King Charles II (77 page)

Many in England at the time believed that the Crown itself was threatened. James Duke of York had written to William of Orange the previous year that ‘the monarchy itself is in great danger as well as his Majesty’s person …’. To a certain extent the King himself shared this view. There had been a rumour at the time of his illness in August that a Commonwealth would be set up if he died. At all events, he was quite prepared to take a series of steps to ensure that the country did not become further inflamed. Essentially he saw himself as forced to take these steps. They were produced out of a situation which was not of his own making, a situation which might otherwise lead to revolution. That was the King’s angle. Seen from another angle these steps represented quite simply the beginnings of tighter, even absolutist, control. In May, for example, the judges (now far more the King’s men than before, thanks to the new policy towards judicial appointments) gave a unanimous opinion
to the Council that the King might prohibit all unlicensed news-books and pamphlets in the interests of good order. The King had another asset in the crucial royal warrant by which municipal corporations were granted their charters. It was in essence a question of control over the composition of the House of Commons. Four-fifths of the MPs at that time were city or borough members, and, by packing the governing body of a corporation in charge of their election – or in fact selection – attractive results could in theory be gained. The technique was to recall the charter of a given corporation on the excuse of a misdemeanour, using a
Quo Warranto
, if it was not surrendered voluntarily. This was not a new issue, nor were the steps which the King now began to take new:
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it was the confidence he showed in his attack which was new.

Back in the 1630s his father had struggled with the City of London over its charter; Cromwell, following the Stuart trend in power, had fought with the City of Colchester. It has been pointed out that there is evidence of Crown efforts in the 1660s to impose some kind of control by using the uncertain position, after the Restoration, of many corporations whose charters had been granted by Cromwell. These early manoeuvres, in which the Duke of York seems to have played a part, came to an end not so much out of fear of the corporations, as out of fear of the House of Commons defending their own privileges in this respect.

By 1680 there was no question of the King avoiding a clash with the House of Commons: as he saw it, the Whigs were snapping at his privileges. Moreover, his dissolutions of Parliament had been disastrous: he found himself with a more Whiggish body each time. By calling in the charters, he might provide a more satisfactory selection of Parliamentary candidates. Once again he saw himself combating a trend; others might view the situation differently.

It was true that the summer of 1680 also saw the beginnings of the inevitable blacklash which violent happenings – and the possibility of violent change – bring. This backlash worked naturally to the advantage of the monarchy. Francis North, in his judicial progresses at the time, witnessed ‘some dawnings of
loyalty to the Crown’. The reprinting of the works of Sir Robert Filmer (begun in 1679) was another notable manifestation of Tory resurgence: he was the only theoretician in the 1630s who had actually supported Divine Right. The lapsing of the government order against unlicensed printings meant that the summer was loud with a cacophony of propaganda, Tory as well as Whig. Roger L’Estrange, an able and vituperative Tory journalist, conducted a pamphlet war against the Whigs in general and Titus Oates in particular.
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In Scotland the latest anti-government revolt, in June, brought to prominence the Cameronians – named for one of their leaders, Richard Cameron. These rebels styled themselves as standing for the ‘anti-popish, anti-prelatic, anti-erastian, anti-sectarian, true Presbyterian church of Scotland’ and, not surprisingly with such a sweeping ideal, forswore allegiance to the King of England. They also believed in preventive murder – in other words, terrorism. The Cameronians were however easily defeated and their leaders killed. Scotland under the Duke of York (who returned there in October) was to enjoy at least a stability of administration which was to his credit. Although his reputation was blackened later, the suppression of terrorism was at the time seen as essential, and James’ methods no more severe than those generally sanctioned at the time in Scotland. To many of the nobility and gentry, the presence of the King’s brother was welcome, while he himself became ‘highly esteemed’.
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Meanwhile, back in England, there was a meeting of ministers in June, known as the Althorp conference, which included Halifax, as well as Sunderland, Hyde and Godolphin. It was agreed that these ministers should labour to produce a more amenable Parliament. The King promised in return not to ask Parliament for money unless his foreign alliances necessitated it; and he gave securities against Popery (but not against the succession of James). Halifax pronounced himself satisfied with such a position. The Althorp conference was an earnest of the kind of reasonable accommodation the King might be able to achieve in the future.

As a portent however it was far outclassed by certain outrageous
public events which promised a very different outcome of the King’s struggles. Most notable of these was the attempt by Shaftesbury to indict the Duke of York as a Catholic recusant and Louise Duchess of Portsmouth as a common prostitute before a Whig Jury in Middlesex. The penalty for the latter crime was unthinkable for the royal mistress (Louise stood to be incarcerated in the stocks, amongst other painful humiliations). The penalty for the former was purely financial. Nevertheless the joint attack was a calculated piece of provocation on the part of the Exclusionists. In the event, Lord Chief Justice Scroggs had the jury discharged. And so the matter ended; although it had the effect of sending the terrified duchess scurrying over to the Exclusionists, hoping to save herself by abandoning the cause of James. The King’s mood became ever blacker and more withdrawn.

‘Our most solitary sovereign,’ Thomas Bruce called him. A rhyme by Lord Dorset, circulated that autumn, compared him to a King at chess, who has already lost his rooks and knights:

(His Queens and Bishops in distress)

Shifting about, growing less and less

With here and there a pawn.

One effect of this withdrawal was to make him increasingly inscrutable. As Barrillon wrote back to France, ‘His conduct is so secret and impenetrable, that even the most skilful observers are misled. The King has secret dealings and contacts with all the factions and those who are most opposed to his interests flatter themselves that they will win him over to their side.’
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It had never been particularly easy to gauge the secret emotions of Charles
II
, since his youth had trained him to hold his feelings, like playing-cards, close to his chest. Charles had, on the other hand, prided himself on being able to gauge the emotions of others – which gave him a double advantage. Now, in the momentous autumn of 1680, this inscrutability was to be a prime factor in the ultimate fate of the Second Exclusion Bill.

For there is no doubt that a large proportion of those who voted in favour of it genuinely believed that the King was
prepared to ditch his brother. As Halifax reported, by October 1680 half the world was absolutely confident that the King would quit the Duke of York and the other half absolutely confident that he would not.
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Yet, as has been expressed, the King had in fact no intention of doing so: so that one-half of the world was (as often happens) confident but absolutely wrong. Baffled by the King’s prudent secretiveness, the Exclusionists allowed optimism about his intentions to sway their judgement. They expected support from him and none came.

Admittedly, the opponents of the Bill gained no great royal support either. The King had called Parliament for quite another purpose. Tangier, the Queen’s dowry, was in danger as an outpost, being beset by the Moors. Only vast injections of cash to raise more troops could be expected to save it from falling into their hands. The French discussions were still covertly proceeding, but, as Louis
XIV
appreciated, ‘He [Charles
II
] only treats with me to derive an advantage in his future negotiations with his subjects.’
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Under these circumstances, King Louis was in no hurry to conclude yet another secret agreement which might bolster up King Charles, but leave England officially no better disposed towards France than she had been before.

Charles
II
therefore opened Parliament in October strongly on the theme of Tangier and its desperate plight. In the summer its defender, the Earl of Ossory, Ormonde’s son, had been killed. Charles had written a personal letter to his parents concerning the great loss, in which ‘I take myself to be an equal sharer with you both’.
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Without new fortifications – which had to be paid for – Tangier was lost: ‘Therefore I lay the matter plainly before you, and desire your advice and assistance.’ Throwing in assurances about the maintenance of Protestantism at home the while, the King pleaded for money which would provide ‘greater strength and reputation both at home and abroad’. He would also bring King and Parliament together. For above all he desired ‘a perfect union among ourselves’.
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The answer of the House of Commons to this powerful pleading was to introduce the Second Exclusion Bill. The so-called Tangier Parliament did not share the King’s concern at the fate of this outpost – quite ignoring its strategic position on
the Mediterranean; later one member of Parliament would refer to the King’s preoccupation with Tangier as being like Nero’s decision ‘when Rome was on fire, to fiddle’. The first reading of that Bill which the Commons considered so much more important took place on 2 November; the Bill was carried.
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On 6 November the House of Commons moved that Exclusion did not apply to the children of the Duke of York; their title would be unimpaired. But the next day the King sent a message to the Commons, offering once again to agree to any securities with regard to the maintenance of Protestantism, provided the ‘descent in the right line’ was not touched. The day after that the House of Commons, ignoring the King’s suggestion, moved that Mary, James’ elder daughter, should inherit the throne (as would have happened if her father had been dead).

At this point Sunderland moved over to the Exclusionist cause, to the indignation of the King. Sunderland’s point was that Exclusion represented the only viable alternative to a French involvement. He also dreaded dissolution and the prospect of yet another unsatisfactory Parliament. And he threw in for good measure that it safeguarded the King’s own life. But Charles, intent on his own steady course, referred to Sunderland’s behaviour, in an audible aside, as ‘the kiss of Judas’.
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The meetings of the Commons also took place against a dramatic background of movement on the part of the rival claimants. The Duke of York, who had returned from Scotland in February, was despatched thither again by the King in October. Monmouth, who had still not learnt his lesson about the limits of the King’s indulgence, set off on a series of progresses around the country which aroused a satisfying loyal chorus of support from those who witnessed them. It is possible that Monmouth was encouraged in this unlicensed display of strength by Shaftesbury. If so, Shaftesbury also had not yet understood the King’s capacity for sharp action when tried too far; the lesson would shortly be rammed home for him.

The Commons, having passed the Bill on the third reading, with the question of James’ descendants left open, passed it on to the Lords. And at this point the Lords, seeing an opportunity
to avenge themselves for the various insults and insolences dealt them by the Commons during this period of warfare between the two chambers, joined battle.

In 1678, for example, the House of Lords’ right of originating Bills of Supply (that is, money bills) had been attacked by the Commons. The latter claimed that ‘all aids and supplies … are the sole gift of the Commons’. Later the Lords counter-attacked on this particular subject; but in the autumn of 1680 the defeat of the Exclusion Bill offered the possibility of revenge in a different area.

The King himself paid the debate in the House of Lords the closest attention; a practice he had begun in the days of the Roos Divorce Bill, another measure which had seemed likely to affect the fortunes of his family. On occasion he threw in a word himself, and was formally thanked by the House. The King’s posture in the House of Lords was characteristic: he began by sitting on the throne, then moved to the fire, where he felt more comfortable, and finally went round like ‘a common solicitor’, as Burnet vividly expressed it, lobbying on behalf of his own interests.
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Many of the speeches – so far as can be judged from the existing texts since the debate has only come down to us in fragmentary note form – expressed a reassuring conservatism. The contribution of old Lord Ailesbury was one such example.
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Ailesbury was certainly over-optimistic when he suggested that James might turn Protestant, as Henri
IV
had turned Catholic (how that celebrated conversion continued to haunt the descendants of Henri Quatre!). But when he spoke along these lines, ‘If the right heir should be thrown out may we not be subject to invasions abroad or Wars at Home. More insecurity from Wars than to suffer him to Reign’, he was striking exactly the note of alarm which had long sounded in the King’s ears. Lauderdale prayed that ‘We must not do Evil that good may come of it’ and reminded the House – another significant touch – that the Duke of York was ‘Son to Charles the First of Blessed Memory’ as well as ‘only brother to King Charles 2d’.

But the key speech came from Halifax. Only details of Halifax’s superb and successful effort remain:
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but from these
it is clear that he dwelt firmly on the possibilities of revolution – or at least an armed rising under James – which the passing of the Bill might offer. These references to the power of the Duke of York in Scotland, Ireland and elsewhere ‘with the Fleet’, caused fury when they were reported to the Lower House. One MP exclaimed angrily that Halifax should be told, ‘If the Duke had such power, it was time to take it out of his hands.’ But Halifax remained steady. The Catholic succession, if it occurred, could be dealt with by other means, such as limitations. To throw out the Duke of York’s claim by means of a Bill was to provoke exactly the kind of trouble they all wished to avoid.