Читать книгу Monarchy: From the Middle Ages to Modernity - David Starkey - Страница 7
ОглавлениеIN LATE 1487, King Henry VII had much to celebrate. In the space of only two years he had won the crown in battle; married the heiress of the rival royal house; fathered a son and heir; and defeated a dangerous rebellion. Secure at last on the throne, he decided to commemorate the fact in the most dramatic way possible by commissioning a new crown. And he would first wear it on the Feast of the Epiphany, 6 January 1488, at the climax of the Twelve Days of Christmas, when the monarch re-enacted the part of the Three Kings who had presented their gifts of gold, frankincense and myrrh to the Christ Child.
The new ‘rich crown of gold set with full many precious stones’ caused a sensation. As well it might. The circlet was thickly encrusted with rubies, sapphires and diamonds, highlighted with large and milky pearls. From the circlet there rose five tall crosses alternating with the same number of similarly proportioned fleur-de-lis. These too were thickly set with stones and pearls, with each fleur-de-lis in addition having on its upper petal a cameo carved with an image of sacred kingship. The crown was surmounted by two jewelled arches, with, at their crossing, a plain gold orb and cross, and it weighed a crushing seven pounds.
It was the Imperial Crown of England. As such it sits on the table at the right hand of Charles I in his family portrait by van Dyck as the symbol of his kingly power.
This book is the story of the Imperial Crown and of those who wore it, intrigued for it and, like Charles I himself, died for it. They include some of the most notable figures of English and British history: Henry VIII, whose mere presence could strike men dumb with fear; Elizabeth I, who remains as much a seductive enigma as she did to her contemporaries; and Charles I, who redeemed a disastrous reign with a noble, sacrificial death as he humbled himself, Christ-like and self-consciously so, to the executioner’s axe.
Such figures leap from the page of mere history into myth and romance. And they do so, not least, because of the genius of their court painters, such as Holbein and van Dyck, who enable us to see them as contemporaries saw them – or, at least, as they wanted to be seen.
I have painted these great royal characters – and a dozen or so other monarchs, who, rightly or wrongly, have left less of a memory behind – with as much skill as I can. But this is not a history of kings and queens. And its approach is not biographical either. Instead, it is the history of an institution: the monarchy. Institutions – and monarchy most of all – are built of memory and inherited traditions, of heirlooms, historic buildings and rituals that are age-old (or at least pretend to be). All these are here, and, since I have devoted much of my academic career to what are now called court studies, they are treated in some detail.
But the institution of monarchy, and I think this fact has been too little appreciated, is also about ideas. Indeed, it is on ideas that I have primarily depended to shape the structure of the book and drive its narrative. But these are not the disembodied, abstract ideas of old-fashioned history. Instead, I present them through the lives of those who formulated them. Sometimes these were monarchs; more usually they were their advisers and publicists. Such men – at least as much as soldiers and sailors – were the shock-troops of monarchy. They shaped its reaction to events; even, at times, enabled it to seize the initiative. When they were talented and imaginative, monarchy flourished; when they were not, the Crown lost its sheen and the throne tottered.
I have already sketched this ideas-based approach in my earlier The Monarchy of England: The Beginnings, which deals with the Anglo-Saxon and Norman kings. In it, I argue that Wessex, round which the unitary kingdom of England coalesced in the ninth and tenth centuries, was a participatory society, which balanced an effective monarchy at the centre with institutions of local government which required – and got – the active involvement of most free men. It was this combination which enabled Wessex to survive and absorb the Viking invasions and finally to thrive. It is also why, after the destructive violence of the Norman Conquest and its immediate aftermath, the Norman kings decided that both the ethos and the methods of Anglo-Saxon government were too useful to be abandoned. Instead, the great law-giver kings of the Middle Ages, such as Henry II and Edward I, embodied them in an elaborate framework of institutions: the Common Law, the Exchequer and Parliament.
But, by the late fifteenth century, when I pick up the story, much of this was played out. The sense of mutual responsibility between Crown and people, which was the great legacy of the Anglo-Saxon nation-state, had eroded, and Parliament was flatly refusing to impose adequate taxation. The result was that the English kings, who had been the great military and imperial power of western Europe for much of the Middle Ages, found themselves outclassed by rulers who could raise more or less what revenues they wanted without the awkward business of getting their subjects’ agreement first.
The young Henry VIII tried to breathe life into the embers. But even he had to admit defeat. Instead, the English monarchy took a radically different tack. And it did so purely by accident. Because he wanted a son – and because he wanted Anne Boleyn even more – Henry decided to divorce his first wife, Catherine of Aragon. But Continental power politics meant that the Pope refused. To get Anne, therefore, Henry had to do the hitherto unthinkable and displace the Pope by making himself head of the Church. The result fused politics with religion, first strengthening the monarchy beyond limits, then presenting it with the novel challenge of ideological opposition as the kingcum-Supreme Head of the Church found himself caught up in the vicious doctrinal disputes of the Reformation.
And all of this came to focus on Henry VII’s Imperial Crown. Forged in an earlier age and for utterly different purposes, it came to symbolize the monarchy’s inflated claims to rule Church as well as state, and, with the Stuart accession, Scotland as well as England.
But the very scale of the crown’s claims triggered an equal and opposite reaction, and a century later a king was beheaded, the monarchy abolished and the Crown Imperial itself smashed and melted down.
This book tells the story of how and why this happened: of the Tudors, who carried the Crown of England to its peak; of the Stuarts, who united England and Scotland but eventually mishandled both; of the revolution that tried to extirpate monarchy in Britain. And, finally, of the monarchy’s apotheosis – its extraordinary transformation from a priest-ridden absolutism to a limited, constitutional power in the state and the figurehead of the most extensive empire in the history of the world.
