with a smoke hole in the roof. A common source of fuel was dried turf (or peat). In Dublin, Dunton reported seeing a few brick homes.

Bedding was made up of green rushes piled on the floor, although sleepers might find the company of a white snail or two that had been brought in when the rushes were cut. Homespun woollens, like coarse frieze, would have offered additional comfort.

Social and Traditions

Music was central to celebrations and entertainment. Usually associated with the Scots, bag pipes were held a special place in Irish celebrations along with the harp. And of course, there would be dancing.

During his travels, Dunton had the chance to participate in a funeral and a baptism. The latter was particularly interesting. One of the central parties in the rite was the 'gossip' or godparent who stood for the child. During the ceremony, the godparent and the priest invoked the holy spirit to 'exorcise' the devil from the child. The details are nearly identical to the Greek Orthodox baptism still performed today.

Another similarity to Greeks is the use of spittle as a beneficial power. Dunton observed that when saying farewell, the Irish kissed each other and gave each other their blessing, spitting lightly on their cloak. In Greek folk traditions, spitting on a child or young person would afford them protection against the evil eye. It's very curious how something so wildly unique can crop up half a world away.

Even though our travelling bookseller wasn't always charitable with his observations about the people he met and he often unfavourably compared life in Ireland to that in England, he was always greeted openly and graciously into people's homes as a guest. By reading between the lines, one is still left with a view of the Irish as generous and welcoming, a people who enjoyed life to the fullest.

~~~~~~~~~~

Cryssa Bazos is an award-winning historical fiction author and 17th-century enthusiast with a particular interest in the English Civil War. Her debut novel, Traitor's Knot is the Medalist winner of the 2017 New Apple Award (historical fiction), a finalist for the 2018 EPIC eBook Awards (historical romance) and a finalist for RNA Joan Hessayon Award. Her second novel, Severed Knot, is a B.R.A.G Medallion Honoree and has been shortlisted for the 2019 Chaucer Award.

Connect with Cryssa through her Website, Facebook, and Twitter (@CryssaBazos). Traitor's Knot is available through Amazon, and Severed Knot is available through Amazon and other Online Retailers.

Deadly Plague: How It Devastated One-Third of Europe’s Population

By Sarah Natale

Medieval medical knowledge was insufficient to halt the spread of the fatal disease called the Black Death, which ravaged Europe from 1347 to 1351 in three forms: bubonic, pneumonic, and septicemic.

bacterium Yersinia pestis: 200x magnification

Imagine your house has been boarded up, and now you are trapped inside with your sick and dying family. With no form of escape, you will contract the disease, too, and death will inevitably follow. This is a classic instance of sacrificing a few to save the many. Ethics aside, this very scenario was not uncommon during the outbreak of plague in 14th century Europe from 1347 to 1351. Twenty to 30 million people died over this four-year span due to the bacterium Yersinia pestis, making this one of the deadliest pandemics of plague to date.

“Danse Macabre,” or “Dance of Death,”
by Michael Wolgemut
 in Hartmann Schedel’s 1493 Chronicle of the World
(known today as the Nuremberg Chronicle)

This disease has been dubbed many terms throughout history. At the time of the outbreak, people called it the Great Mortality, the Great Pestilence, or simply the “plague.” But it wasn’t until modern day that it received its most popular term of endearment: the Black Death. In this article, I’ll discuss the three forms of the plague, detail its rampant spread through medieval Europe, and explain the treatment practices of the time leading to the overall outcome.

Types of Plague

First, I’ll dive into the three most common forms of plague, their modes of transmission, symptoms, and levels of contagion. These three types are, namely, bubonic, pneumonic, and septicemic. The bubonic strain mainly infected lymph nodes, causing swelling and buboes, hence the name “bubonic.” Transmission occurred through bites from fleas that traveled on the backs of rats. Symptoms were often flu-like. These included fever, headaches, chills, weakness, and most notably, swollen and tender lymph glands. A “fun” fact about the bubonic strain is that, though the most widely talked about, it was the least deadly.

The pneumonic strain mainly infected the lungs. Its mode of transmission was through the air, mainly through coughing, sneezing, and the breaths of infected victims. Symptoms included shortness of breath, chest pain, bloody cough, fever, headaches, and weakness. A “fun” fact about the pneumonic strain is that it was the most contagious.

Lastly, the septicemic strain infected the blood. It was transmitted the same way as the bubonic strain, which was through bites from fleas. Symptoms included fever, chills, weakness, abdominal pain, shock, and internal bleeding. A “fun” fact about the septicemic strain is that it was the least contagious, but the most deadly. So if a person did contract it, it was almost always fatal.

To sum up the three most common forms of plague, the bubonic strain was a lymph node infection and the least deadly, the pneumonic strain was a lung infection and the most contagious, and the septicemic strain was a blood infection—though the most deadly, also the least contagious.

Passage through Europe

The plague originated in East Asia, specifically central China, in 1333. Its entrance into Europe was marked by Genoese trading ships sailing into the harbor of Messina, Sicily (an island in Italy) from Caffa in 1347. By January 1348, the disease had spread to the mainland, specifically Genoa, Italy. By summer, it had entered England through the county of Dorset, killing 30 to 50% of the country’s population. The disease entered on June 24th through a port in a sea town known as Melcombe Regis, now called Weymouth. Today, a plaque exists in Weymouth, chronicling the sea town’s key role in the historical spread of the disease. 

Plaque in Weymouth, Dorset, England

On November 1st, the plague reached London. It continued on to France, Spain, Portugal, Ireland, and all across Europe over the next three years.

Treatment

Medieval medical treatments mainly consisted of bloodletting, which was to intentionally make incisions near a major vein and let the victim bleed out what physicians believed were “toxins” of the disease. They also advocated avoiding eating meat and animal products. People rarely took baths because they believed bathing contributed to the spread of the disease. One thing they did do well involved cleansing victims and surfaces in vinegar to ward off the disease, which we know today has disinfectant properties. 

1411 drawing of illness widely believed to be the plague
(though location of bumps more accurately
depicts smallpox) from Swiss Toggenburg Bible

The threat of infection was so great that a man named Agnolo di Tura in Italy wrote in a 1348 chronicle: 

“Father abandoned child, wife husband, one brother another. And I, Agnolo di Tura, buried my five children with my own hands. So many died that all believed that it was the end of the world.”

Plague Today

The disease known by many names throughout history served only one purpose: to kill one-third of Europe’s population, thereby devastating the 14th century world. The two types of plague spread by fleas on the backs of rats, coupled with an airborne version of the bacteria, created a virtually unstoppable, fast-moving disease that infected every country from Asia to Europe. Treatment practices were primitive and most were ineffective.

The plague is still around today, though outbreaks are rare. The good news is though there is no vaccine, treatment exists in the form of antibiotics. If someone were to contract the plague today, as still happens in less developed areas of the world, they can rest assured that they will receive effective treatment.

More importantly, one can take solace in the fact that there is no more fear of being trapped inside a deadly Plague House. * 

Sources

This article is an Editor's Choice and was originally published August 3, 2019. 

~~~~~~~~~~

Sarah Natale launched her author career as a teen when a high school assignment, written at 17 years old, received a book deal from a publisher. She has always held a fascination for the tragedy that devastated one-third of Europe’s population and was excited to craft a story around the historical event in her senior creative writing class. That story, The Kiss of Death (Kellan Publishing, 2015), received a fine arts literary award prior to publication. Sarah is a recent Summa Cum Laude graduate of Drake University, where she studied Writing, Public Relations, and Graphic Design. A shameless word nerd, nearly 150 of her works (stories, poems, and articles) have appeared in various publications (books, magazines, and newspapers). She frequently speaks about the writing, editing, publishing, and promotion stages of book publishing. When she’s not presenting or writing, she works as a Book Publishing Professional for a publisher in the Chicago area.

* as protagonist Elizabeth Chauncey finds herself in Sarah’s debut The Kiss of Death. Infusing fact with fiction was one of Sarah’s favorite parts of writing her story! If you enjoyed this article, check out the plague in action in Sarah’s historical fiction book below.

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Austen's England: Peaceful as all that? I don't think so

by M.M. Bennetts

Today, for your edification and delight, I am going to rant about a thing very dear to my heart but which causes me no end of frustration and, even, dare I admit it, shuddering rage.

It is this--this often firmly held conviction (in defiance of the facts) that the Regency England about which Jane Austen wrote was this idyllic, peaceful, sheep-may-safely-graze land, nothing more than a jammy backdrop for aristos to chase young women in flimsy muslin gowns, wholly untouched by the war which just across the Channel was ravaging every Continental land, destroying societies and lives from a spreading cancer of French military tyranny and conquest.

So, some of those facts.  In the myriad country towns during the period, the places where most of the population still dwelled, what might have made up the fabric of their daily existence?  Jane Austen's or anyone's, really?

Well, let's start with what they heard.  Daily.  Writing in 1806, the British satirist, George Cruikshank noted, "Every town was...a sort of garrison--in one place you might hear the 'tattoo' of some youth learning to beat the drum, at another place some march or national air being practiced upon the fife, and every morning five o'clock the bugle horn was sounded through the streets, to call the volunteers to a two hours' drill...and then you heard the pop, pop, pop, of the single musket, or the heavy sound of the volley, or distant thunder of the artillery..." 

So much for waking to the gentle bleating of spring lambs and baby blackbirds learning to sing as melodiously as their parents, then.  The place was a sea-to-sea military base with all the serenity of a WW2 siren call.

And what about the sceptred isle landscape, the rolling beauty of the hills and Downland, the endless fields, pieced, ploughed, sown and fallow?  The landscape beyond every village and town, all of covered by farms and estates?  This perfect setting for a breath-taking ride with one's Mr Wickham in a high-perch phaeton?  Right?

Well, it may surprise and amaze you to know that from well before 1802, the great fear in Britain was that of invasion by the French.  It was a national obsession and the preparations to repel such an invasion wherever it came from and whenever were all-consuming.  And it wasn't for another decade, until Napoleon and his Grand Armee were well and truly whooped in Russia, that the national fever of defensive building works started to calm down.

They weren't exactly paranoid about nothing either in their fears. There had been the unsuccessful attempt to invade the British Isles in 1797 by the French--a huge storm, gales, blizzard and all that had blown the estimated 40,000 troops off course and had saved the day...but you can't count on that sort of divine intervention every day, can you?

So, hoppity poppity into the new Napoleonic era of the new century.  The short Corsican tyrant is in prime position in France.  He loves nothing better than a good conquest with himself as the new ruler.  Britain is allegedly at peace with France during the period known as the Peace of Amiens, which, just like later dictators have done, Napoleon is using to get his military machine in gear and ready to roll.

What's happening on the ground?  Once the peace of Amiens was officially over, well, across those counties thought to be most at risk--the southern coastal counties--everyplace became immersed in the preparations for war and invasion.

By August 1803, it was being reported that in fifteen counties, from Devon in the west across to the Isle of Wight, including the Cinque Ports along the coast, and all the way up in Northumberland and Fife, that over 50% of the male population, those aged between seventeen and fifty-five, were in uniform, wearing regular, yeomanry or volunteer uniform.

That's a lot of fellows in uniform if you think about it.  The counties of Kent and Sussex had 49% and 45% of their men in uniform respectively.  That's half the male population.  Imagine.

Another snippet you might like...they weren't all wearing red coats which shone brightly in the sunshine as we see in the old portraits.  Yes, originally, the uniforms were meant to be red.

But for the uniforms of the men, the government didn't have the money for the well-dyed red wool--that was for officers who could afford their own.  The enlisted or volunteer uniform was provided by the government, so obviously they were getting all they could on the cheap.  And the dye used in those job lots was madder, which after a year in the sun and perpetual rain of this country fades to a kind of rusty, blotchy sienna brown...Good for camouflage in autumn, I dare say.  

By 1804 then, a consensus had been reached on coastal defenses and across the face of the south coast, an intense programme of building ensued for the next several years, so that by 1808, 73 Martello towers and two 11-gun circular forts had been built.  Another 29 towers had been constructed along the Wash--the coasts of Suffolk and Essex. (Eventually the number of Martello towers constructed reached 168, extending all along the coast all the way to Orkney.)

These were quite impressive defensive towers they were building too.  Not cheap.  The walls were of varying thickness, but generally from between six to thirteen feet thick, with the heaviest walls facing seaward.  The bricks were bedded in hot lime mortar (imagine the smell as they were constructed) calculated to withstand bombardment from the sea.  The roofs were flat, supported from underneath by a central column, and carried on top a 24-pounder cannon which would have been mounted on a sliding traverse carriage which enabled it to fire round 360 degrees...

Anyone for a Regency stroll by the seaside?  Bring those parasols...

Finally, food.  The years of the early 19th century had seen a number of harsh winters and bad late harvests--courtesy of a mini-Ice Age--which had left the English feeling vulnerable on this point, and the government took this quite seriously.  Bread riots or any food shortages can too easily cause panic.  Hence, with the threat of invasion and the assumption that the French would head for London first--probably via Kent--great plans were laid to stockpile foodstuffs for the capital, so that it might hold out under siege.

Thus plans were made to create emergency stores near the capital, including rice, flour and salted provisions as well as 250 tons of biscuit meal, all stockpiled in depots around and in the capital at locations such as Fulham, Brentford and Staines...

Also, there were huge stockpiling needs across the South Coast to feed those thousands of militia, gathered to repel and defend the land--in 1804, more than 18,000 regular troops were stationed in Sussex, with another 20,000 more stationed nearby to be deployed at short notice.  There were thousands more stationed in Kent, particularly ready to defend Dover, where it was assumed the 'big assault' would happen.

And, within these troop numbers and within their training too, it's important to note that within each year, these troops would march hundreds of miles across counties, going where they were sent, training, marching, recruiting...England in the early 19th century was a country at war.  Fully and wholly at war.

There was not a day not an hour of any day, which did not include some element of the Napoleonic conflict.  And they knew it.

The plethora of English World War Two dramas and films will give one the true picture of the state of things--just change the uniforms to 200 years back and add sideburns.  Then you'll have it.

War everywhere, bulwarks, vast defensive buildings like Martello tower, drums, artillery practice, the post office going through all foreign post (probably Austen's letters to and from her sister-in-law were opened and read), the food shortages, the militia on every street corner of every village and town, the recruiting officers in the public houses, the thousands of marching, marching, marching men...And the drums at Portsmouth beating out Hearts of Oak at dawn, or the fife thinly whistling a new recruits poor-boy's version of Rule Britannia...

This then, 200 years ago was "This royal throne of kings, this sceptred isle, This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars, This other Eden, demi-paradise, This fortress built by Nature for herself Against infection and the hand of war...This precious stone set in a silver sea...This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England."

This post from the #EHFA Archives was originally published on March 2, 2014.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

M.M. Bennetts, co-founder of English Historical Fiction Authors, passed away in August, 2014. She was a specialist in early 19th century British and European history and the Napoleonic wars and penned two novels, May 1812 and Of Honest Fame set during the period. A third novel, Or Fear of Peace, was to have been published in 2014.

For further information, please visit the website and historical blog at https://mmbennetts.wordpress.com/

The Start

By Cryssa Bazos

Following the execution of his father by Parliament in 1649, Charles Stuart was a king without a throne. He scanned the dance floor for likely partners to help him reclaim his crown, but France, Spain and the Netherlands were taking turns examining the potted plants. There were no takers until Scotland stepped forward and motioned to the orchestra.

Jean Le Pautre [Public Domain] via
Wikimedia Commons

It was a slow and hesitating waltz, broken by alternate periods of negotiation and stubbornness on both sides. Scotland was looking for a Covenanted king, one who would uphold Presbyterianism across the three kingdoms (Scotland, England and Ireland). Reluctantly Charles agreed, and around Midsummer's in 1650, he landed in Scotland to take up one crown and fight for another.

This partnership did not start off with the surest foot. Almost immediately, the Scottish government treated Charles with all the courtesy of a royal hostage. The decision to invite him to Scotland had not been without controversy. Many of the more hardline Covenanters objected, mistrusting his commitment to the Covenant. To them, Scotland was the New Jerusalem, and they looked upon Charles with his Anglican father and Catholic mother with stern disapproval. They were relentless in their determination to make a good Presbyterian out of him.

Over the next three months, the Scottish Parliament debated which of his companions and servants were to be purged from the royal household and/or banned from the country. Some, like the Duke of Buckingham and Lord Wilmot, were given clearance to stay, but on September 27th, the Commission of the Kirk and the Committee of Estates in Perth ruled in favour of an expulsion from the country of twenty-three of the King’s companions and two others to be removed from court.

Sir James Balfour, Lord Lyon King of Arms, brought the list to Charles who requested that Balfour not act against nine individuals until he had time to petition Lord Chancellor Loudoun on their behalf.

Sir James Balfour, by unknown artist
[Public domain] via Wikimedia Commons

The Chancellor refused Charles's petition and the day fixed for the removal of the courtiers was October 3, 1650.

This was when Charles decided to escape from his gilded cage and head north to the Highlands where loyalties were more firmly for King than Kirk.

Charles gathered a few companions to accompany him. The Duke of Buckingham was against the plan and tried to dissuade him, but when Charles remained resolute, he readily agreed to keep his whereabouts secret.

This plot to escape is known as the Start.

On October 3rd, the same day as the expulsion of his loyal companions, Charles and his companions rode out of Perth under the pretext of a hawking trip. They travelled northeast and rested at Dundee, then with their host, Viscount Dudhope, they continued north to Auchterhouse. There they stopped and repeated the process, only this time welcoming the Earl of Buchan into their company.

Dudhope and Buchan urged Charles to continue north to the mountains where they were confident that they would find an army of 7,000 pro-Royalist Highlanders. They continued to Cortachy (still no Highlander army) until they could go no further. With dark beating them down, they took their rest in a hamlet in Clova.

Meanwhile, back in Perth, the Duke of Buckingham was concerned. It may have been that he feared for Charles, wandering the countryside with little to no protection. More likely, he was concerned about his own precarious position in Scotland should Charles's expedition fail. Regardless, after having promised his discretion, Buckingham spilled the details of the Start to Balfour: the King was not hawking--he was on his way to the Highlands.

Balfour went into immediate damage control. He sent out an urgent message to Colonel Robert Montgomery, a trustworthy (and moderate) soldier with a regiment of 700 horse at his disposal, to fetch the King back. Not wanting to give away to the Committee that he had lost the King, Balfour arranged to send along one of Charles's hawks, "that the game might be played out with spirit."

Montgomery wasted no time and sent riders ahead. Just before daybreak, two of Montgomery's men found Charles "laying in a nasty room, on an old bolster above a mat of sedge and rushes." By seven that morning, Montgomery arrived in Clova in time to escort Charles back to Perth, with the King's hawk in hand.

When Charles returned to Perth, he was sent to his bedchamber and forced to hear sermons. But the Start was not a complete waste. Instead of increasing Charles's restrictions, the Committee of Estates was shocked into granting him concessions. They realized that they could not afford to lose him to the Highlanders and lose their advantage. The result was that Charles was invited to attend the Committee of Estates sessions.

And what of Buckingham and his loose tongue? Charles forgave Buckinghman for betraying his plans to Balfour, but did he forget?

Nearly a year after the Start, when Cromwell defeated the Royalist army at Worcester, Charles barely escaped the field and headed north with a company of his lords, including Buckingham. By the time they reached Staffordshire, it became apparent to Charles that if he were to escape, he would have to part from his lords and travel incognito. Buckingham was not invited to accompany him, nor was he told where Charles was headed.

To be fair, Charles only took Lord Wilmot in his confidence, but I suspect that Buckingham’s earlier betrayal still rankled. When Charles finally reached France, after six weeks of dodging Cromwell’s men, his initial account soon took on the flavour of tall tales that Mark Twain would have cherished. If you’ve ever been asked the same question over and over again, you can appreciate why Charles threw in a bit of spice.

The Ambassador of Venice for Paris wrote this to the Doge in Venice about Charles’s adventures, dated November 19, 1651:

“I went yesterday evening to welcome the Grand Duke and the Princes back from the country. In the course of conversation the Grand Duke told me of the clever means adopted by the king of England to escape from Cromwell. In the army, when it was seen that all was lost, he took counsel with the duke of Buckingham, who was in the same plight as himself. The duke decided to disguise himself as a falconer, with the goshawks on his arm.”

The Start may have ended in disappointment for Charles, but it did shift the focus to him as a sitting monarch and not a royal hostage. As well, it served as a practice run before his next, and more desperate, escape when capture would have cost him his life.


References:

The Historical Works of Sir James Balfour

Cromwell's Scotch Campaigns: 1650-51, by William Scott Douglas

British History Online: 'Venice: November 1651', in Calendar of State Papers Relating To English Affairs in the Archives of Venice, Volume 28, 1647-1652, ed. Allen B Hinds (London, 1927), pp. 202-206 http://www.british-history

[This is an Editor's Choice archive post, originally published on EHFA 5th March 2016

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Cryssa Bazos is an award-winning historical fiction author and 17th-century enthusiast with a particular interest in the English Civil War. Her debut novel, Traitor's Knot, was the Medalist winner of the 2017 New Apple Award (historical fiction), a finalist for the 2018 EPIC eBook Awards (historical romance) and the RNA Joan Hessayon Award. Her second novel, Severed Knot, was longlisted for the Historical Novel Society 2018 New Novel Award and tells the story of a Scottish PoW transported down to Barbados as an indentured servant.

Connect with Cryssa through her Website, Facebook, and Twitter (@CryssaBazos). Traitor's Knot is available through Amazon, and Severed Knot is available through Amazon and other Online Retailers. 

The Duchess and the Necromancers

By Nancy Bilyeau

On Monday, November 19th, 1441, the people of London lined the streets to observe an act of public penance. That morning a woman, perhaps forty years of age, bare-headed, plainly dressed, was rowed in a barge to Temple Stairs off the Thames. She stepped off the barge and proceeded to walk all the way to St. Paul's Cathedral, carrying before her a wax taper of two pounds. Once she made it to St. Paul's, she offered the taper to the High Altar.

The woman was Eleanor Cobham, mistress-turned-wife to Humphrey, Duke of Gloucester, only surviving uncle to the childless Henry VI and thus the heir to the throne. The duchess had been tried and condemned for heresy and witchcraft. This was the first of three days of ordered pilgrimages to churches, showing a "meke and a demure countenance." Afterward, she would be forced to separate from her husband and live in genteel prison for the rest of her life.

The Penance of Eleanor, painted in 1900

The downfall of Eleanor Cobham was a shocking event in the 15th century, and it's disturbing today. Certain elements of her life echo Katherine Swynford's, the longtime mistress of John of Gaunt who eventually became his third wife. A bold beauty marries a royal--it's a maneuver seen again, and much more famously, in the following century with Elizabeth Woodville and Anne Boleyn. But while rumors of witchcraft swirled around both of those queens, they are, historians now agree, not based in reality. While Eleanor Cobham most probably did traffic in what were called the black arts. And the most serious of such crimes was to seek to know--or perhaps even alter--the future, through the practice of necromancy.

Ever since the age of Homer, necromancers have flitted in the darkest shadows of society. They were believed to possess the secrets to unlocking the power of the underworld to divine the future. (See my earlier blog post, From Homer to The Hobbit: The History of the Necromancer.) No matter the results—or lack thereof—necromancers did a brisk business in the Greek and Roman world. It was only by following their secret and ornate rituals, they said, could the boundaries be dissolved between the living and the dead.

Page from the Munich Manual

After Rome fell, the early Christian popes struggled to extinguish the pagan practices of not only necromancy but witchcraft, astrology and alchemy. But these practices survived through the Middle Ages, in one form or another, and in the Renaissance, as scholars pored through ancient texts, experienced something of a rebirth. Some popes employed their own astrologers. The Munich Manual of Demonic Magic, a textbook in Latin, was compiled in the 15th century. Necromancy became, if anything, more far-reaching. After drawing a series of magic circles, saying conjurings, and making sacrifices, necromancers claim a demon would appear to assist: see the future, drive a man to love or hatred, discern where secret things were hidden, such as treasure.

During the 15th century, England was an orthodox kingdom of devout Catholics--and yet superstition ran amok. In 1456, 12 men petitioned Henry VI for permission to practice alchemy, among them two of the king's own physicians. Some courtiers owned astrological books. What was heresy and what was knowledge linked to the fashionable pursuit of ancient texts? It was not always possible to know what was forbidden--until you made a mistake.

The stage was set for Eleanor Cobham and her ambitious play for love, power and glory.

The daughter of Sir Reginald Cobham, Eleanor in her early twenties entered the service of the highborn and illustrious Jacqueline, Countess of Hanault. Jacqueline repudiated her husband, John of Brabant, and fled to England in search of champions, marrying the youngest brother of Henry V: Humphrey, duke of Gloucester.

At some point over the next five years, Eleanor herself became the mistress of the duke. After a failed war in Hainault, Humphrey abandoned his wife; the pope annulled the marriage because of legalities to do with her first husband. Later, when John of Brabant died, Humphrey could have remarried Jacqueline. But instead he married her lady in waiting, Eleanor.

His nickname of "Good Duke Humphrey" notwithstanding, Gloucester was a complex figure. Well educated, he supported learning more than most aristocrats and was a devoted patron of the arts. An enthusiastic soldier, devoted to his oldest brother, Henry V, he was a champion of the people. But Humphrey was also impulsive, vengeful, and unable to sustain a political policy. There is little doubt he was, in addition, a womanizer. After the death of his brother the king, he claimed the right to be regent for his infant nephew. His claims were supported in the dead king's will. But Cardinal Henry Beaufort and the rest of the Beauforts opposed Gloucester. The two branches of the Lancaster family fought for power for the rest of Humphrey's life.

Humphrey, youngest son of Henry IV

Eleanor did not make Humphrey more popular. She was criticized for her immoral history with Gloucester and for her ostentation. Historian Ralph Griffiths says, "One chronicler noted how she flaunted her pride and her position by riding through the streets of London, glitteringly dressed and suitably escorted by men of noble birth." She is thought to have shared her husband's sophisticated tastes in literature.

The unmarried Henry VI, passive and easily led, was fond of his aunt and uncle. He gave Eleanor beautiful presents. Historians believe a decision was made in the Beaufort camp to permanently weaken the duke of Gloucester, and the key to this was his wife.

A young Henry VI

In late June 1441, word spread through London that two men had been arrested for conspiring against the king--divining the king's future through the use of necromancy and concluding that he would soon suffer a serious illness. The accused were two clerks, Roger Bolingbroke, an Oxford priest, and Thomas Southwell, a canon. (Those who practiced necromancy were often low-level clericals, because they possessed the knowledge of Latin necessary to read forbidden books and learn the rites.) The men were sent to the Tower of London and possibly tortured. Bolingbroke told his interrogators that he had been prompted to look into the future of the king by the duchess of Gloucester.

Eleanor did not behave like someone innocent of all crime. She fled to Westminster, seeking sanctuary. Later, when she was set to appear before an ecclesiastical court, she tried to escape onto the Thames river, but was caught. The investigation went deeper. A witch was produced, Marjorie Jourdemayne, who said she procured love potions for the duchess to make Gloucester marry her. In her trial, Eleanor denied seeking to know the future of the king through necromancy, but she "did acknowledge recourse to the Black Art." It is believed she turned to the necromancers and witch to try to bear a child. Eventually, Eleanor abjured her heresies.

Eleanor's co-conspirators were condemned and executed--Margaret Jourdemayne was burned at Smithfield. One of the clerks was hanged, drawn, and quartered. Eleanor spent the rest of her life confined in various castles: Kenilworth, the Isle of Man, and in 1449, Beaumaris Castle, where she died in 1452. Her husband Humphrey, who, to the puzzlement of many, had done little publicly to free her—he "said little"—died five years before Eleanor. His wife's disgrace had finished him as an important man of the kingdom.

Did Eleanor turn to the dark arts to try to bring about the death of Henry VI so that her husband could become king and she become queen? Most historians doubt she went that far; more likely, she dabbled in the same forbidden practices that other court ladies did. But in the tense and treacherous political climate of the Lancastrian court, where rivalries were soon to explode into the War of the Roses, a mistake in judgment could cost one everything. As was learned by Eleanor Cobham.

This article is part of my series of necromancy. To read more, see From Homer to the Hobbit: The History of the Necromancer, Conversations with Angels: The Strange Life of Edward Kelley, and Henry VII and the Curse of Prophesy.

This is an Editor's Choice and was originally published January 29, 2013. 

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Nancy Bilyeau is a historical novelist and magazine editor based in New York. She wrote the Joanna Stafford trilogy, a trio of thrillers set in Henry VIII’s England, for Simon & Schuster. Her fourth novel is The Blue, an 18th century thriller revolving around the art & porcelain world. Her latest novel is Dreamland, set in Coney Island of 1911, is published by Endeavour Quill. A former staff editor at Rolling Stone, Entertainment Weekly, and InStyle, Nancy is currently the deputy editor at the Center on Media, Crime and Justice at John Jay College and contributes to Town & Country, CrimeReads, and Mystery Scene magazine.

For more information, visit www.nancybilyeau.com.

A View of London in 1190

by Mark Patton

A visitor to the city of London today has little sense of the Medieval city, even though he or she walks along streets that would have been familiar to Geoffrey Chaucer. The street-names give some clues (Chaucer or his servants would have bought milk in Milk Street, bread in Bread Street and chicken or eggs in Poultry), and many of the churches occupy the same positions, but little of the Medieval fabric is visible because of the Great Fire of 1666 which destroyed almost everything. All that remains, at least above ground, is the Tower of London and some fragments of the wall that once surrounded the city, itself built on Roman foundations.

The Tower of London, late 15th Century image,
depicting the imprisonment  of Charles, Duc d'Orleans.
British Library, MS Royal 16, Fol. 73

We are fortunate, therefore, in having a written description of the city, dating to 1190, its author, William FitzStephen, a clerk who had been in service to Thomas Becket. FitzStephen was a witness to Becket's murder and afterwards wrote a biography of him, to which his account of London serves as a preface. It seems that FitzStephen, like his master, was a Londoner, so it is likely that his description of the city is informed by his personal memories of growing up there.

"Among the splendid cities of the world that have achieved celebrity," he tells us (I am quoting from the 1860 translation by H.T. Riley), "the city of London - seat of the English monarchy - is one whose renown is more widespread, whose money and merchandise go further afield, and which stands head and shoulders above the others."

Part of London's surviving wall.
Photo: Ollios (licensed under CCA).

Emphasising London's Christian identity, he refers to Saint Paul's Cathedral, to "thirteen conventual churchs and one hundred and twenty-six lesser, parish churches." He also mentions London's defences, its walls and seven gates, and its fortifications: not only the Tower of London, on the east side of the city, but also the now long-vanished Baynard's Castle and Montfichet's Tower in the west.

Perhaps more significant, however, are his descriptions of the life of the city. "There are, in the northern suburbs of London, springs of high quality, with water that is sweet, wholesome, clear, and whose runnels ripple among pebbles bright. Among which Holywell, Clerkenwell and Saint Clement's Well have a particular reputation; they receive throngs of visitors, and are especially frequented by students and young men of the city, who head out on summer evenings to take the air."

It is a popular myth that Medieval Londoners drank only beer, because the water was unwholesome: certainly they knew better than to draw their drinking water from the filthy Thames, but the water from these springs and wells was clearly drinkable. That said, breweries also drew water from those springs, and many had taverns attached, so the consumption of beer probably was an element of student life, then as now.

"The three principle churches of London - Saint Paul's ... Holy Trinity and Saint Martin's, possess schools by ancient right and privilege. But, thanks to the support of a number of those scholarly men who have won renown and distinction in the study of philosophy, there are other schools licensed there."

London seems not to have had a university, as Paris and Bologna did, but the reference to students suggests that some, at least, of these schools were preparing men for the priesthood. FitzStephen even mentions these students hurling "abuse and jibes" at one another "with Socratic wit," although we should not imagine that they were actually reading Plato (almost nobody in Western Europe in the 12th Century could read Greek): whatever they knew of classical philosophy came from the Latin of Boethius's Consolation of Philosophy - essential reading for all seminarians.

Cooks roasting chickens on a spit.
Bodleian MS 264, Fol.170v

"Nor should I forget to mention that there is, in London, on the river bank amidst the ships, the wine for sale, and the storerooms for wine, a public cookshop. On a daily basis there, depending on the season, can be found fried or boiled foods and dishes, fish large and small, meat - lower quality for the poor, finer cuts for the wealthy - game and fowl (large and small) ... Hence, as we read in Plato's Gorgias, cookery is a flattery and imitation of medicine, the fourth of the arts of civic life."

That's not quite what is said in Plato's Gorgias, but it's an understandable error from someone who has read only Boethius. Scholars of the Middle Ages were probably acutely aware of the knowledge they did not possess: nobody had actually read Plato, but every scholar hoped to meet someone who had, and any number may have pretended to have done so.

FitzStephen goes on to describe a weekly horse-market at Smithfield (beyond the northern city wall), horse races so energetic that "you start to believe that 'all things are in motion,' as Heraclitus put it, and lose faith in Zeno's theory that motion is impossible - so that no-one could ever reach the end of a racetrack!" His source, again, is Boethius, but I think there is more to this than intellectual boasting and self-promotion. FitzStephen is, above all, a lover of his native city, and here, I suspect, he is doing his utmost to put it on the map for scholars travelling between Oxford, Paris and Bologna. Perhaps he even hoped that one of the "schools" he mentions would develop into one of the great universities of Europe as an essentially similar institution at Saint Andrews in Scotland subsequently did.

He well understood, however, that London life was not only the life of the mind. He describes the passion plays that clerks staged annually at Clerkenwell (perhaps he had acted in one of these himself), the war-games held at Smithfield in preparation for the real warfare in which so many Londoners would be caught up, and winter days spent skating on the marshes to the north of the city.

Medieval skates, Museum of London.
Photo: Steven G. Johnson (licensed under CCA).

Smithfield in 1561, Agas Map.
The etymology is from "smooth field" -
it was flat ground on which horses could be raced, ball-games played
or soldiers mustered, and it served all of these purposes,
as well as that of a horse-market from the 11th to the 17th Century.
Image: Stephencdickson (licensed under CCA).

He even gives us what may be the earliest description of a football match, although no referee is mentioned:

"After lunch, all the youth of the city go out into the fields to take part in a ball game. The students of each school have their own ball; the workers from each city craft are also carrying their balls. Older citizens, fathers and wealthy citizens come on horseback to watch their juniors competing, and to relive their own lives vicariously: you can see their inner passions aroused as they watch the action and get caught up in the fun being had by the carefree adolescents."

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This post is an Editor's Choice from the EHFA Archives, originally posted September 1, 2015.

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Mark Patton blogs regularly on aspects of history and historical fiction at http://mark-patton.blogspot.co.uk. Mark's novels, Undreamed Shores, An Accidental King and Omphalos, are  available on Amazon.