Sacral Kingship Between Disenchantment and Re-enchantment: The French and English Monarchies 1587-1688 9781782383574

Table of contents :
Contents
Acknowledgements
Introduction
I The Anglo-Gallican Moment: The French and English Monarchies from the Death of Mary Queen of Scots to James I’s Remonstrance for the Right of Kings 1587–1615
II Kingship Transformed – Kingship Destroyed? The French and English Monarchies in the 1630s and 1640s
III In the Shadow of Versailles: Stuart Kingship and the French Monarchy 1678–1688
Outlook and Conclusion
Notes
Bibliography
Index

Citation preview

Sacral Kingship between Disenchantment and Re-enchantment

Studies in British and Imperial History Published for the German Historical Institute, London Editor: Andreas Gestrich, Director of the German Historical Institute, London Volume 1 The Rise of Market Society in England, 1066–1800 Christiane Eisenberg Translated by Deborah Cohen Volume 2 Sacral Kingship between Disenchantment and Re-enchantment: The French and English Monarchies 1587–1688 Ronald G. Asch Upcoming Volumes The Forgotten Majority: German Merchants in London, Naturalization and Global Trade, 1660–1815 Margit Schulte Beerbühl

Sacral Kingship between Disenchantment and Re-enchantment The French and English Monarchies 1587–1688

?

Ronald G. Asch

berghahn NEW YORK • OXFORD www.berghahnbooks.com

Published in 2014 by Berghahn Books www.berghahnbooks.com © 2014 Ronald G. Asch All rights reserved. Except for the quotation of short passages for the purposes of criticism and review, no part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without written permission of the publisher. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Asch, Ronald G.   Sacral kingship between disenchantment and re-enchantment: the French and English monarchies 1587-1688 / Ronald G. Asch.    pages cm. -- (Studies in British and Imperial history: publications of the German Historical Institute, London; volume 2)   Includes bibliographical references and index.   ISBN 978-1-78238-356-7 (hardback: acid-free paper) – ISBN 978-178238-357-4 (ebook)   1. Kings and rulers--Religious aspects. 2. Divine right of kings. 3. Monarchy--Great Britain--History--17th century. 4. Monarchy--France-History--17th century. 5. Monarchy--Religious aspects. I. Title.   JC389.A83 2014  320.94109’032--dc23 2013044576 British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Printed on acid-free paper ISBN 978-1-78238-356-7 (hardback) ISBN 978-1-78238-357-4 (ebook)

MAGISTRO SOCIISQUE COLLEGII SELWYNENSIS CANTABRIGIAE ET ECCLESIAE SANCTAE MARIAE MINORI D.D.D.

Contents

Acknowledgements ix Introduction 1 I.  The Anglo-Gallican Moment: The French and English Monarchies from the Death of Mary Queen of Scots to James I’s Remonstrance for the Right of Kings 1587–1615 13 Introduction 13 The French Monarchy in Crisis 1587–1594 19 The Resacralization of Kingship in France 1594–1610 28 The Early Stuart Monarchy and the Legacy of the Late Elizabethan Age 34 The Advent of the Divine Right of Kings: The Reign of James VI and I 41 The Oath of Allegiance Controversy and its Repercussions in England and France 51 Concluding Remarks 57 II.  Kingship Transformed – Kingship Destroyed? The French and English Monarchies in the 1630s and 1640s 59 Introduction 59 The Personal Rule of Charles I and the New Culture of Power 68 Religion and Politics in France during the Ascendancy of Cardinal Richelieu in the 1630s 75 Civil War and Regicide in England 84 The French Monarchy between the Death of Louis XIII and the Coronation of Louis XIV 1643–1654 94 Concluding Remarks 101 III.  In the Shadow of Versailles: Stuart Kingship and the French Monarchy 1678–1688 104 Introduction 104

viii | Contents

The Changing Nature of the French Monarchy in the 1680s and after 110 The Conflict between Crown and Church in France and its Repercussions in England in the 1680s 118 Charles II and the Nature of Sacral Kingship 128 The Reign of James II 142 Concluding Remarks 149 Outlook and Conclusion 154 Notes 167 Bibliography 235 Index 273

Acknowledgements

For a tenured professor of history in the German academic system, it is not easy to find the courage to write something that aspires to be more than a textbook or a general survey of an entire period. In fact, after a certain stage in their careers, professors are hardly expected to produce such works. The fact that I nevertheless managed to write this book is at least in part due to the German Exzellenzinitiative – a vast campaign which aimed to improve the German academic system, or at least to transform it beyond all recognition. Later historians of higher education will undoubtedly look at the Exzellenzinitiative with some bewilderment. Apart from the politicians responsible for it, few people today would call it an unqualified success. In the end, too much money was spent in the same way as a baroque prince might have organized a gigantic fireworks display, or a great festival at court. However, there is no denying that the three additional sabbaticals it enabled me to spend in the School of History at the Freiburg Institute for Advanced Studies during the period 2008 to 2011 gave me the chance to work on a subject I have always found fascinating, the transformation of the sacral character of royal power in the seventeenth century. This book could not have been written without this opportunity in this environment. I am also grateful to the Cluster Normative Orders at the University of Frankfurt am Main, also a product of the Exzellenzinitiative, which invited me to spend six months in Bad Homburg in 2010 to write the last chapter of my book, and to my colleague, Luise Schorn-Schütte, who was my host during this time. I very much enjoyed my time in Bad Homburg and still vividly remember the mornings in my office with a clear view of the Frankfurt skyline. My thanks must also go to Mark Greengrass, a Fellow in the School of History at the Freiburg Institute for Advanced Studies in 2010/11, who read most of this book before publication and gave me invaluable advice, and to Angela Davies, who took great care to polish my English. I am further grateful to the German Historical Institute London, of which I was once a Fellow, and its Director Andreas Gestrich for accepting this book into their new English-language publication series. I also remember with pleasure the fortnight in 2010 that I spent in Paris at the Institut Historique Allemand as a Karl Ferdinand Werner Fellow. I dedicate this work to Selwyn College and to the church and parish of Little St Mary’s Cambridge, which in different ways have offered me generous and unquestioning hospitality, and provided me with sustenance both intellectual

x | Acknowledgements

and spiritual over so many years since the 1980s, in both good times and in more troubled days. My particular thanks go to John Morrill, whose advice has been extremely helpful to me whenever I visited Selwyn College, and to David Smith, who has always made me feel welcome in Cambridge. German institutes of advanced studies come and go, but the University of Cambridge, of which Selwyn College is a part, will survive. The gates of hell, that is, misguided educational policies, will ultimately not prevail against her, or so one must hope. Freiburg im Breisgau, All Saints’ Day 2012

Introduction

?

In an important work on the secularization of politics and society in early modern and modern Europe, the French historian and sociologist Marcel Gauchet wrote in the 1980s: ‘La prose des bureaux se substitue à la poésie du prince’ (the prose of bureaucracy replaces the poetry of the prince). Gauchet argued that as the state’s administrative structures became more efficient and their coercive power greater, the need to integrate society through symbolic acts and rituals and a shared religious system of meanings and practices became less pronounced, and political culture changed accordingly.1 This is a familiar thesis, and one that has greatly influenced our perception of political power and authority in the early modern period. Monarchy, once protected by a sacral aura, was, it seems, disenchanted and gradually lost its religious legitimation. This was achieved either in a slow and gradual process which reduced the monarch to a mere head of state, no longer God’s image on earth but all too human in every respect, or by a political upheaval, as in France in 1789–93 and England in 1649, when monarchy was desacralized by an act of regicide. Such direct attacks on monarchy, however, were only possible because the state itself had long since been conceptually separated from the person of the prince. An abstract state or, alternatively, the idea of the nation as an autonomous political community, replaced the idea that the monarch alone embodied both state and nation, and that the body politic of the commonwealth was subsumed in the king’s body natural.2 We should, however, be cautious about interpreting the history of the long seventeenth century as one of relentless secularization combined with an ineluctable disenchantment of monarchy itself, paving the way for the triumph of the impersonal modern state.3 There is no doubt that in the late seventeenth century not just the papacy, but also other ecclesiastical bodies and authorities which Notes for this chapter begin on page 167.

2 | Sacral Kingship between Disenchantment and Re-enchantment

claimed the right to impose their rules and judgements on the world met with increasing resistance. Moreover, the move away from an ‘enchanted world’ in which ‘charged objects have causal power in virtue of their intrinsic meanings’ to a more materialistic and mechanistic view of the world certainly became more pronounced during this period.4 This was bound to diminish the armoury of symbols and rituals which kings could use to represent their authority as Godgiven, or at least to decrease its efficiency. On the other hand, over the last two or three decades, research has often emphasized the extent to which the hardening of confessional front lines and the growth of confessional churches were linked to the process of building stronger structures of secular authority in early modern Europe. Far from being a product of secularization, the state, in this interpretation, owed its increasing power in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries to its alliance with the church and its ability to impose distinct rules of religious worship, thought and behaviour on its subjects.5 Although at present scholars are more sceptical about the idea of confessionalization – at least as far as the actual ability of both secular and ecclesiastical authorities to shape social behaviour and patterns of belief is concerned – and its link with the state-building process,6 it nevertheless remains true that as late as the eighteenth century very few states could do without some kind of church established by law (although toleration might, perhaps, be granted to minorities). England, in particular, while reasonably tolerant in its treatment of Protestant Dissenters after 1688 (although much less so in its policy towards Catholics), was still in many ways a confessional state in which religious and denominational allegiances had a considerable capacity to rouse political passions; much more so, often, than merely secular differences of opinion.7 Although less controversial and prominent, perhaps, with regard to public representations of kingship than in the preceding century, the religious foundations of royal authority remained of considerable importance for monarchy as an institution well beyond the early eighteenth century.8 However, religion was not necessarily a factor for stability. Religious conflicts retained the potential fundamentally to undermine political stability, even when political thought and the practice of politics had seemingly become more secularized in the eighteenth century. The tensions between the French crown and parlements in the mid-eighteenth century can hardly be understood without taking into account Jansenism’s contribution in exacerbating them; ‘a quasi-religious war’ and the advent of a new political religion, patriotism and the cult of republican virtue in the later eighteenth century and during the French Revolution were required really to desacralize the French monarchy, which still retained its sacral aura despite the widely publicized personal shortcomings of Louis XV and his successor.9 The undeniable tendency to conceive of the political order in more abstract terms during the early modern period – that is, to distinguish more clearly between the person of the ruler and the state or kingship as such – was itself to

Introduction | 3

some extent an outcome of the crisis of legitimacy which confessional strife and civil wars had produced in the sixteenth century. This could work both ways. It could reduce the monarch to the position of a mere office holder who was accountable to his own subjects. But it could also be argued that the power of the king’s body politic in its timeless perfection would purge the monarch’s body natural of whatever defects or deficiencies could be imputed to it, including the weakness of female gender, questionable religious allegiance or even a disputed right of inheritance.10 Thus the evolving relationship between a state conceived in more abstract, objective terms on the one hand, and allegiance to the individual monarch and dynastic loyalty on the other remained far more complicated, not to say dialectical, than might be assumed. Or, to quote Marcel Gauchet again, though on a different note: ‘Over two centuries, one can observe, involved in a secret and deadly contradiction, a monarchy of abstraction which works to render the state more impersonal, and a monarchy of incarnation, revived in its tendency to rely on dynastic identity, confronted by the new challenge to ensure continuity.’11 The confessional conflicts of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries could, indeed, increase the need to observe the strictest rules of dynastic inheritance, thereby reinforcing the dynastic principle. Only this could prevent a civil war, or put end to it, as in France in the 1590s. Far from necessarily disenchanting monarchy and undermining its religious legitimation, these conflicts could also reinforce the monarch’s role as a heroic and providential defender of the godly, a zealous persecutor of heretics and a sacerdotal ruler, both king and priest. This study, therefore, intends neither to chart the relentless triumph of a secular or secularizing state, nor the incipient victory of classical republicanism and early modern constitutional ideas (potentially anticipating the liberalism of a later age) over absolutism. It is equally sceptical about the idea of a monarchy successfully claiming absolute authority in both secular and spiritual matters and transforming the church into a mere instrument of political power. Rather, it is interested in how different and often conflicting ideas and representations of kingship interacted in France and England and across national boundaries, and in the internal mechanics of such interactions. It will concentrate on the discourses and practices which gave legitimacy to royal authority – sometimes, perhaps, to the neglect of those systems of argument that were critical of royal authority – but could gain a momentum of their own. They could spin out of control and impose considerable constraints on the exercise of royal authority, or even undermine it when the internal contradictions of sacral kingship or ­royalism became too flagrant. In looking at competing representations and ideas of kingship, this study will concentrate in particular on the tensions between traditional notions of sacral kingship and the constraints a confessionalized world imposed on all rulers. It will address this problem by taking a perspective which is both comparative and transnational, in an attempt to write the history of the two monarchies under

4 | Sacral Kingship between Disenchantment and Re-enchantment

discussion here, those of France and England, as a true histoire croisée.12 This perspective suggests itself because by comparison with other European crowns, these two monarchies shared a unique medieval legacy of sacerdotal kingship, a vision of monarchy in which the king was more than just a secular ruler; that is, a mere judge and warrior. In both England and France, the king was almost a priest who derived special sacral powers from having been anointed and crowned. These sacral powers included the capacity miraculously to heal those suffering from the King’s Evil. This common medieval tradition was transformed by the Reformation in England but not destroyed. Marc Bloch long ago pursued the history of this particular notion of sacral kingship in France and England in his foundational work Les rois thaumaturges.13 Despite Bloch’s pioneering comparative study, which, of course, concentrates mainly on the Middle Ages, it has often been assumed that English political culture in the early modern period was to some extent self-contained, or at least thoroughly exceptional.14 Historians have often only paid lip service to the need to take account of the interaction between changes in political culture in England and the impact of foreign models of political authority.15 Or, alternatively, they have taken a cardboard model of European absolutism – ideally Catholic or popish – and employed it to explain both Stuart policies in seventeenth-­century England and the more or less violent reaction against them.16 They have frequently been reluctant to take note of recent research which paints a much more nuanced and subtle picture of continental ‘absolutism’ – if, indeed, this ­somewhat problematic concept should be retained at all.17 Even when they have tried to establish a comparative perspective on the ­history of the French and English monarchies in the seventeenth century, conventional accounts have sometimes only stated the seemingly obvious. On the one hand, there was the emergence, in the end, of a political system in which monarchy had lost its sacral charisma and the monarch found it impossible to act without Parliament on major political issues. This monarchy maintained only a residual link with a vaguely defined post-doctrinal Protestant culture. On the other hand, there was Catholic absolutism and a sacerdotal monarchy, which left little room either for liberty of conscience or any open debate about royal policies, let alone the constitutional foundations of royal power. But as will become clear, matters are much more complicated. Bourbon kingship was and remained subject to considerable constraints in both religious and secular matters, although these constraints, especially the latter, were often more implicit than explicit. The Stuarts ultimately foundered in 1688, initially less on the rock of parliamentary privileges and constitutional liberty than on the internal contradictions of their own highly specific conception of sacral monarchy and its confessional implications.18 Such problems must be analysed from a European perspective, otherwise it is all too easy to fall back on the old Whig model of English national history which,

Introduction | 5

from the outset, was entirely different from that of other European countries, or on that of a specific and unique English tradition of liberty always destined to triumph over the powers of darkness, betrayed only by the Scottish Stuarts and English papists. The history of the late Tudor and the Stuart monarchies between 1587 and 1688 can only be truly understood in a European context.19 Not just theoretical arguments about political order, but also prevailing representations and images of kingship and government practices were embedded in an ongoing exchange of ideas and a constant encounter between different models of monarchy which competed against, but also complemented, each other. The same, however, is also true of France, although there, admittedly, it was often the Habsburg courts rather than England that provided the counterfoil to French visions of kingship. In fact, it has been argued that the impact of the Spanish model became more pronounced during the later decades of Louis XIV’s reign.20 Nevertheless, there were periods when English anti-popery had a very noticeable, although, of course, negative, impact on political debates in France. This was certainly the case in the aftermath of the execution of Mary Queen of Scots in 1587, but to a lesser extent also during and after the Exclusion Crisis in England from 1678 onwards. The persecution of Catholics in England exacerbated religious tensions in France and fed the religious passions of those who thought that the firstborn son of the church had an absolute duty to persecute all heretics. Equally, the English regicide of 1649 reinforced tendencies in France to reject all models of government which saw royal power as part of a more broadly based framework of laws and privileges imposing explicit constraints on the king’s power. But England not only provided a counter model to a Catholic monarchy iure divino in France and convenient arguments for those who wanted to combat both Protestantism and constitutional ideas, which were seen as incompatible with the exceptional status and special dignity of the king of France. There were also times, in particular, near the end of the Wars of Religion and during the first two decades of the seventeenth century, when the Erastian church settlement in England, combined with comparatively strong episcopal authority within the church, did not seem completely dissimilar to the French Catholic Church’s Gallican tradition. Rejecting papal claims to wield authority not just in ecclesiastical but also in secular matters was a high priority for James VI and I as well as for the judges of the Parisian parlement and many theologians of the Sorbonne. In both England and France, ecclesiological controversies and debates about the relationship between church and state were impossible to separate from wider discussions about the nature of political authority as such throughout this period. In England, James I was to declare in 1604: ‘No bishop – no king’.21 Whatever the truth of this claim, theories of divine right kingship and divine right episcopacy were certainly born together in England and largely originated in the same intellectual circles.22 The apparent harmony and close alliance between divine right monarchy and episcopacy iure divino before the outbreak of the Civil War

6 | Sacral Kingship between Disenchantment and Re-enchantment

was soon to be severely tested. It did not survive the regicide of 1649 and the compromises of the Restoration settlement unharmed. In fact, the relationship between secular – in particular, royal – authority on the one hand and ecclesiastical power and jurisdiction on the other was a controversial issue throughout most of the period under discussion here. At first glance the conflict between sacerdotium and imperium in the seventeenth century may seem to be no more than a rearguard action in a war which had taken place long ago, during the high and late Middle Ages, and had ended in the Reformation with the victory of imperium over sacerdotium. As will be shown, however, such an assumption would be misleading. The conflict between episcopal and royal claims to iure divino authority was one of the principal ingredients in the crisis which brought James II down in 1687–8, at about the same time as the Sun King was on the brink of being openly excommunicated by the Pope. ‘The seventeenth century was still consumed by the struggle between regnum and sacerdotium’, as Jeffrey Collins has recently stated.23 It is essential to understand the implications of this struggle in order to put the idea of sacral monarchy into context and to assess its potential both for generating political legitimacy for rulers and for undermining royal authority if an individual monarch was found wanting when measured by its demanding standards. Far from being just an obsolete controversy relating to arcane points of theology and ecclesiastical law, the conflict about the relationship between secular and ecclesiastical power – so prominent in the work of Thomas Hobbes, one of the most important thinkers of the period24 – remained an essential element in the debate about the nature of royal power. This debate had repercussions far beyond the end of the seventeenth century, in both England and France. Because the authority of the church could still pose a challenge to royal power, the various manifestations of monarchy required a distinct kind of religious settlement and a church which not only had a specific structure, such as episcopal government, but also favoured a particular type of liturgy and piety. This is how it appeared not only to James VI and I when he endorsed episcopacy, but also to his son Charles I. But this was also true of France, where neither Calvinism, nor the specific brand of piety so typical of the adherents of the Catholic League of France, was really compatible with the traditional religion royale. For Calvinists this ‘royal religion’ competed with the obedience and veneration due to God and to God alone. Moreover, its strong emphasis on the power of ritual acts and the visual image of majesty was at least potentially at odds with the particular religious sensibilities of Calvinist Protestants, although the rejection of the Mass and other traditional medieval religious acts of worship did not extend to civic rituals.25 But it would have been more difficult for them than for Catholics to approve of the virtual deification of the monarch by court artists and poets during the reign of Louis XIV. This could all too easily be seen as idolatry.26

Introduction | 7

Yet devout Catholicism was not always an easy ally for the French monarchy either. It had a strong tendency to measure an individual king by the standards of a religious rigorism inimical to political and moral compromises. A strong allegiance to monarchy could thus be combined with a tendency to find an individual king wanting by comparison with the ideal of truly saintly kingship. This trend was to some extent submerged in the seventeenth century, but became an important political factor again after 1715, when Louis XIV died.27 Thus in both England and France from the late sixteenth century onwards there was a monarchy in search of a church whose structure, faith and practices of piety were compatible with a divinely sanctioned royal authority. But this monarchy also came under repeated pressure to demonstrate its religious orthodoxy and saw itself besieged by religious zealots of various hues, although in the late seventeenth century this phenomenon was less pronounced in France than in the Stuart kingdoms. Matters had been different in France one hundred years earlier. In fact, the English poet John Dryden exclaimed in the 1680s: ‘1684 and 1584 have but a century between them to be the same.’28 That was his judgement in his translation of the French ex-Jesuit Louis de Maimbourg’s History of the League. It is difficult to overlook the parallels between the crisis of the late Stuart monarchy in the decade preceding the Glorious Revolution and the crisis of the French monarchy in the 1580s and 1590s. With the death of the Duke of Anjou in 1584, Henri de Bourbon, King of Navarre, became the heir apparent to the last Valois, Henry III. French Catholics thus faced the danger of being governed by a Protestant king. Almost one hundred years later, in the late 1670s, the facts that Charles II had no legitimate children and that his brother and likely successor, the Duke of York, had converted to Catholicism were perceived as a threat by many English Protestants. They tried to exclude the Duke of York from the succession in order to replace him with a reliable Protestant. There is an obvious parallel here with the League’s political programme in France between 1584 and 1593–4. This rejected Henry of Navarre as heir to the crown and stipulated that according to the fundamental laws of France, only a Catholic could become king. In the end, Henry converted to Catholicism and was crowned king in Chartres, whereas James II remained a Catholic, lost his crown and took refuge in France, where he spent his last years trying to live up to the model of sacral, priestly kingship to which he subscribed. For Dryden, however, writing in 1684, Henry IV of France was an example the Stuarts could and should follow one century later, not so much because of the king of Navarre’s conversion – in fact, Dryden studiously ignored this change of religious allegiance – but because he had managed to overcome the religious fanaticism of the League and the Catholic monarchomachs. In Dryden’s opinion, their successors were the English and Scottish Whigs of the later seventeenth century.29

8 | Sacral Kingship between Disenchantment and Re-enchantment

Dryden’s emphasis on the parallels between late sixteenth century France and Stuart England was, in many ways, an act of political propaganda. It was an attempt to tar his Whig opponents with the brush of religious, particularly popish, radicalism. In Dryden’s opinion the ideas of those who thought that subjects had the right of resistance against a ruler who suppressed the true church were anchored in the thought of infamous Catholic writers who had advocated the murder of princes during the French and European Wars of Religion. In many ways this was sheer polemic, although Catholic and Protestant critics of monarchical authority shared a common heritage and did not hesitate, at times, to borrow ideas from each other, however much they detested the theological doctrines of the opposing side. One might therefore dismiss Dryden’s entire analysis as superficial or spurious. But the histories of the French and English monarchies were, undoubtedly, intimately linked with each other during the period under discussion here. At various stages, both underwent a series of crises at least in part caused by tension between the notion of sacral kingship and a political reality that forced the ruler to make concessions to Realpolitik or to tolerate religious dissenters. In comparing the history of kingship in France and England and examining how a common heritage of sacral kingship was transformed in different ways in the two countries, this book will focus on three key turning points in the period under discussion here – that is, from the execution of Mary Queen of Scots in 1587 to the defeat of James II during the Glorious Revolution in 1688. Both events exemplify the encounters and interactions between the two countries in a paradigmatic way, as the fate of Mary Queen of Scots was as much part of French as of Scottish and English history. After all, Mary was the widow of a king of France and, through her mother, closely related to the House of Guise, which provided the Catholic League with its leaders. Equally, James II lost his crown not least because he was perceived in England and Scotland as being too much of a client of Catholic France. And it was in France that he took refuge after failing to regain his crown in Ireland with the help of French troops in 1689–90. In concentrating on three key periods of French and English history, this book aims both to establish a basis for a comparison between the two countries and to gain a better understanding of how the political cultures in the two kingdoms interacted. The first period under discussion here, the decades between the death of Mary Queen of Scots and James VI and I’s reaction to the meeting of the French Estates General in 1614, was a time when both monarchies were faced by the threat of radical religious opposition, before 1600 the French monarchy probably more than the English one. But even in England there were enough men (and perhaps some women as well) who thought that it might be a laudable and pious deed to kill a queen or king who was a heretic. Two French kings were assassinated during this period, and the threat of being murdered by a Catholic assassin was a very real one in England for both Elizabeth I and James I, at least

Introduction | 9

until 1605, the year of the Gunpowder Plot. In both England and France the monarchy had to reinvent itself to meet the challenge of religious radicalism and, in doing so, monarchs faced the problem of readjusting the relationship between secular and spiritual authority.30 The debate about the French succession after 1584, for example, was very much about the limits that could be imposed on the jurisdiction of the church in secular matters, or in what royalists saw as secular matters. The French debate had a deep impact in England, where the French Wars of Religion changed perceptions of the relationship between subjects and ruler in other ways as well. The radicalism of the Catholic League was to discredit more outspoken theories of resistance for a long time to come in England. And as Dryden’s remarks show, the memory of the Civil War could still provide advocates of divine right monarchy with strong arguments one hundred years later. However, if monarchy had to reinvent itself in both France and England at the end of the sixteenth century, this reinvention was not limited to the realm of political theory. Much more was involved than just an attempt to construct a new system of theological, legal and philosophical arguments which could give legitimacy to royal authority. At stake was a change of much greater scope: a new style of kingship which redefined its sacral charisma and the role of the ruler as both rex and sacerdos. This was of crucial importance both in France, with its ancient religion royale, and in England, where the monarch acted as supreme governor – and head – of the church. The dominant representations of kingship and the self-fashioning of monarchs both changed considerably over this period. This is a subject which this book will not be able to discuss in detail, but it is one of the essential assumptions of this study that ritual, ceremony and images of power can only be understood adequately if they are seen in the context of political and, even more importantly, theological debates.31 Many of the great rituals of state, such as the coronation, were in themselves ecclesiastical ceremonies, but even the perception of more secular performances of power by contemporaries was necessarily informed by their religious attitudes and convictions. Thus Calvinism’s frontal attack on the Mass and traditional religious ceremonies also had an impact on secular rituals and symbolic acts. If the celebration of the Eucharist was no longer a performative ritual that could, in a meaningful way, change reality or create a reality of its own, this could undermine the perceived effectiveness of secular ceremonies and forms of symbolic representation as well. From a wider perspective, the tendency of reformed Protestantism to question all ceremonies as mere outward signs of a faith that was not necessarily sincerely held, while privileging personal religious conviction based on a personal experience of God as the real sign of divine grace, also had a deep impact on political culture and social institutions.32 Milton’s attack on Charles I’s self-presentation as a martyr, seeing it as mere play-acting which ‘an image doting rabble’ might adore but was essentially blasphemous, is not easy to imagine outside a specifically Protestant context.33 This holds true although there were forms of Catholicism

10 | Sacral Kingship between Disenchantment and Re-enchantment

in the seventeenth century, such as Jansenism, that also placed great emphasis on the individual experience of faith as opposed to mere acceptance of the outward forms of worship and piety. In different ways both Catholic and Protestant rulers were under pressure in the period under discussion here to create religious identities for themselves consistent with the assumption that the faith of each believer had its foundation in the authentic and permanent core of his or her individual personality, his or her ‘real’ self.34 By and large, however, this redefinition of what constituted the sacrality of monarchy, or what made it credible and persuasive, affected Protestant monarchies more deeply than Catholic ones. Overall, the change in religious sensibilities in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries could lead to a disenchantment of monarchy unless the ruler succeeded in compensating for this comparative loss of the sacrality which secular and ecclesiastical rituals traditionally bestowed on him, in particular, by presenting himself as the chosen instrument of providence. A true re-enchantment of royal authority could thus take place by an appeal to providence, and especially in Protestant countries, this process continued to be of central importance until well into the eighteenth century.35 In the second period under discussion here, roughly covering the 1630s and 1640s, the development of monarchy in England and France diverged much more radically than in the preceding decades. In England, Charles I was executed in 1649 in the name of a higher legal order but also of godliness and righteousness as the radical parliamentarians understood these ideals, whereas the French monarchy withstood the onslaught of the Fronde in the late 1640s much better. Soon, after almost eighty years of internal conflicts and turmoil, it was on its way to a lasting recovery whose apogee came during the personal rule of Louis XIV after 1660. Whatever the Fronde was, it was not a religious revolt, although the tensions between the king’s first ministers and the religious rigorists, the dévots and later the early Jansenists, had been palpable enough in France before 1648. In fact, certain parallels between the Puritan movement within the Church of England and the dévots in France become visible on closer examination, although the French rigorists lacked the eschatological outlook which was such an important ingredient in Puritanism. Beyond such parallels, the turmoil of the Civil War strengthened the Stuarts’ tie with the Continent which, in the 1650s, offered a refuge to the exiled Charles II, and more particularly with France, as Charles’s mother, Henrietta Maria, was French. During the Civil War her court had become a focus for those royalists who came to suspect Protestantism as such, and not just radical Calvinism, of being at odds with divine right monarchy.36 After the Restoration, the creation of closer links not just with France but also with French Catholicism remained an important political and religious option, not to say temptation, for the Stuarts. On the other hand, the English regicides helped to discredit all attempts in France to define the authority of

Introduction | 11

the monarch in ways that appealed less to an indefeasible divine right than to notions of constitutionalism, not to say monarchical republicanism. This tradition, always much weaker in France, had already been fatally undermined at the end of the Wars of Religion when it had become almost inconceivable to separate the king’s mystical body from his natural body. It was finally killed off by the spectacle of a group of radically Protestant revolutionaries putting their own king on trial and having him executed. Even the French Huguenots were forced to condemn the English republicans, despite the reservations they may have had regarding an authoritarian Catholic monarchy. In 1660 the English monarchy was restored. From the outset it was overshadowed by the splendour and power of its French counterpart. In the late sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries it had by no means been clear that the monarchy in England was necessarily less stable than in France. In fact, between c.1560 and c.1630 the opposite had often been true, and to the extent that an exchange of ideas or any real interaction between the political cultures of the two kingdoms had taken place, it had often been evenly balanced. This was much less the case in the later seventeenth century, in particular during the period 1678 to 1688, which will be discussed in the last section of this book. At times England seemed to risk becoming a mere client of the French crown, while French ‘absolutism’, combined with a particular French variety of religious intolerance, became the great bête noire for all those in England who feared that Protestantism and English liberties would be undermined by the restored monarchy. It is clear that neither English politics nor the fate of the monarchy in this period can be understood without constant reference to the wider European context in which the Stuarts as a dynasty as well as their opponents moved – in particular, without reference to France. This served both as a model for royal government and as a bugbear which could be used to attack Charles II and his Catholic successor. The religious aspects of Louis XIV’s policies were of particular importance in this respect. This applies both to his persecution of the Huguenots and his attempts to reduce to a mere shadow the Pope’s remaining control over the French church. This led to a severe conflict with the papacy in the 1680s. French Gallicanism in its conciliarist form, less so in its royalist one, could certainly offer a model to those English bishops whose ideal was a close alliance between a iure divino monarchy and the corporate authority of a church governed by an episcopal hierarchy iure divino, but who did not hesitate to offer resistance to a monarch who did not respect this corporate authority. In the early eighteenth century, a revived and transformed Jansenist movement became the heir of older Gallican and conciliarist traditions in France itself. Jansenist ecclesiastical constitutionalism posed as much of a challenge to the prevailing model of kingship in France during this period as the incipient critique of an aggressively secular Enlightenment.37 In England on the other hand, anti-clericalism, which itself often had strong roots in the Reformation, and the

12 | Sacral Kingship between Disenchantment and Re-enchantment

attack on a church which controversially asserted its authority and status as a selfgoverning, divinely ordained corporation, made as important a contribution to the transformation of political culture in the early eighteenth century as a republicanism inspired by the history of Rome and Greece and the ideals of humanism. The new civil religion which this Whig anti-clericalism fostered should not be confused with secularism in the narrow sense of the word.38 Nor was it necessarily opposed to monarchy as such, because only a strong state could really control the church. Mark Goldie has reminded us that ‘Erastianism became a permanent counterbalance within Whiggism to the country ideal of distrust of the state. It helps explain the readiness of post-revolution Whiggism to sanctify and defend state power, and so explains the longevity in England of the idea of a national church.’39 Older debates on the relationship between sacerdotium and imperium thus continued to have a considerable impact on political ideas and on the prevailing models of kingship beyond the period under discussion here in both England and France. In both countries political culture continued to bear the imprint of the religious conflicts and antagonisms of the past: in one case the Henrician Reformation and the long struggle over the religious identity and government of the Church of England in the seventeenth century; and in the other the founding moment of the Bourbon dynasty amidst the turmoil of a religious war at the end of the sixteenth century. This study, however, ends with the Glorious Revolution and the refashioning of the baroque monarchy in France in the 1680s. Throughout this period – in France in the 1590s as much as in England in 1649 and the period after 1688, which lies just beyond the scope of this book – kingship, despite the often serious challenge posed by religious zealots, domestic rebellion and, in England, republican ideas, retained the capacity to reinvent itself even in moments of crisis. It continued to create new and revive old symbols, representations and intellectual arguments which could serve as a source of cultural and symbolic capital. Even after a severe crisis, royal power and kingship as an institution could be re-enchanted. Among these sources of symbolic and cultural capital, religion, whatever its specific forms, remained one of the most important. The ‘prose of bureaucracy’ may have become more dominant in the late seventeenth century, but kings who were astute or charismatic enough, such as Louis XIV and William III of England, had not yet lost the capacity to articulate their claims to authority, status and glory in language which owed more to the ‘the poetry of princes’ than to the prose of lawyers and administrative experts. The appeal to religious images and values could still lend their power legitimacy by emphasizing the sacral aura or providential role which church and religion conferred on them, even though older images and symbols of authority and its sacral dimension had lost some of their potency and persuasiveness by the end of the seventeenth century.

I

The Anglo-Gallican Moment The French and English Monarchies from the Death of Mary Queen of Scots to James I’s Remonstrance for the Right of Kings 1587–1615

?

Introduction In the late sixteenth century the European political landscape was deeply transformed by religious divisions between the Roman Catholic Church and the various Protestant churches. Monarchs who had traditionally relied on religion to give their authority legitimacy could easily find themselves in a treacherous no man’s land between competing religious groups and movements. The French monarchy was especially strongly affected by this religious upheaval. It not only threatened to undermine the religion royale, the royal religion, which so far had formed the basis for the king’s status as a sacral ruler, but also called into question the rules of inheritance determining the succession to the crown. At various times, redefining the French monarchy in terms of an elective kingship was a real option for radical Protestants, and even more so for radical Catholics. In France the religious conflict since the 1560s had posed a twofold challenge to the monarchy. First there were the Calvinists, for whom God was so radically transcendent that the sacramental character of Holy Communion was reduced to a merely symbolic dimension. But if the ceremonies of the church were deflated in importance, if not rejected outright, how could the ceremonies of the religion royale, the great rituals of state such as the sacre (the anointing and coronation of the king), state funerals or even the more secular lit de justice (a solemn session of the parlement in Paris in the presence of the king) retain their power as ritual performances? These implications of Calvinist theology to some extent explain why Francis I and his successors from the start rejected the option of an alliance with Calvinism.1 Notes for this chapter begin on page 171.

14 | Sacral Kingship between Disenchantment and Re-enchantment

Secondly, the political theology of the radical Catholics organized in the French Catholic League posed perhaps an even greater threat to the monarchy. While Calvinism tended to disenchant kingship and destroy, or at least diminish, the ruler’s aura of sacredness, radical Catholics subscribed to a vision of politics and the church which, as Denis Crouzet has argued, was linked to an over-enchantment of the world.2 For religious zealots of all types the divine was immediately present in this world, in the here and now. Catholics, for example, saw it in the sacrifice of the Mass,3 but also in the words and deeds of men who were directly inspired by God, such as the prophets and heroes of the Old Testament. Somebody who claimed this sort of inspiration could well feel entitled to kill a tyrant single handed, as Jacques Clément had done in 1589 when he assassinated Henry III.4 This was an extremely dangerous vision of the role that religion could and should play in politics. Although for radical Catholics, as opposed to Calvinists, the religious character of the royal sacre and the coronation were not in doubt, they pointedly asked whether such rituals were effective when the anointed ruler was a heretic? In the eyes of most supporters of the League this was clearly not the case. In fact, as Dale van Kley has pointed out, the political theology of the League could be seen as a sort of Donatism; that is, as a religious movement which, like the heretical sect of this name in late antiquity, insisted that a ritual act was only valid if the persons performing it were not tainted by moral or spiritual deficiencies.5 The League ultimately subscribed to a theocratic vision of politics that left little room for an independent secular authority. In this sense there are, mutatis mutandis, clear parallels between the model of politics espoused by the League in France and the political ideals of the radical Presbyterians in Scotland.6 In both cases, the king was a ruler under the constant supervision of the church. Compared with the last two Valois kings in France, Elizabeth I’s position in late sixteenth-century England was much less contested, despite the threat of radical Catholicism. The Tudors – at least in England, although less so in Ireland – were more successful than Charles IX and Henry III of France in containing the religious divisions inevitably present in any discussion of domestic or foreign policy. Elizabeth I even managed to integrate militant Protestantism into a framework of representations and doctrines giving her a unique status as a godly ruler and heroic defender of the English reformation against Rome and Spain, without ever really fully subscribing to the political vision which such ideas and images of authority were meant to sustain.7 As supreme governor of a national church which defined itself as Protestant while never, to the chagrin of its Puritan members, entirely rejecting the pre-Reformation traditions of piety, ecclesiastical discipline and administration, she combined strong Erastian convictions with a great reluctance to support any further and more radical reformation of the Church of England.8 From the point of view of many of the hotter sort of Protestants, including some of her own councillors and many members of both Houses of Parliament, her attempts to fight popery and its agents in England

The Anglo-Gallican Moment | 15

were much too cautious. There were undoubtedly moments when, like Henry III of France in the 1580s, she risked being criticized by religious radicals as a ruler who had betrayed the sacred mission with which God himself entrusted every prince.9 But Elizabeth was much better than Henry III at making the necessary concessions to the radicals – for example, by having Mary Queen of Scots executed, however reluctantly – without ever committing herself to their vision of an eschatological struggle against the powers of darkness. The French monarchy clearly underwent a deep crisis in the 1580s, whereas Elizabeth I was seemingly able to overcome all challenges to her authority. The apparent stability of the Tudor monarchy, however, was more precarious than it seemed. The succession crisis produced by the fact that Elizabeth, like Henry III, was childless – a clear parallel between the two rulers – could only be resolved by a highly controversial act of regicide, the execution of Mary Queen of Scots, Elizabeth’s main rival in 1587. In the years preceding this dramatic event, leading members of the Protestant elite governing the country had devised a scenario which would allow them to deny Mary’s claims to the crown even if Elizabeth were to predecease her.10 In redefining the kingdom as a monarchical republic and, at least implicitly, rejecting the claims to the succession of any pretender who was not a Protestant, Elizabeth’s councillors not only anticipated the Exclusion Crisis of the late 1670s and early 1680s, but also developed a model of kingship (or queenship) as potentially elective and subordinate to the value system of religious orthodoxy.11 This ‘monarchical republic’ presented a Protestant counterpart to the vision of monarchy that theologians and lawyers writing for the Holy League in France constructed in the late 1580s and early 1590s. Unlike France, England (but not the Tudor monarchy as a whole, if Ireland is also considered) was spared the turmoil of civil war and armed religious conflict in the late sixteenth century. It was deeply affected, however, by the repercussions of the European wars of religion during these decades, not only the Revolt of the Netherlands, in which Elizabeth I, however reluctantly, became ever more directly embroiled, but also the French Wars of Religion. In fact, at no time since the mid fifteenth century (when the Hundred Years’ War came to an end) had the histories of the French and the English monarchies been so entangled. At no time since then was interaction between events and debates in France and England so pronounced as during the period under the discussion here, between the late 1580s and the 1620s. In the late 1950s, J. H. M. Salmon pointed out that English political thought after about 1590 was deeply influenced by the writings of French royalist authors who tried to refute the radical demands of the League by creating a new model of divine right kingship immune to any challenges to its authority, whether rooted in a religious right of resistance or otherwise justified.12 From the 1590s on, the idea that rulers who turned against the one true church, however defined, or who violated their subjects’ liberties and privileges could be called to account by any human authority

16 | Sacral Kingship between Disenchantment and Re-enchantment

and possibly even deposed as tyrants was seen as a hallmark of popery and the most aggressive, Jesuitical variant of Roman Catholicism.13 The notion that Protestants could openly espouse such ideas, especially with regard to their own king and country, was almost inconceivable between c.1590 and 1640. This rejection of older conceptions of a right of resistance rooted in natural law, ancient constitutional rights and the freedom of the true church clearly reveals the influence of the ongoing debates in France. There not only the moderate catholiques d’État but also the Huguenots14 had decidedly turned against such notions in favour of stronger royal authority after 1584, although the Huguenots may have retained some misgivings about the unfettered authority of a Catholic ruler.15 Interaction between the crisis of the late Valois monarchy and the redefinition of French kingship by Henry IV on the one hand, and the repositioning of the monarchy within a changing political culture in England in the late sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries on the other was not limited to the intellectual level, to the history of ideas, important as this aspect may be. Rather, we can speak of a true histoire croisée of the two countries in this period and beyond.16 At the level of mere dynastic politics, Mary Queen of Scots, Elizabeth I’s main rival, was not just a queen of Scotland in exile but also the widow of a king of France and, even more importantly, through her mother, a member of the Guise dynasty, which had assumed the leadership of radical Catholicism in France.17 Her execution in 1587 was of considerable importance in undermining the rule of Henry III, who was perceived by the Guises themselves and their radical followers as a deeply ambivalent figure. In their eyes he had failed to distance himself from those who had killed the Scottish queen and their allies in France.18 But events in England also contributed in other ways to the growing political crisis of the years 1587 to 1589 in France, culminating in the murder of the king by Jacques Clément in August 1589. Spain was determined to subdue England in 1588 and therefore tried to ensure that France remained at least neutral if it could not be persuaded to support the Armada sent against Elizabeth I. Spanish support for the radical League in Paris, and in France in general, was therefore especially strong in 1588.19 As far as England was concerned, however, a League victory in France would have had catastrophic consequences for the Tudor monarchy as the League and its leaders were closely allied with Spain, England’s principal enemy. England’s subsequent military intervention in France, before Henry IV converted to Protestantism, was not a great success, but it set a pattern for further military campaigns in the late 1620s. These were intended to ensure the survival of French Protestantism as a political force, although they dismally failed to achieve their objective.20 More important than these aspects of dynastic and foreign policy, however, were the religious and confessional elements of political conflict during this period. They created a cluster of connections and a series of protracted interactions

The Anglo-Gallican Moment | 17

between French and English history at this time. The different and competing currents of Catholicism in England and France, for example, were closely linked to each other. Quite a number of English (and Scottish) Catholics lived in exile in France or the nearby Spanish Netherlands. They often, but not invariably, sided with the League, finding a rich arsenal for their own political theories in Leaguer thought. Undoubtedly, however, the experience of persecution which their English fellow Catholics had to face also made a major contribution to the process of political and religious radicalization among adherents of the League in France. Would not French Catholics under the rule of a Protestant French king undergo the same persecution that English Catholics were already suffering? And had not Elizabeth I been crowned by Catholic bishops as a Catholic queen, but nevertheless turned out to be an enemy of the true church? This, at least, was the danger evoked by a number of influential pamphlets in France in the late 1580s and early 1590s.21 On the other hand, the resurgence of Gallicanism as an ecclesiastical and theological movement during the last phase of the Wars of Religion, with its strong emphasis on the autonomy of national churches, its reluctance to accept the decrees and reforms enacted by the Council of Trent as binding and its rejection of papal claims to exercise supreme authority not just in spiritual matters but secular ones as well,22 had a strong impact on moderate Catholics in England. These were looking for theological arguments to justify their quest for a pragmatic modus vivendi with the Protestant state and to lend plausibility to their claims to be loyal subjects of the crown. These moderate Catholics were, as a rule, opponents of the Jesuits and acted as mediators between the debates in France and England.23 Prominent among them was, for example, William Bishop (1553–1624), who had studied at the Sorbonne and obtained a doctorate there. Almost at the end of his life, he was to become the first Vicar Apostolic for England. In the 1590s he took up the cause of the secular Catholic clergy in England against the regulars; that is, the Jesuits and other priests in religious orders. He and other secular clergy appealed to Rome against the appointment of an archpriest for England, trying to enlist French support for their struggle. Later, in 1603, he drew up a ‘Protestation of Allegiance to Queen Elizabeth’, rejecting all forms of open political resistance to her government.24 Another member of this group was William Watson, a Catholic priest who translated anti-Jesuitical tracts by Gallican and politique writers such as Etienne Pasquier into English, and tried to prove that Puritans and Jesuits shared similar subversive ideas regarding secular authority. Disappointed by James I’s failure to grant full toleration after his accession, Watson later got involved in the Bye Plot to overthrow James and was executed as a traitor in 1603. But his attempt to show the potential merits of Catholic loyalism may, nevertheless, have been genuine enough.25 However, if Gallicanism seemed to present some sort of via media between a papalism à outrance and a total denial of any sort of papal supremacy, it could

18 | Sacral Kingship between Disenchantment and Re-enchantment

also provide a model for the Church of England itself, or for those within it who rejected Puritanism and its call for a further reformation. These people tried to justify the many compromises on which the Elizabethan church settlement was based as the epitome of moderation rather than as pragmatic ad hoc solutions to problems which, at heart, remained intractable.26 It is certainly true that at a strictly theological level, the distance between Canterbury and the Sorbonne – if the theological faculty of the University of Paris is seen as the real centre of the French church – was unbridgeable.27 In matters of ecclesiastical policy and jurisdiction, however, this was not necessarily the case. To those theologians and bishops of the Church of England who came to see Rome’s main error less in the Catholic church’s teachings on subjects such as the Mass and the doctrine of grace than in the Pope’s claim to almost unlimited jurisdictional authority within the church – to the detriment both of secular rulers and bishops – the Gallican variety of Catholicism could seem quite an attractive model.28 During the reign of Henry IV a number of ‘elective affinities’ did, in fact, emerge between the Church of England – or, at least, the sort of church the anti-Calvinist conformists among the ministers and bishops envisaged – and the French Catholic church. One example was the emphasis on episcopal, as opposed to papal, authority. In the 1620s and 1630s some Anglican theologians were even to dream of a future compromise between Catholics and Protestants based on theological moderation and the rejection of Tridentine papalism, leading eventually to a reunion of Christendom. However unrealistic, this was, it seems, the view that James I had anticipated when he became king of England in 1603.29 Any hopes of a genuine ecumenical via media soon proved to be unfounded. Even those French Catholics who were most virulently opposed to any sort of political or ecclesiastical papalism did not, as a rule, have much sympathy for the Protestant Church of England.30 England, however, might provide an example that could be emulated in a different way. After 1603 James I deliberately tried to distinguish between religious allegiance and political loyalty when dealing with religious dissent and recusancy. In his view, even Catholics could claim to be loyal subjects of the crown as long as they rejected all papal claims to exercise supreme political authority, whether directly or indirectly. Aspirations to, or support for, a clerical theocracy, whether Catholic or Presbyterian, were incompatible with political loyalty. But this did not apply to mere religious convictions, held in private, which diverged from the official doctrines of the Church of England. This redefinition of political loyalty in more secular terms could well serve as a model for France, where neither Protestants nor the intellectual and political heirs of the League were easy to integrate into a state which, for the time being, had little chance of becoming truly homogenous in religious terms. In fact, it did provide a model in the years after the assassination of Henry IV.31 During the discussions of the Estates General in 1614, the English Oath of Allegiance of 1606 provided

The Anglo-Gallican Moment | 19

a blueprint for the declaration of loyalty that the third estate wanted to impose in France (see below, pp. 53–6). In sum, in both England and France ecclesiological controversies and debates about the relationship between church and state were impossible to separate from wider discussions about the nature of political order. In France this became especially apparent during the succession crisis of the late 1580s and early 1590s, when a Protestant, Henry of Navarre, had the best claim to become the successor of the childless last Valois, Henry III.

The French Monarchy in Crisis 1587–1594 In 1589 Jean Boucher, one of the most prominent clerical leaders of the Parisian League in France, published his famous tract De iusta Henrici tertii abdicatione. Presumably written in the months preceding the violent death of the last Valois, it was a straightforward justification of the regicide. In it Boucher wrote trenchantly: ‘Omnino rex nemo nascitur – nobody is born a king’.32 In making this statement Boucher wanted to emphasize that ultimately all royal power was dependent on popular sovereignty. Unlike popes and bishops, kings were of the people’s making, not of God’s, however much God might approve of monarchy as a form of government. And even that was somewhat doubtful in Boucher’s writings.33 He continued: ‘Nowhere is the principle of hereditary succession so firmly established that thereby the right of the people to constitute kings is denied and abrogated.’34 Even hereditary rulers did not properly become kings before they were crowned, and a rightful coronation was ultimately impossible without the people’s assent. Boucher argued that rulers were therefore responsible for what they did or left undone and, if necessary, could be called to account by their own subjects. This principle could be applied to Henry III, widely seen by strict Catholics as a tyrant since the murder of the Guise brothers in Blois in December 1588, as much as to his potential successor, the king of Navarre. His claim to be the new king of France could only be rejected if the office and title of king were less than hereditary, if not, in fact, elective. The Huguenots had employed similar arguments during the earlier stages of the Wars of Religion to justify their resistance to the crown. But after 1584, when Henry of Navarre became the heir apparent, they had largely abandoned this line of argument, or at least carefully concealed it behind protestations of loyalty to the hereditary monarch. At least implicitly, however, such arguments had also played a part in attempts by Elizabeth I’s Protestant councillors to ensure that Mary Stuart would not succeed her Tudor cousin. In England, admittedly, it was extremely difficult to assess the various pretenders’ claims to the crown.35 Under Henry VIII, Parliament had passed several mutually contradictory statutes, which were intended to settle

20 | Sacral Kingship between Disenchantment and Re-enchantment

the succession. For Catholics, Elizabeth was not the legitimate monarch anyway as in their eyes she was a bastard. While this position was widely rejected by Protestants, in merely legal terms there was little doubt that the exiled Scottish queen had the best claim to succeed Elizabeth after her death. After all, Mary’s son, James VI, became king of England in 1603. It would, therefore, not be easy to disregard her claims should she survive Elizabeth. The Bond of Association of 1584 was to provide a mechanism by which the Protestant political nation would unite to resist Mary’s claims should Elizabeth be killed by a Catholic assassin, as William the Silent had been in that very year. The Bond’s objectives were not entirely different from those of the French League, founded in the same year with the intention of preventing Henry of Navarre from succeeding to the French crown. Yet directed, as it was, primarily against the leader of a faction, the English Catholics, who wanted to remove the present incumbent from the throne, the Bond of Association could be seen as merely pre-emptive, designed to prevent the usurpation of the crown in an act which constituted treason; the character of England as a kingdom ruled by a hereditary queen or king would not necessarily be called into question.36 Compared with the Bond of Association, the League was far more radical in its attacks, not just on the heir presumptive, the king of Navarre, but also on the reigning prince himself. Such radicalism, however, only became apparent after the death of Mary Stuart and emerged even more clearly after the execution, or, depending on one’s point of view, murder of the Duke and the Cardinal de Guise in December 1588. As a dowager queen of France and member of the Guise dynasty through her mother, Mary Queen of Scots could naturally count on a great deal of sympathy among members of the League in France, where the fate of far less prominent Catholics in England and Scotland elicited compassion and a desire for vengeance. This attitude was reinforced by the influence that English and Scottish exiles enjoyed among these circles. When Mary was finally executed in 1587, numerous preachers and writers in France extolled her as a Catholic martyr and true heroine.37 For authors such as Adam Blackwood, an exile who had written a tract refuting Buchanan’s De iure regni apud Scotos (1579) in 1581,38 and Robert Turner, rector of the Bavarian University of Ingolstadt, whose relevant works were published in both Latin and French and thus accessible to French readers, Mary was both a heroine and a saint. Sacral kingship based on piety and obedience to the church had found in her tragic death and martyrdom an exemplary expression and, by implication at least, other Christian monarchs were encouraged to live up to this shining example. If they failed to do so, they would be found wanting. Henry III was clearly a case in point, not least because he was unable or unwilling to avenge the death of this former queen of France. For the League writers confronting their audience with Mary’s martyrdom, her execution was an attack on monarchy itself, or on the only sort of monarchy that they saw as

The Anglo-Gallican Moment | 21

legitimate: kingship sustained by fervent Catholicism.39 The Leaguers were by no means enemies of monarchy as such. In many ways they were ardent supporters of traditional kingship and believed that Henry was about to betray the very idea of Christian monarchy. Partly, perhaps, because their own position was potentially contradictory it was often more adequately expressed in images and gestures than in arguments.40 Mary’s death as a martyr was one such gesture; another was the murder of Henry III by the monk Jacques Clément two years later, in 1589. Mary’s death was certainly widely publicized in France. The Guises, Mary’s relations, saw to that. They and the League had already been closely associated with English and Scottish exiles before Mary’s death. Charles Hotman, Mary’s treasurer in France with responsibility for her financial affairs and estates in the Valois kingdom, became the first leader of the Sixteen, the committee coordinating the League’s activities in Paris, in 1585. In fact, the ‘first Parisian branch of the Catholic League was made up of veterans of the English exile cause’, as Stuart Carroll has recently written.41 The fate of Catholics in England was one of the League’s major obsessions.42 After Mary’s death a number of pictures were displayed in the cemetery of the Church of Saint-Séverin in Paris. They depicted in graphic detail the sufferings of Catholic martyrs in England, including Mary Stuart’s death. The king ordered the pictures to be removed, but after he fled from Paris in May 1588 they were reinstated. This time, however, they were displayed not in Saint-Séverin but in the Cathédrale Notre-Dame de Paris, where they remained until Henry IV put an end to the League’s rule in the capital in March 1594, a fact that was significant in itself. The pictures were probably based on engravings from Richard Verstegan’s Theatrum Crudelitatum, a book that gave pride of place to the execution of Catholics in England. Verstegan was a prominent English Catholic exile and publisher living in Antwerp at the time.43 Even before Mary’s death, League writers had tried to persuade their fellow Catholics in France that should Henry of Navarre succeed Henry III, he would treat them as harshly as Elizabeth I treated her Catholic subjects. Among these writers, the Parisian lawyer and advocate at the parlement Louis Dorléans stood out. His Advertissement des catholiques anglois aux françois catholiques, originally published in 1586, was a spectacular success and provoked an acrimonious debate to which he contributed a number of similar tracts.44 Henry III himself had not yet been directly attacked by Dorléans and others, but was implicitly depicted as a ruler who was soft on heretics and unwilling to seek revenge for the murder of Mary Queen of Scots. A Christian king, however, who failed to avenge this terrible regicide could no longer claim that his person was either ‘sacrée’ or ‘inviolable’.45 This negative image of the king contributed a great deal to exacerbating the tensions of 1587–8 in the capital, which Henry was finally forced to leave in May

22 | Sacral Kingship between Disenchantment and Re-enchantment

1588. For a long time he had tried to govern his unruly subjects by persuasion. In his opinion, well chosen words were as much deeds as were military achievements,46 but this attitude was increasingly seen as lacking virility, as effeminate. The king presented a distinctly unheroic figure, but instead of persuading the warring factions to seek peace, he only managed to undermine his own position. If not attacked as effeminate, he was certainly seen as better q­ ualified to live as a monk in a monastery than to rule France.47 In 1588 Henry decided to demonstrate to the world that he was as capable of forceful if not brutal action as any of his critics.48 In December he had the Duke of Guise killed by his personal guard, known as the Forty-Five. One day later the Duke’s brother, who was archbishop of Reims and a cardinal, suffered the same fate. But this action, by which Henry wanted to show that he could be a man of deeds and not just of words, misfired badly. The murders or executions provoked an outcry. For the supporters of the League, Henry had finally demonstrated that he was a tyrant. Interestingly enough, however, the many polemical writings that were now published and the even more numerous incendiary sermons that radical priests preached in Paris and other cities dominated by the League rarely called openly for the king to be killed.49 The king’s opponents may have thought about tyrannicide, but they hesitated to talk about it; it was for God to decide how to punish a heretical king. At best, preachers asked the king to step down, to abdicate and retire to a monastery, as the Prior of the Parisian Feuillants, Dom Bernard de Montgaillard, had done.50 On the other hand, the Sorbonne, the heart of the theological faculty of Paris University, treated the king as if he had already been excommunicated and deposed by the Pope, even before Rome actually pronounced the excommunication in late May 1589.51 Followers of the League felt little compunction about desecrating the image of the king. He became the object of violent invectives and was denounced as a heretic, sodomite and sorcerer, while radical Catholics also attacked visible symbols of kingship that could in any way be seen to be associated with Henry or the monarchy as such. The king’s name was omitted in prayers at church; instead, congregations prayed for the ‘Catholic princes’, that is, for the House of Guise and its allies. His coat of arms was removed from public buildings and funeral monuments for the king’s former favourites were destroyed. Like the Huguenots before them, the radical Catholics attacked the symbols of royalty.52 One historian has spoken of a ‘régicide symbolique’, which utterly destroyed Henry’s claim to be a legitimate ruler even before he was actually killed. To his opponents he was no more than simple ‘Henri de Valois’ and no longer king.53 In fact, certain radical trends which, in previous years, had already been apparent in a more attenuated form in the League’s political and religious outlook now became much more pronounced. One example was the tendency to depict their struggle against the Huguenots as a true crusade, a holy war, which now had to be waged as much against the ruling monarch and his heir as against

The Anglo-Gallican Moment | 23

the Protestants.54 For the League, the reign of Christ the King replaced the rule of Henri de Valois. For them, Paris became a new Jerusalem besieged by the enemies of the true church and the League itself appeared as a covenant and union with Christ. This was modelled not so much on the covenant of the people of Israel, the example that the Scottish covenanters were to follow fifty years later, as on the mystical union of the believer with Christ in the celebration of the Eucharist, as Denis Crouzet has argued.55 Leaguer thought concentrated less on a bond between believers created by an act of will and a contract, than on one based on shared religious experience and ritual. What the League proclaimed was not primarily a radical right of resistance based on notions of constitutional liberties, but a justification of tyrannicide within the framework of a theocratic political order.56 It was consistent with this theocratic approach to politics,57 that the League’s preferred candidate to succeed Henry after his hoped-for demise, at least for the time being,58 was himself a priest, the aged Cardinal de Bourbon. He would have ruled France like a new Melchizedek, both rex and sacerdos in a very literal sense.59 However much the League and its preachers execrated the last Valois, it was inconceivable that they would take him prisoner and put him on trial as the victorious parliamentary army did to Charles I of England in 1649. It could be argued that Henry had already been tried and condemned, as the Pope had confronted him with an ultimatum that threatened him with automatic excommunication should he not immediately release his prisoners, the Cardinal de Bourbon and the Archbishop of Lyon, and submit himself to Rome. (Henry failed to do this, so his excommunication was proclaimed in late May 1589.)60 It required a true miracle, a divine intervention, to liberate France from the tyrant. When Jacques Clément assassinated Henry on 1 August 1589, this deed was seen by many radical Catholics as such a miracle, and Clément himself seems to have believed that he had been ordered by God to act as he did.61 The transgressions of the heretical king were so enormous, and the fact that a king of France, the most Christian of all rulers, had betrayed the true church was in itself so extraordinary, that no ordinary mortal could avenge this crime. This role was reserved for a true heros divinitus excitatus (a hero appointed by God), a man who combined the charisma and the potestas extraordinaria (extraordinary authority) of a prophet with the courage of biblical heroes and heroines such as Ehud, Phineas or Judith.62 Even the Pope seems to have accepted Clément’s deed as divinely inspired. According to some accounts, he compared the killing of the king to the miracle of the incarnation, or at least to the predictions of this miracle in the Old Testament.63 Royalists were understandably scandalized by such remarks. For Louis Servin, for example, a prominent royalist, this was sheer blasphemy.64 Others saw matters in a similar light. What moderate Catholics – the so-called politiques in the eyes of their opponents – rejected was not just the principle of

24 | Sacral Kingship between Disenchantment and Re-enchantment

tyrannicide; it was the idea that God could intervene here and now in politics through men and women whom He had specially chosen, like the prophets of the Old Testament, to speak and act in His name. For the politiques God was radically transcendent and His realm was clearly separated from the realm of everyday politics. There was no place for new prophets and certainly not for the sort of religious hero who claimed that conventional moral precepts did not apply to him because he was acting on God’s orders.65 As Robert Descimon has argued, the royalist opponents of the League tried to define the sacred as radically transcendent. No human being, except ultimately the king, could claim to be directly inspired and authorized by God to execute His orders in secular politics.66 Opposing the ideas of the League, Etienne Pasquier writing in his L’Antimartyr de Frere Jacques Clement mocked those who claimed that Clément had a personal vocation as a scourge of tyrants, a martyr and hero, and a new prophet. Where was it written in scripture, he asked, that God would ‘in illo tempore’ (in that time) call forth Jacques Clément, native of the Sorbonne? Nowhere, of course, Pasquier pointed out.67 In a similar vein William Barclay, the opponent of the monarchomachs, was later to refute the arguments of a number of Catholic theorists – in particular, Jesuit writers – that the Pope’s authority was similar to that with which the prophets of the Old Testament had been entrusted. The prophet Samuel had, indeed, deposed Saul as king. But he had acted ‘after having received a special divine mandate and was sent forth as a messenger of God’s judgement’. It was ridiculous to claim that the Pope ‘could do as much […] on the basis of his ordinary powers of jurisdiction, without a special mandate, as the prophets, who had received a special and express order from God.’68 By stressing God’s transcendence, the royalist writers tried to undermine any claims that a religious movement opposed to monarchy might make to be divinely inspired. Their vision of politics, however, was slow to gain acceptance after the death of the last Valois. Even when it triumphed with Henry’s victory over his enemies, the League movement’s legacy arguably long continued to haunt the French monarchy. Similarly, attempts to exclude Mary Stuart from the English succession set an example that could later be followed by those who saw the right of succession as conditional on the heir’s religious and political orthodoxy. For the time being, from about 1589 to 1593, the League seemed to be in a strong enough position to impose its own vision of politics, whose principal objective in the short term was to prevent the succession of a Protestant as king of France. In the opinion of his supporters, Henry automatically became king at the moment of his predecessor’s death, according to the principle ‘le mort saisit le vif ’ (the dead seizes the living). But the League and the leaders rejected this interpretation. In their view, only a candidate who had been properly crowned and anointed could be king. In one of the most important theoretical tracts of the time, Guillelmus Rossaeus’s De iusta rei publicae in reges impios

The Anglo-Gallican Moment | 25

authoritate of 1590, the author, presumably the English Catholic exile William Reynolds, argued that the ruler who had not been crowned was not like the husband of his kingdom, but rather an adulterer and certainly a tyrant.69 Other League pamphleteers did not want to go quite so far. In fact, since the late thirteenth century the view had prevailed in France that coronation and the sacre were not strictly necessary for the installation of a new king, from a legal point of view.70 But radical Catholic pamphleteers such as Louis Dorléans argued that a pretender had to demonstrate that he at least had the capacity to be crowned. In his Responce des vrays Catholiques françois,71 Dorléans wrote that he did not care much whether or not the sacre actually transformed a potential successor into a king in the full sense of the word: ‘It is enough that the act of accepting them as kings is not properly accomplished and made perfect without it, and that the coronation is the only means of excluding any doubt [about the rightful exercise of royal authority] and the only way to legitimize our kings.’72 But how could a heretic actively participate in a ritual which was as deeply religious as the sacre and the coronation? As Dorléans had argued elsewhere, this was inconceivable, especially as the Calvinists, who detested kingship as such, rejected all religious ceremonies which emphasized the sacred nature of royal government.73 In trying to exclude Henry of Navarre from the succession, radical Catholics stressed that the king held an almost priest-like position. It would therefore be wrong to assume that the Leaguers were trying to demystify the royal body; on the contrary, they could well emphasize its sacredness, but this remained conditional.74 The sacre really gave the king a priest-like position, but only if he belonged to the community of the truly faithful. Otherwise it was ineffective and, in fact, a blasphemy. Dorléans certainly gave great weight to the fact that the king held canonries in several French cathedral chapters and that, on certain occasions, he actively participated in the office of the Mass, like a subdeacon.75 Indeed, the king’s position was not in every respect dissimilar to that of the Pope, as the Responce tried to demonstrate.76 In the same way that the Pope could be deposed by a general council if he became a heretic or committed other crimes, the king could be deposed by the Pope – a remarkable statement for a supporter of the League, which shows that radical Catholicism was not equivalent to unqualified support for papal authority in late sixteenth-century France, but could be compatible with the Gallican traditions of French Catholicism, as many of its leaders argued.77 In any case, it was inconceivable that a Protestant could really act as king, as ‘the principal form, the glory, and all ceremonial solemnities of the kingdom’s offices and acts’ (‘la principale forme, gloire, solemnité et cérémonie des charges et actes du royaume’) consisted in religious rituals or was intimately related to them. No session of the Estates General or a parliament could be opened without celebrating a Mass, and whenever the king solemnly entered one of the cities of his realm

26 | Sacral Kingship between Disenchantment and Re-enchantment

he was received in a church.78 How could a non-Catholic ever participate in such ceremonies? Clearly, for strict Catholics, coronation and the sacre were the real touchstone that allowed them to distinguish between acceptable and unacceptable pretenders to the Valois succession. Hubert Meurier, one of the canons of Reims cathedral – the Cardinal de Guise who had been killed in 1588 had been archbishop of Reims – wrote a long tract on the sacre. Published in 1593, it had probably been more or less finished two years earlier with the clear purpose of preventing the king of Navarre from becoming king of France. In his De Sacris unctionibus libri tres,79 Meurier emphasized how important, indeed, indispensable the sacre was, and that no ruler could properly govern as king unless he had been anointed and crowned.80 Yet, he went on, even an anointed king was not sacrosanct, in particular, if he had not been sincere in receiving the crown and the unction from the hands of the bishops, as had allegedly been the case with Henry III.81 Because he had been such a hypocrite, the king had lost the ability to cure the scrofula. Meurier expressed his concern that future kings of France would neither be anointed nor able to heal the sick, and would thus lose their special and privileged status among the monarchs of Christendom.82 Even when a king had received the unction in all sincerity and with the best intentions, he could later commit crimes or become a heretic. In such a case he was subject to excommunication and might even be deposed by the Estates General.83 Meurier was a firm supporter of the right of resistance against tyrants in both state and church. Remarkably, he applied his constitutional ideas not only to secular rulers, arguing that popes and princes were only God’s servants and could be punished if they failed to obey His orders.84 Such objections to the succession of a Protestant king were seemingly answered by Henry of Navarre’s conversion to Catholicism at Saint Denis in July 1593.85 But for the time being, public opinion remained divided on whether to take this conversion seriously or to consider it a mere Machiavellian ploy to remove an obstacle to the coronation. At the heart of this debate about the conversion was the problem of what it meant to be a Catholic. The famous Dialogue d’entre le maheustre et le manant (Dialogue between the soldier/nobleman and the townsman) reproduces some essential arguments in the political debate among Catholics in 1593, after the king’s conversion. In it the royalist noble, the Maheustre, states simply that he has no intention of making windows in his king’s soul. His opponent, the Manant, argues that the king is, and remains at heart, a heretic. But for the Maheustre: ‘That would be to judge the deeds of a king too much according to his supposed intentions, and to examine them to closely. For my part I only judge what I see. I see that he goes to Mass and ­therefore I believe that he is a Catholic.’86 However, this position was by no means shared by the majority of Catholics. The religious divisions of the sixteenth century had created new constraints on

The Anglo-Gallican Moment | 27

showing conformity in religion. In the Renaissance the art of disguising one’s true feelings and convictions had reached a perfection unknown to the Middle Ages. Or, at least, it was perceived thus because hundreds of tracts and learned works were devoted to this topic, not least those preaching the principles of courtliness and politeness. But this apparent flourishing of various forms of insincerity provoked a new quest for authenticity. Before the Renaissance it may have been asked whether a person’s deeds corresponded to his or her words, but the search for an inner self, a core personality that was required to be in harmony with one’s words and actions was, it seems, far less common. The American historian John Jeffries Martin has argued that authenticity and sincerity as ideals were an invention of the Renaissance and the age of the Wars of Religion.87 For the very reason that various forms of deception in politics and religion, for example, Nicodemism,88 were, or were at least seen to be, so widespread, kings now felt the need to prove that they really were sincere in their professions of faith.89 In many ways, sincerity was as much of a cultural performance as participation in the Mass or other religious or civic rituals, which were more visible symbolic acts, but it clearly demanded a more elaborate kind of self-fashioning. Like other believers – under pressure from confessors, and ecclesiastical and secular authorities alike – the king was now required to commit himself to a consistent ‘self-description’, which allowed him to answer as fully as possible all enquiries about his real convictions. He had to create a religious identity for himself consistent with the assumption that the faith of each believer had its foundation in the authentic and permanent core of his or her individual personality, his or her ‘real’ self.90 Henry III, already confronted by this challenge, had tried to meet it by displaying his own personal piety in the most flamboyant way, appearing in public as a king doing penance for the sins of his subjects and for his own.91 But his religious self-fashioning had been too contradictory to convince hard-line Catholics; ignoring the clericalism of the Catholic Reform, he had tried to become the leader of a movement which he himself only half understood.92 Henry IV’s public piety was totally different in nature from that of his predecessor, but he nevertheless made great efforts to prove that his conversion had been sincere. He visibly favoured the case of Catholic Reform and left little doubt of his hope that, in the long run, persuasion and gentle pressure would induce his former co-religionists to follow him in making their peace with Rome.93 In 1600 Henry arranged a staged religious debate in which the Cardinal Du Perron, a former Protestant himself and one of the architects of Henry’s conversion and absolution in 1593, duly defeated his Protestant opponent, Duplessis Mornay, one of the king’s oldest friends and followers.94 However, such demonstrations of his enthusiastic support for Rome failed to convince more radical Catholics, especially during the early days after his conversion, but to some extent even in later years. In 1593 Jean Boucher, one of the leading theologians of the radical League in Paris, preached nine sermons about the ‘simulated conversion’ of the

28 | Sacral Kingship between Disenchantment and Re-enchantment

king, showing that a relapsed heretic like Henry could never be trusted, whatever he said or did.95 In his sermon on the conversion and absolution of the king, the Franciscan priest Jean Porthaise passed a judgement that was hardly milder. According to Porthaise, in the last resort it was impossible to tell what Henry really felt or believed. What could be examined, however, were the alleged king’s deeds, and they demonstrated that he was not a true Catholic. Otherwise he would eliminate heresy and not continue to tolerate Protestantism.96 It is significant that immediately after Henry’s conversion, he suffered a series of assassination attempts by religious radicals. As long as the king of Navarre had been a heretic it could be assumed that he would never be crowned king of France. But once he had at least nominally become a Catholic, only the assassin’s knife could save France – or so it seemed to men like Jean Châtel, who tried to kill him in 1594.97

The Resacralization of Kingship in France 1594–1610 Henry’s kingship thus remained under threat even after his conversion in 1593, coronation in Chartres on 27 February 1594 and subsequent entry into Paris in March 1594.98 After the deep crisis of kingship in France in the 1580s, monarchy had to reinvent itself. One option was clearly a more secular model of kingship, and it was this that the royalists who had fought the League in the 1580s and early 1590s to some extent envisaged. Before Henry IV converted, the possibility of abandoning the traditional coronation ceremony, in which it was almost impossible for a Protestant to participate, was discussed. Might not Henry crown himself in a secular ceremony? Some of his supporters advised the king to do so, but this would have constituted a radical break with tradition and, as has been discussed above, Henry sought as far as possible to meet the expectations of traditional Catholics.99 In fact, far from abandoning the medieval religion royale, greater stress was placed on the sacral aspects of kingship. The fact that Henry IV was more assiduous in healing the scrofula than his Valois predecessors had been100 was only one sign of this ‘recharge sacrale’ (process of reviving the sacred power) of the king’s person or, in other words, of the ‘resacralisation du roi et de l’État’ (resacralization of king and state).101 The reign of the first Bourbon is nevertheless still seen by many historians as the period when the foundations were laid for a more secular conception of state and politics. If not replaced by the logic of reason of state under the Bourbons, religious loyalties were subordinated to it.102 Looking at the period when Richelieu and Mazarin dominated French politics, this seems prima facie to be a reasonable assessment (cf. below ch. II, pp. 77–9). But the transformation of the French monarchy was more complicated than the model of a general and inexorable secularization of politics suggests.103 Denis Crouzet, who has

The Anglo-Gallican Moment | 29

devoted much of his work to the impact of the religious conflict on the transformation of political culture in the later sixteenth century, strongly emphasizes that a tendency to rationalize the idea of the state was combined with – in fact, was dependent on – a process of attributing to the king almost divine qualities (‘divinisation du roi’).104 A rationalized state and a monarchy which, more than in the past, rested on the perceived identity between kingship as an institution, the corps mystique of the ruler and the mortal body of the individual king paradoxically complemented each other.105 Crouzet goes even further and argues that reason of state as a governing principle of politics could only be established within a political context that was dominated by a ‘magical vision of the world’ (‘vision magique de l’univers’). To rule the world rationally, the ruler had to be initiated into the magical world of hermetic wisdom. This model of kingship had a discernible influence on the way in which the last two Valois, Charles IX and Henry III, presented themselves as kings.106 With the advent of a new dynasty, that of the Bourbons, the emphasis changed. But there was still a close connection between the ideal of a world ruled by reason and the figure of a sacralized, almost divine monarch, except that the monarch was now less a Platonic sage with magical powers than a Stoic man of action and a hero.107 The mythological figure with which Henry IV was most frequently identified was Hercules: not the Hercules Gallicus of his immediate predecessors,108 who persuaded men with his rhetorical skills, but a hero who subdued his enemies by his actions and was prepared to sacrifice his life for those he sought to liberate. Rulers, of course, traditionally identified with Hercules, but for Henry IV the image of this mythological figure became a key to his selfrepresentation in a more profound way than it had for rulers in the past. For Denis Crouzet this resacralization of the monarch goes back to the mid 1580s, when Henry was no more than the possible successor designate of the reigning monarch. In 1585 Henry had challenged the Duke of Guise, the leader of the League, to a duel, which was intended to settle the political and religious conflict and avoid further bloodshed. Crouzet sees this duel as ‘the starting point for the achievement of a sacral position’. He goes on: ‘Henceforth, Henri of Navarre, by facing up to death in such a serene and Stoic manner, has placed himself firmly under the scrutiny of God alone.’109 Crouzet is certainly correct to point out that in Henry’s self-representation, the languages of pagan mythology and ancient philosophy were combined with Christian images in a novel and often daring way, although he may overemphasize the importance of pamphlets and works of art produced for specific occasions in creating a lasting new vision of political order. A prime example of this new mode of self-representation, and one that is frequently quoted by Crouzet himself, is the solemn entry of Marie de’ Medici, Henry’s second wife, into papal Avignon in the year 1600. As was customary on such occasions, the streets were decorated with triumphal arches and images

30 | Sacral Kingship between Disenchantment and Re-enchantment

depicting scenes from history, the Bible and mythology. In 1600 the celebrations in Avignon were dominated by the figure of Hercules, who was closely identified with the king. But the decorations celebrated the victory of the heroic Herculean king not so much over his enemies as over himself. In returning to the Catholic Church the king had liberated himself in the same way as Hercules had freed Prometheus, who had been chained to the Caucasus. But just as Prometheus’s heart and breast, although repeatedly lacerated by Jupiter’s eagles, were always regenerated – Prometheus was apparently shown on the triumphal arch without any wounds at all – so the king had, at heart, always remained a true believer, whose soul had not been tainted by heresy. This, at least, was the message that the official description of the Avignon celebrations by one of Henry’s clerics, the Jesuit André Valladier, who had also designed the programme for the entry, was intended to convey.110 The sophisticated and often arcane combination of pagan mythology and Christian symbols, perhaps with Counter-Reformation connotations, in Henrician court culture had the advantage that these images were so opaque and ambiguous that Huguenots were able to ignore the Catholic or CounterReformation messages conveyed by such representations of kingship if they wished.111 In other respects this could be seen as a weakness of the new Bourbon monarchy. As Kléber Monod has argued, the concept of sovereignty and kingship which dominated during Henry IV’s rule was ‘a Renaissance survival, emphasizing masculine and heroic virtues. These were not the values of Catholic selfhood, which set the purified body and the devout soul above the pride of the warrior.’112 It may be true that the cult of the new Hercules was not as easily compatible with Tridentine Catholic ideals as men such as Valladier, the author of the Labyrinthe d’Hercule Gaulois, tried to suggest. But as has already been emphasized, the extent to which Henry committed himself and the new dynasty to Tridentine Catholicism after 1593, and probably even more so after the end of the Wars of Religion in 1598, should not be underestimated. He may have been depicted in works of art and court festivals as a semi-divine hero whose virtues were not necessarily those of ascetic piety, but this did not prevent him from participating actively in the performative culture of popular Catholicism. He knew that he could only gain the loyalty of strict Catholics by making important concessions to their political vision; that is, by taking part regularly in the religious rituals which the militant Catholics cherished – both during his entry into Paris in 1594 and later – and by healing a large number of sick men and women in the traditional miraculous way. Henry ensured that kingship again became part of a political and religious culture centred on a belief in the performative quality of symbolic acts. He and his successors ‘became de facto committed to an epistemology of ritual that was based on the conviction that ritual enactment has the capacity to transform reality’, and thus had more

The Anglo-Gallican Moment | 31

than a merely declaratory or ceremonial character, as Ann Ramsey has argued. According to Ramsey, Henry’s use of sacred time [during the religious processions in Paris in 1594] worked as a kind of re-enchantment of the French monarchy. […] The affirmation of a link between the sacrality of the monarchy and the truth of religious ritual was particularly fateful for the future of both ritual and the Bourbon monarchy. Henry had, in effect, reconfirmed an older essentialist interpretation of ritual.113

For Ramsey, the Bourbon monarchs – not just Henry but also his successors right up to the French Revolution – almost became prisoners of their newly won allies, the devout Catholics. These had pursued the same objectives as the League, but had abandoned religious warfare against heretics in favour of charity, a reformation of manners and a more intense, internalized piety, sometimes combined with religious mysticism. This may be overstating the dependence of the resacralized monarchy on the culture of devoutness, which both Henry and his successor supported.114 The specific character of court culture during Louis XIV’s reign can hardy be explained exclusively in these terms, especially for the earlier decades of his rule (cf. below, pp. 112–16). But it remains true that the monarchy’s claims to sacred status only remained plausible within a religious culture that was favourable to such pretensions. And such a culture could well impose demands on the king with which he or his successor did not always find it easy to comply. Yet in France at the end of the Wars of Religion there was a genuine attempt to find a new basis for civic concord and peace, a desire for order and stability that was not just imposed from above, but also more or less spontaneously expressed at a local level. In cities such as Senlis, this newfound unity among the citizens was celebrated in religious ceremonies that combined Catholic piety and devotion to the monarchy, which thus gained a strong affective if not emotional dimension, as Thierry Amalou has recently shown. It was no longer heresy that was execrated as a source of dissension and chaos, but rebelliousness and disobedience. At the same time, this new civic and political religion was inspired by the idea – carefully nurtured by Henry IV and his advisers themselves – that the king’s victories demonstrated that God had chosen him to restore peace to France. His triumph manifested the workings of providence.115 This idea was certainly of considerable importance for the king himself.116 When confronted by opposition to the Edict of Nantes in the Parisian parlement, Henry had insisted that he was more Catholic than the councillors of the parliament, for he was truly ‘the oldest son of the church’ (‘le fils aîné de l’Église’). And because in implementing God’s will he had brought peace to the kingdom, he was owed not only obedience but also ‘devotion’ (‘dévotion’).117 Joël Cornette sees the king’s insistence on the devotion of his subjects, not just on the obedience that they owed him, as a sign that during his reign Henry had begun a

32 | Sacral Kingship between Disenchantment and Re-enchantment

‘transfert de religiosité’ which was to be completed under the rule of his successors. According to Cornette, the state itself became an object of religious loyalty, if not veneration, ultimately at the cost of the church.118 Matters, however, were more complicated. By so strongly emphasizing the religious character of kingship and its sacred nature, and describing the king’s majesty in almost theological terms, the advocates of the new monarchy certainly made it easier for strict Catholics to accept and even promote this renewed religion royale.119 For many monks and friars whose predecessors had been at the forefront of resistance to Henry III and, before 1594, to Henry IV as well, it now became almost a heresy to resist an anointed king.120 But as has already been emphasized, this new political theology gained a momentum of its own and imposed constraints on kingship that a more secular model of monarchy would not have entailed. Ultimately, each king had to prove anew that he was truly the firstborn son of the church and sincere in his faith, as Henry had done when the Pope finally absolved him from the excommunication his predecessor had pronounced against him in 1595. In doing so, Pope Clement VIII had admonished the king. Pointing out that now that he, the supreme pontiff, had opened the gates of the church militant to him, it was up to him to show, through his faith and works of piety, that he was worthy to enter through the gates of the church triumphant on the day of judgement.121 Despite the papal absolution, an influential minority of strict Catholics still harboured doubts about the king’s commitment to the true church. Although the number of attempts made on the king’s life had decreased after the end of the Wars of Religion in 1598, there was still a culture of regicide that could serve as an intellectual and spiritual seedbed for an assassination. And this culture of regicide found important support beyond the borders of France in the Spanish Netherlands. A number of the former clerical leaders of the Parisian League, such as Jean Boucher and the feuillant Bernard de Montgaillard (who became abbot of Orval in the province of Luxemburg), had found refuge there. Whether Archduke Albert, who was acting regent of the southern Netherlands at that time along with his wife, the Infanta Isabella, actually planned Henry IV’s assassination to save his country from a French attack, as Jean-Christian Petitfils has argued recently,122 remains unclear. But for a man such as Jean Boucher, who was now a canon of Tournai cathedral, to kill a tyrant was undoubtedly as much an ‘acte heroïque’ in 1610 as in 1594, when Jean Châtel had tried to kill Henry IV. For Boucher, the deed was heroic and gave the assassin a status that was ‘divin en quelque sorte’ because it was both just and required truly superhuman courage.123 The League had not been successful in imposing its own ideas of religious heroism and martyrdom on the French church, let alone on the Catholic Church as a whole. On the contrary, after 1600 Rome took care to ensure that the ‘saints’ of the Catholic League – the priests killed by Protestants, political leaders such as

The Anglo-Gallican Moment | 33

the Guise brothers, murdered in 1589, and the political assassins killed in action, such as Jean Châtel – were in due course largely forgotten.124 Nevertheless, the ideas that men such as Jean Boucher had promoted while preaching in Paris and continued to advocate from their safe exile in Brussels or Tournai still had some lingering influence in France. Thus François Ravaillac, who killed Henry IV in 1610, had apparently felt that his deed would be applauded by many people. This hope was not fulfilled; the popular reaction was one of panic and fear.125 But in mobilizing his army to intervene in the Cleves and Juliers inheritance dispute in alliance with Protestant states and princes against the Catholic House of Habsburg, Henry had clearly overstepped the mark in the eyes of many Catholics. An actual or seemingly pro-Protestant foreign policy remained dangerous even for his successor, whom no one would have suspected of being a closet Huguenot. The king was nevertheless praised in numerous sermons after his death as a real hero and ruler of exemplary piety. In fact, his conversion was seen as ‘l’acte le plus heroïque’ of his entire life.126 Henry was also depicted as a new Josiah.127 His end was presented as a true sacrifice, which made it possible to compare him to Christ, who had sacrificed himself for all mankind.128 The monarch’s sacrificial death was certainly seen as a confirmation of his sacred status, which had already been strongly emphasized in the early 1590s to refute all resistance theories.129 Since 1589 it had not yet been possible to rebut entirely the claim of potential assassins that they were acting in the name of providence. With the sacrificial death of Henry IV, regicide had become largely unthinkable and the king – that is, Henry’s successor – became the only person who could claim to act in the name of providence.130 English kings and queens, even Elizabeth I and William III, never really achieved this status, despite all the efforts of royalists in the seventeenth century to sacralize kingship. In France, in his funeral sermon for Henry IV, André Valladier asked: ‘Le Roy de France est-il sainct?’ (The king of France, is he holy?), to which he responded that, indeed, ‘il y a du divin et de la sainctété en ceste couronne’ (there is an element of the divine and of holiness in this crown). Not only had the king been anointed with the holy chrism ‘de la main de dieu’ (by God’s hand), but he was also able to heal the scrofula,131 and the French kings were rightly considered to be immortal in the sense that ­kingship as such never died.132 It might be said that all this was not much more than the usual courtly rhetoric.133 And the eternal light that Louis XIII installed next to his father’s resting place in Saint Denis might also be dismissed as an attempt to create an artificial cult of the first Bourbon king, one that never really caught on outside the confines of the court and the religious communities such as the monks of Saint Denis, which deliberately promoted this cult. His life and death did, however, confer a special aura on Henry IV. Even in the later eighteenth century, men and women who managed to gain access to his coffin in the Bourbons’ vault in Saint

34 | Sacral Kingship between Disenchantment and Re-enchantment

Denis touched and kissed it, or fell to their knees to pray in front of it.134 No wonder that in 1793 the revolutionaries destroyed Henry’s tomb and scattered his bones like those of other kings.135

The Early Stuart Monarchy and the Legacy of the Late Elizabethan Age The murder of Henry IV was bound to make a deep impression on James I of England.136 The thought that he was surrounded by religious radicals who were only too eager to depose and kill him was certainly at the heart of many of his political pronouncements and actions long before the French king’s death. As James I himself put it: ‘A King is not like a cat, howsoever a cat may looke upon a King: he cannot fall from a loftie pinacle of Royalty, to light on his feet upon the hard pavement of a private state, without crushing all his bones to pieces.’137 Some historians and many of his own contemporaries saw James I, who took pride in being called a rex pacificus, as a coward, living in permanent fear of assassination. A man, however, who had nearly been killed by rebels and conspirators while still an unborn child in his mother’s womb and who later, in 1605, was almost blown up by Catholic conspirators along with his entire court and parliament, not to mention incidents such as the Gowrie conspiracy of August 1600 or the Earl of Bothwell’s alleged attempt to hire a team of crack witches to prevent his liege lord’s return from Denmark in 1590, can perhaps be forgiven for being of a slightly nervous disposition.138 James VI and I was particularly afraid of religious fanatics, although Bothwell and the Ruthvens do not quite meet this description. After all, during his lifetime two French kings were killed by religious assassins: Henry III in 1589 and Henry IV in 1610. Moreover, his own mother had been deposed by rebels and was later executed in England. The latter act may have been brought about with her son’s silent connivance, but it nevertheless demonstrated only too clearly how vulnerable royal authority had become. In the year Henry IV died, one of James I’s most famous court preachers, Lancelot Andrewes, Bishop of Ely, gave a sermon on the sanctity of kingship, taking as his text one of James’s favourite verses from scripture: ‘Touch not mine anointed’ (1 Chronicles 16 and Psalm 105 respectively). According to Andrewes the sacred authority conferred upon a king by the coronation and unction could never be lost, whatever a king did: ‘God’s claim never forfeits; His character never to be wiped out or scraped out, nor Kings lose their right, no more than Patriarchs did their fatherhood.’139 In contrast to this view, religious fanatics wanted to make the king’s right to rule dependent on his religious views. So that if he will not hear Masse, no Catholic, no “anointed”. If after he is “anointed” he grow defective, to speak their own language, prove a tyrant, fall to favour heretics,

The Anglo-Gallican Moment | 35

his anointing may be wiped off, or scraped off; and then you may write a book De justa abdicatione, make a holy league, touch him, or blow him up as ye list.140

Clearly Boucher’s De iusta abdicatione Henrici III had not been forgotten in England. Andrewes’s sermon, given to commemorate James I’s escape from the Gowries in 1600 but clearly also a reaction to the assassination of Henry IV in France, can be considered a major example of a political and theological discourse that extolled monarchy as an institution iure divino and kings as God’s representatives, indeed, images on earth, who were therefore sacrosanct.141 This focus on the sacred nature of royal authority is often seen as representing a significant change of emphasis, if not a break with Elizabethan political thought. In the early Elizabethan period England’s character as a mixed monarchy had been stressed. Because the queen was advised by male councillors both in Parliament and at court, the fact that power was wielded by a woman could seem acceptable. What is more, some writers stressed that the English res publica was embodied less by the queen as a human being than by Parliament representing the ‘body of the whole realm’, comprising both houses and the queen herself.142 Confronted with the real possibility that Mary Stuart, who had the best claim to the English crown – that is, a Catholic in alliance with Spain – would succeed Elizabeth should the Tudor queen die of natural or unnatural causes, Elizabeth’s councillors in the 1580s tended to emphasize that England was no mere monarchy, but a sort of ‘monarchical republic’ in which the royal succession was subject to approval by the political nation as represented by the Privy Council, the peerage and Parliament as a whole.143 The Bond of Association of 1584 was a covenant of all those who were prepared to defend Protestantism in England against a possible Catholic pretender. Mutatis mutandis, it was not entirely unlike the Catholic League in France, which had been created at about the same time. The crucial difference, however, was that it was not directed against the present incumbent of the throne, as was the League, at least implicitly, and increasingly so after 1586. The Bond of Association gave expression to a vision of England as a Protestant kingdom in which royal power was inseparable from a traditional framework of laws and privileges that provided protection for the reformed religion as much as for the liberties of the subject. Although intimations of constitutionalism and even republicanism might be found here, the republic at stake was a distinctly religious community of true Protestants under the leadership of a godly monarch, rather than a secular commonwealth of free citizens which, if necessary, could govern itself without a king or queen at all.144 Whatever the influence of constitutionalist ideas on Elizabethan political thought, it did not prevent Elizabeth I from presenting herself as an anointed queen and the holder of an office which gave her an authority that was sacred in nature. Nor did it prevent her courtiers and subjects from ascribing to her

36 | Sacral Kingship between Disenchantment and Re-enchantment

a special charismatic status as the heroic defender of her country and of the true religion against both Rome and Spain. Elizabeth I did, in fact, rely on her personal charisma and role as a providential heroic monarch, which so many sermons, pamphlets and paintings attributed to her, in legitimizing her role as queen. She also drew on traditional ceremonies and practices to emphasize her position as a sacral monarch: for example, washing the feet of the poor on Maundy Thursday – thus imitating Christ – and regularly healing the scrofula.145 From the 1570s on, ‘sacred forms and practices were absorbed into the nominally secular discourses of civic and courtly pageantry in praise of the queen; and by this indirect symbolic means, she was endowed with an aura and resonance of the sacred’.146 To give an example, Elizabeth deliberately retained such ceremonies as the Order of the Garter festivals and processions that incorporated traditions closer to medieval Christianity than to Protestantism (certainly as far as Calvinism was concerned); for example, the cult of St George or veneration of the Virgin Mary. ‘The Garter’, as Kevin Sharpe has argued recently in a major work on the image of monarchy in sixteenth- and seventeenth-century England, ‘represented Elizabeth as sovereign of a chivalric order; as though female, a martial prince; as head of an order that incorporated the Catholic as well as the Protestant sovereigns of Christendom; as both the virgin and St. George, the guardian of the realm and yet the beloved maiden who needs protection’.147 The public image of the queen was ambiguous and polymorphous – so polymorphous, indeed, that elements of it might even appeal to moderate Catholics. This, at least, seems to have been what the queen hoped.148 The royal image could integrate aspects of the traditional iconography of the Virgin Mary (although the significance of these elements may have been over-emphasized by some recent research),149 but the queen could also be celebrated as a new Deborah, Judith or Susannah,150 or appear as a ruler who combined male virtues with a female body (and the distinctly erotic appeal of a woman).151 In fact, in sermons Elizabeth was far more frequently compared to David and Solomon or other male figures from the Bible than to female heroines.152 Elizabeth’s role as God’s chosen instrument for defending England and the church and her reputation as a truly heroic ruler figure prominently in many writings and sermons celebrating the queen, especially after the outbreak of war with Spain in the 1580s.153 A good example of this rhetoric is provided by the sermons that William Leigh, a clergyman with strong Puritan leanings, delivered on Accession Day during the last years of Elizabeth’s reign.154 Like many other preachers, Leigh saw the godly prince threatened by radical Catholics trying to depict regicide as a ‘heroicall acte’.155 This was exactly what Jean Boucher had done in France in 1594, when he had celebrated Jean Châtel, the would-be assassin, as a hero;156 radical English Catholics did not necessarily see matters in a different light. When an assassin had killed William of Orange in 1584, an English priest had praised this deed as ‘a holy and living sacrifice offered to God the Lord

The Anglo-Gallican Moment | 37

his creator’.157 To disarm these enemies of godly queenship, Leigh insisted that Elizabeth herself was a true heroine. Like Josiah, she had saved her people by vanquishing a godless enemy. But her real victories had been won not on the field of battle, but through prayer. ‘Not seven times but seventie times seven times hath Qu. Elizabeth by prayer to God and prophecying with men, sacked the Romish Iericho.’158 Thus while attributing male virtues to Elizabeth and comparing her to male heroes, Leigh also emphasized her special role as a woman. For the very reason that women were weaker than men, Elizabeth’s achievement seemed a special token of God’s grace, or as Leigh put it: David killed Goliath in his weake strength with prayer in his mouth and a pebble stone in his hand […] Queen Elizabeth in her weake, and femimine [sic] sex, to give God the glorie, hath subdued that great Giant of Gath, I meane that man of Rome, with the sweete perfume of prayer in her mouth and the power of the word of god in her blessed hand […] in the spirit and speech of David hath been her royall march.159

Elizabeth was thus depicted as a truly heroic figure, just like Henry IV, but the Herculean associations which were so important for Henry’s image were absent, as was the idea of self-sacrifice inspired by neo-Stoic philosophy. Instead, Elizabeth’s heroism was seen as the fruit of her Protestant faith, or as Leigh put it: ‘This heroicall vertue of Magnanimite ever springs out of the fountaine of faith.’160 Elizabeth managed both to play the role of godly ruler chosen by providence and to sustain a ‘cult’ of her person with distinctly erotic undertones, resembling the Platonic eroticism of Henry III’s court in France, but without the associations of strong homosocial affections which had been so important for the French court.161 There were more than enough strictly Protestant clergy and preachers who had their doubts about Elizabeth’s real credentials as a godly ruler,162 and Elizabeth’s feminine charms increasingly failed to dazzle those among her courtiers who found it ever more difficult to submit themselves to a rather capricious and famously parsimonious, not to say miserly, woman in the 1590s. Ultimately, however, the image of the queen, with all its contradictions, was appropriated by most members of the political elite, although in different ways depending on allegiance and interests. But the cult survived because almost everybody – apart from hard-line Catholics and perhaps the more extreme Puritans – had a stake in it.163 The ‘cult’ of Elizabeth, however, was more than an elite phenomenon. Elizabeth’s image – in the narrow sense of the word, as her portrait or likeness – was publicized much more widely than that of any English monarch before her, featuring in engravings as much as on objects such as playing cards. In other cases the queen was represented indirectly by emblems and symbols, such as the pelican or, more traditionally, her coat of arms. This wide distribution of the royal image made ‘Elizabeth truly the visual focus of the national community and

38 | Sacral Kingship between Disenchantment and Re-enchantment

identity’, as Kevin Sharpe has argued.164 But there were also dangers in this wide accessibility of the royal image. The mysteries of kingship might be profaned by the very popularity of the monarch. To quote Kevin Sharpe again: ‘After the break from Rome every monarch had needed and sought to publicize himself or herself as sacred. But in publicizing themselves they had demystified kingship.’165 Whether Elizabeth had actually demystified kingship in this way is not entirely clear, partly because until the very end of her reign she retained the capacity to refashion her image in new ways, and partly because she managed to combine a certain personal remoteness – her virginity was a symbol of this aloofness – with an ability to appeal directly to her subjects’ loyalty and love for her.166 But it is true that there was a tension between the claims of early modern monarchs that their office was sacred in nature and their appeal to a wider public audience. This implicitly gave this audience access to the arcana imperii and allowed it to appropriate certain aspects of the royal image and use them for its own purposes. In a Protestant country like England, where the official church hierarchy often found it difficult to control the various forms of individual or local ‘voluntary religion’, this was perhaps an especially serious problem.167 In a predominantly Catholic country like France, where religious worship and the various manifestations of popular or elite piety were more strictly controlled and moderated from above after the end of the Wars of Religion (this had clearly not been the case in the later sixteenth century), it may have been somewhat easier for the court to centralize the civic worship of monarchy, giving the royal image an iconic form which to some extent removed it from the sphere of public debate. Moreover, Puritanism, the major manifestation of this voluntary religion, had a strong tendency to emphasize the autonomy of the church (the community of the faithful) with regard to any secular authority. And it had strong reservations about monarchy, however suitable as a political system for the state, as a form of government for the church, where Christ alone was truly king. In Scotland strict Calvinists approved even less of attempts by the monarch to claim any authority over the church. One of the leading Scottish theologians, Andrew Melville, famously exclaimed that within the church the king was no more than ‘God’s silly vassal’.168 In the last ten to fifteen years of Elizabeth’s reign there were signs in England of growing tensions between the ever more hyperbolic praise of Elizabeth as a perfect queen and an almost mythical symbol of England’s power and unity on the one hand, and those tendencies within the Church of England commonly labelled Puritanism on the other. Although Puritan theologians such as William Perkins pointed out that the Calvinist Reformation’s rejection of idolatry did not imply a similar rejection of the civic worship owed to magistrates and princes, they underlined that ‘religious worship […] is due to God alone’.169 From this perspective, at least some of the manifestations of the ‘cult’ of Elizabeth must have seemed disturbing.170

The Anglo-Gallican Moment | 39

Clerical conformists – that is, those clergymen and theologians for whom the Church of England in its present state represented an almost ideal via media between Rome and Geneva, and certainly far more than a mere halfway house between the corrupt pre-Reformation church and a truly reformed community of believers as the advocates of further reformation thought – tried to give the English equivalent of the French religion royale a distinctly anti-Puritan twist. In fact, the 1590s saw a sustained attack on Presbyterianism (both the triumphant Scottish and the covert English variety) and all related strands of radical Protestantism by conformists such as Richard Bancroft, the Bishop of London, and their allies at court.171 Presbyterians and Puritans were tarred with the brush of rebellion and disloyalty, whereas monarchy was increasingly extolled as an institution that mirrored God’s rule over the world. Although few Protestants in England openly rejected the secular rites and pageants that celebrated the queen and affirmed her authority – unlike Catholic writers, who saw such celebrations as idolatry – they may have had misgivings about the more extravagant encomiastic outpourings that went along with them. These reservations, mostly silent or raised only in a muted voice, were now attacked by conformist clergy. In November 1602 John Howson, a strong anti-Puritan, preached a sermon in Oxford entitled In Defence of the Festivities of the Church of England, and Namely those of her Majesties Coronation. Although the Jesuits and other Catholics who openly rejected such celebrations were his main target, he noted that some ‘formalists’ had recently joined the recusants in their criticism, thereby undermining their own Reformed religion. Against such doubters Howson affirmed the sacred character of royal authority: ‘Princes are the gods of the earth, God’s immediate lieutenants, to whom hee hath imparted his name, and vouchsafed them a great parte of his external worship.’ He added: ‘they [the princes] have gifts of healing incurable diseases, which are miraculous and above nature [… and] they have power absolute without limitation accountable only to God for their actions.’172 Howson’s sermon, which attacked Jesuits and, at least implicitly, Puritans alike, displays the divine right rhetoric that was so closely linked to the anti-Puritan tendencies within the Church of England in the 1590s.173 This was to become even more pronounced during James I’s reign. Men such as Howson and Bancroft found it easier to attack Puritanism as anti-monarchical – and to criticize the Puritans’ alleged political philosophy as just another variety of popery in disguise – because a robust assertion of the indefeasible hereditary right of James I now seemed the best way to defend England’s character as a Protestant monarchy. Unlike in the years before 1588 (when Mary Stuart had still been alive), it was now the Catholics who experimented with ideas of elective kingship, which may be seen as part of their own model of a monarchical republic. For a time Catholics openly espoused resistance theories, especially in the later 1580s and early 1590s. English Catholics had initially been more restrained in their criticism of the Elizabethan regime, but this was to

40 | Sacral Kingship between Disenchantment and Re-enchantment

change after 1584. Hope of a successful Spanish invasion was certainly one of the factors affecting the attitude of Catholics both in England and in exile, but the new political alignments in the struggle for power and the succession in France also had a distinct impact. As has been described above, English exiles often had close contacts with the leaders, both political and intellectual, of the League in France. In fact, Reims, one of the strongholds of the Guises and the League, was a major centre of English Catholic activities on the Continent.174 As French Catholic theoretical and polemical writings now openly advocated the right of resistance to a tyrant, their English co-religionists were encouraged to embrace similar theories.175 By the mid 1590s, however, the more extreme positions had once again become less popular among Catholics. Hopes of a Spanish invasion had receded and some sort of modus vivendi with the Protestant regime clearly had to be sought for the time being. One of the most prominent Catholic polemicists during the 1580s and the 1590s was the Jesuit Robert Parsons (or Persons). Parsons had been a leader of the radicals advocating resistance, if not tyrannicide, but he now moved towards the middle ground. In his Conference about the next Succession, written in 1593 and published in 1595, he no longer advocated active resistance to a heretical ruler, but concentrated on the question of what criteria a legitimate successor to Elizabeth had to meet. Parsons ultimately wanted to argue the case for a possible Catholic pretender to the crown against James VI of Scotland, although he refrained from saying so openly in order to maintain the pretence that his book had been written by a Protestant (it was published under the name of Doleman).176 The Latin and Spanish versions of his tract may also have been conceived as a text on which the Pope and the king of Spain could base their own policies towards James Stuart and his claim to succeed Elizabeth I.177 In Parsons’s concept of kingship it was essential that the heir presumptive became king only through the act of coronation. The coronation (and anointing of the king), in his view, was far more than merely a piece of political theatre; it actually changed the status and character of the person crowned. It has even been argued recently that by emphasizing the necessity of the coronation so strongly, Parsons was more concerned ‘to redefine or reinvent monarchy than to license the toppling of the Elizabethan regime’.178 What is clear, however, is that in writing the Conference Parsons was directly inspired by the French debate about Henry of Navarre’s claims to succeed the last Valois. In France, Meurier, Dorléans and Reynolds (who was himself English) had argued that Henry could never become king because he was unable to be crowned and anointed in a Catholic ceremony. In a similar way, Parsons now emphasized that the coronation was essential for assessing and confirming a pretender’s right to rule – and there could be no coronation without a prior promise by the pretender to respect the rights and liberties of the church and the people. But Parsons refrained from putting too much emphasis on the Catholic character of the church which the ruler was required

The Anglo-Gallican Moment | 41

to protect. He wanted to give the impression that his tract, at least the English version, had been written from a point of view that was neutral in confessional terms. The Latin edition appealed openly to the idea that ultimately the Pope was the supreme judge regarding the English succession.179 Essentially, a potential heir was accepted by the clergy and the people during the coronation, and nobody could rule without having been accepted in this way. Parsons expressly pointed to the French coronation ceremony, not only as the most ancient and splendid in Europe, but also as the historical model for the English coronation: ‘among all other Kingdoms it seemeth that England hath most particularly taken this custom and ceremony from France, not only for the reason before-alledged that divers of our English kings have come out of France […] but also for that in very deed the thing it self, is all one in both Nations’.180 But the French case was important for Parsons in other respects as well. The author he most directly and most frequently attacked in the Conference was Pierre de Belloy, a French royalist and one of the foremost advocates of a divine right conception of kingship. This gave the heir to the crown an automatic right of succession, thereby excluding both papal interventions and the need for popular assent. In the crucial years after the death of the Duke of Anjou, de Belloy had published a number of tracts in which he tried to refute the League’s arguments against the Bourbon pretender.181 For Belloy any candidate, however defective, had to be accepted as king provided he was the rightful heir in terms of the customary law of succession, which in France was Salic law.182 As far as Parsons was concerned, Belloy was a mere flatterer of princes; for him legitimate kingship was inconceivable without some sort of ecclesiastical sanction and an element of popular consent, although for Parsons the people were represented primarily by the nobles and bishops.183 As Peter Lake has recently pointed out, in his book Parsons tried to depict the incipient English succession crisis as ‘a cross between the wars of the Roses and the French wars of religion’.184

The Advent of the Divine Right of Kings: The Reign of James VI and I The fact that Parsons linked the succession in England to the problems the French monarchy experienced after 1584 was important not only in itself but also for the reception of his treatise. The debate about the questions he had raised was now difficult to separate from the wider issues that had been at stake in the last phase of the French Wars of Religion. In the same way as, for Parsons, a monarchy that was exclusively hereditary – with no elective elements regarding the succession – had to be a form of absolutism if not despotism, his opponents tended to espouse an idea of divine right kingship whose implications for the authority exercised by kings went far beyond a mere rejection of the elective

42 | Sacral Kingship between Disenchantment and Re-enchantment

character of kingship. One of the most prominent of these opponents was, in fact, James VI of Scotland. As Peter Lake has demonstrated recently, James’s treatise, The True Law of Free Monarchies (1598), must at least in part be understood as a response to Parsons, not just to the much earlier writings of George Buchanan, the Scottish humanist and resistance theorist who had been James’s own teacher in his youth.185 Although not necessarily a blueprint for James’s later government in England, The True Law of Free Monarchies, with its emphasis on the paternal character of kingship, its divinely ordained status and the right of kings to rule, if necessary, without their subjects’ consent (though not as tyrants who disregard their subjects’ welfare), was certainly at the core of much that was important to James.186 It betrayed James’s tendency to see both Jesuits and radical Calvinists as the principal enemies of monarchy and, essentially, as birds of a feather. It is therefore important to understand that James’s idea of kingship did not originate in a purely British, let alone Scottish, context but was conceived in ‘overlapping and mutually reinforcing transnational (“European”) contexts’, as Peter Lake has pointed out.187 ‘European’ in this case more often than not meant French, or related to the issues raised during the French Wars of Religion. In his writings and speeches from The True Law of Free Monarchies on, James VI and I was frequently inspired by the publications of authors who were active in France, or had tried to intervene in French controversies from nearby Lorraine, especially the opponents of any right of active resistance. Prominent among these anti-monarchomachs were not just French jurists such as Jean Bodin and Pierre de Belloy, but also a number of Scottish and English Catholics in exile; in particular, Adam Blackwood (1529–1613), a staunch defender of Mary Queen of Scots, and William Barclay, a Catholic Scotsman and legal scholar like Blackwood, who taught for a long time at the University of Pont-à-Mousson in Lorraine and was briefly tempted, in later life, to settle in England.188 More than Bodin, these writers emphasized that royal authority, as opposed to sovereign power, which might also be exercised by an assembly, for example, was distinctly sacred in character. Only a king could claim to represent God’s own majesty, and only a king, unlike other non-ecclesiastical office holders, was anointed. This fact was strongly emphasized by Blackwood, for whom the sacre was a ‘symbol of divinity’ and, in some ways, ‘a sacrament’ (‘divinitatis symbolum ac veluti sacramentum’).189 Other Catholic authors in France who tried to buttress the authority of the crown against its critics, such as Pierre Grégoire (who, like Barclay, taught at Pont-à-Mousson in Lorraine), had similarly underlined that coronation and anointing gave the ruler a special, sacred status; an attack on the king was equivalent to sacrilege.190 The inviolability of royal authority and the person of the king was an idea that was certainly central to James’s thought.191 On the other hand, James was also determined to influence debates on the Continent through his own writings and pronouncements. In order to do

The Anglo-Gallican Moment | 43

so, however, he needed writers to act as mediators between Britain and Europe and, from an early stage, French Huguenots had played this part. Thus Jean Hotman (1552–1635), the oldest son of the author of the Francogallia,192 visited James VI in Scotland in 1589 and also spent many years in England. Hotman edited a French translation of James VI’s Basilikon Doron, a political treatise for the instruction of his son and successor, in 1603.193 James VI had written the Basilikon Doron in 1599, a few years before the death of Elizabeth I, but probably with his new role as king of both Scotland and England already in mind. His accession as king of England in 1603, for which he had waited so patiently, greatly increased his power and status, but also made a distinct contribution to changing the prevalent notions of kingship and royal government in England. In France the Bourbon succession in 1589/94 had brought about a distinct resacralization of both kingship and the state, underpinned by royalist political theory. The same can be said in a different way about James I’s accession in England in 1603.194 There is certainly no lack of pronouncements by James VI and I stressing the ruler’s sacred position and that he was responsible to God alone. Thus in 1610 James said in Parliament: ‘Kings are iustly called Gods, for that they exercise a manner or resemblance of Divine power upon earth.’195 He added: ‘That as to dispute what Gode may doe, is Blasphemie [… .] I will not be content that my power be disputed upon.’196 James could not stress often enough that in the last resort, the liberties and privileges that his subjects held were not their undisputed property but favours granted by his ancestors, expressions of their magnanimity and liberality. Essentially, however, such grants could be revoked if they were abused, and if the king felt that he had good reason to revoke them.197 For James more than for many politicians, Parliament men and common lawyers in England, every political issue was and ultimately remained a theological one. Essentially what was at stake was the relationship between the king and divine authority, which was the source of all legitimate power in this world. It was typical of James that he compared the House of Commons’s attempt to defend its privileges, in particular, freedom of speech in 1621, with the sophistic intellectual tricks in which the ‘Puritan minister of Scotland’ and Jesuits such as Cardinal Bellarmine specialized.198 Secular attempts to limit royal power were, in his eyes, immediately associated with clerical pretensions to subject kings to a higher human (that is, popular) authority. In developing his own special brand of divine right theory James VI and I benefited, as has been described above, from the debates in France and the arguments that Catholic royalist authors deployed to show that a ruler had to be obeyed at almost any cost.199 Like these authors, James saw royal authority in a religious context, as divinely ordained, but his theological approach was nevertheless distinctly Protestant. His dominant theological perspective was frequently an eschatological one, perhaps more so than has sometimes been appreciated.

44 | Sacral Kingship between Disenchantment and Re-enchantment

In this respect James’s vision of kingship was clearly different from that which underpinned the resacralization of the French monarchy after 1589, where no such pronounced eschatological dimension is evident. James’s political theology was deeply influenced by an apocalyptic vision which may even have been indirectly derived from John Knox, the man who had denigrated his mother as a royal whore.200 Looking at the king’s writings in the official contemporary edition of 1616, the first work encountered is not political but theological, the Paraphrase upon the Revelation written in the 1580s, followed by a second, similar work, the Fruitfull Meditation, Containing a Plaine and Easie Exposition or Laying Open of the 7th, 8th, 9th and 10th Verses of the 20th Chapter of the Revelation in Form and Manner of a Sermon, first printed in 1588. Admittedly, the Paraphrase upon the Revelation was written when James was quite young and seeking to cooperate with the hard-line Presbyterians at a time when not only England but also Scotland was threatened by Spain. Both works, however, were reprinted in James’s collected works in 1616, a clear sign that he still at least to some extent subscribed to the views he had held more than twenty-five years earlier. What is remarkable about the Paraphrase and the Meditation is that they stress the highly ambivalent nature of all secular authority, and of royal power in particular.201 Kings can be the instruments of the devil; they can be the servants of Antichrist, just as Knox and his successors such as Andrew Melville had always claimed. In the Meditation James writes that the Pope tries to ‘stirre up the princes of the earth his slaves, to gather and league themselves together for his defence and rooting out of all them that professe Christ truly’.202 This statement is not very far removed from the Presbyterian position that kings, or at least a substantial number of them, are really ‘the devil’s children’.203 For James, a king himself, however, what really turns the authority of princes into a force for evil, into something pernicious, is that monarchs are unable or unwilling to defend the autonomy of their own office. They become servants of an overweening spiritual or pseudo-spiritual authority, which wants to rule not just the church but also the world. And this spiritual power can be Protestant – a Puritan clergy with theocratic pretensions – as much as Catholic. This is certainly the position that James maintains in his later writings. While willing, in theory, to accept that the Bishop of Rome has some sort of pre-eminent position among other bishops, James believes that the Pope’s claim to universal authority in both spiritual and secular matters transforms him into a representative of Antichrist.204 The enormous effort that James invested in an intellectual contest with the papacy for about ten years after 1606 can only be explained when we realize that, for James, the proper demarcation between spiritual and secular authority lay at the heart of all politics. It was the crucial problem on which everything else depended.205 The real antagonist of the spiritual tyrant who threatens all true Christians is a free monarchy, which refuses to submit to clerical pretensions of any kind. The survival of these free monarchies is therefore necessary for the salvation of

The Anglo-Gallican Moment | 45

mankind, not just an expedient. But in order to resist clerical pretensions, the monarch must hold an authority that is sacred in nature, and cannot be undermined by reference to the sacred power of the clergy as God’s lieutenants on earth. To some extent the king has to be both secular ruler and priest if he wants to maintain his position in a potential conflict with the power of clergymen. James’s thoughts on the sacred nature of royal power are reflected in Les trophées du roi Jacques I, a work written in 1609, in the context of the Oath of Allegiance controversy (see below pp. 52–7), by the French Protestant George Marcelline. Marcelline wants to celebrate James as the ideal Protestant ruler. He analyses in great detail the image of James I seated on the throne in his coronation robes. The king wears the tunica and dalmatica, which form part of the vestments priests wear; he does so as a sign that he is both king and priest. As Marcelline puts it: ‘This will show us and persuade us that despite the Pope, the Anabaptists and all these mad preachers […] he is an absolute monarch, in both spiritual and temporal matters, just like in former times the caliphs, and that in his person the poet’s saying is exemplified: the same man is king over mortals and Apollo’s priest.’206 Marcelline compares James to Constantine the Great, who, in addition to the biblical King Solomon, was the paradigm of royal or imperial power for James and, as he and his court theologians continued to emphasize, provided the model for his own role as supreme head of the Church of England. ‘The image of Constantine proclaimed the king’s authority to lecture foreign monarchs on matters of religion, but it also refined the picture of his own Church to exclude even moderate Puritans’, as Lori Ferrell has stated. The ecumenical implications of this Constantinian image could be used to claim a role for James VI and I as supreme arbiter of religious disputes, whereas its domestic implications were closely tied to a rhetoric of moderation that could serve to marginalize all those who were too zealous.207 James’s vision of kingship, so closely wedded to ideas of divine right and expressed in the ruler’s Solomonic or Constantinian role, was not universally popular in Scotland or in England. James’s tendency to indulge in fulsome statements about the divine character of monarchy could, in fact, provoke strong criticism. Having made the mistake of entering the confessional polemic of the time as an author and participant in the acrimonious exchange of theological arguments, as he did in the Oath of Allegiance controversy, the king himself at times became an object of bitter satirical attacks. None of these was stronger, perhaps, than that in a pamphlet published in 1615 in Flanders, the Corona Regia, probably written by Cornelius Breda, a student of the University of Louvaine. Breda’s statement that when looking at James I he saw King Solomon himself sitting on his throne was sardonic irony, not flattery.208 The high-flown rhetoric of divine right kingship could all too easily be ridiculed in religious or political disputes.

46 | Sacral Kingship between Disenchantment and Re-enchantment

Its strictly secular implications, as opposed to its impact on church policy, were probably seen as less objectionable north of the Tweed than south of the border between Scotland and England.209 In England, James’s insistence that all rights and claims to property were subject to his control and could be called into question – closely linked to his idea of what it meant to be a king iure divino – was perceived as a danger to the existing legal order right from the start, although this may have been no more than a bargaining ploy to gain concessions from Parliament and other corporate bodies.210 In Scotland such a ploy was probably more easily accepted as a legitimate tactical move in a war of words. After all, the crown had precious few weapons there apart from words when James came to power in the 1580s. Nevertheless, if James’s idea of divine right monarchy was tantamount to a gospel of absolutism, as has so often been argued,211 it was in practice a very tentative sort of absolutism. And, of course, James I never did use his prerogative to abrogate any hitherto undisputed privileges and liberties systematically or on a large scale. But he insisted that no subject, not even Parliament or his judges, was entitled to define the extent of his prerogative, although individual rights might be discussed in court. As he put it in his speech in the Star Chamber in 1616: ‘That which concernes the mysterie of the Kings power, is not lawfull to be disputed: for that is to wade into the weaknesses of Princes, and to take away the mysticall reverence, that belongs unto them that sit in the Throne of God.’212 Here we again encounter the concept of a sacred monarchy, which makes it sacrilege for mere mortals to define the nature of kingship and the full extent of its authority. James was by no means alone in articulating this concept of monarchy. Within the Church of England he could rely on strong support, in particular, from among the growing number of ‘conformist’ or ceremonialist clergy. These men stood in the tradition of late Elizabethan anti-Puritanism, but went further than the Elizabethans in rejecting important elements of Calvinist theology – in some cases including the idea of strict predestination – and trying to revive traditions of piety and liturgy whose origins lay in pre-Reformation times. In the eyes of the conformists, however, this did not make these traditions Roman Catholic, but merely catholic in the wider sense of the word.213 At the heart of the theology preached by Lancelot Andrewes, John Buckeridge (the Bishop of Rochester) and other like-minded clergymen was an attempt to re-enchant a world in which the impact of a rather arid Calvinist theology and a piety centred exclusively on the word had made the sacred too elusive and intangible. As opposed to the pure and unadulterated ministry of the word, the conformists emphasized the material and the visual, the importance of symbols and ceremonies and, not least, of the sacraments themselves. On merely theological grounds James I may not have shared this outlook. It has been shown above how important the word of scripture was for him and, as far as he was concerned, divine service was always centred on the sermon, not the sacrament. But he realized that the conformists could offer him a reasonably substantial idea of sacral kingship. The stricter

The Anglo-Gallican Moment | 47

Calvinists had nothing comparable to offer except the ideal of the heroic, godly ruler who spent his life fighting popery and sin, an image that the unheroic James hardly found attractive. For one of the leading conformists, Bishop Lancelot Andrewes, the mysteries of kingship – and here he was clearly thinking along similar lines to the king himself – were like the mysteries surrounding God. Just as no man could fully grasp the mystery of Christ’s presence in the Eucharist or how God determined each man’s election or reprobation, nobody could dare to disentangle the mysteries of kingship. The Noli me tangere (Do not touch me) which Christ left as one of his last commands applied to kings as much as to God.214 But in emphasizing the sacredness of kingship, Andrewes made a distinction between the special religious sanction conferred by the right of inheritance and the unction at the coronation, and divine grace. He pointed out that royal ‘unction gives not grace, but a just title only’. Even tyrants or heathens such as Cyrus, King of the Persians, could rule as anointed kings, and the first king of the Jews, Saul, although anointed had, as a man, never been holy or even particularly godly: ‘with his anointing there came not grace to him’. The unction gave ‘the administration to govern, not the gift to govern well, the right of ruling not the ruling right’.215 As far as Andrewes was concerned, it was important for his argument to underline that kingship itself was sacred, not the king as an individual, let alone as a Christian, otherwise it would have been too easy to argue that ungodly kings could be deposed or at least brought to reason by active resistance. Moreover, a legitimate ruler did not need the ceremony of the coronation to claim his right. He was anointed because he had inherited the crown or, as Andrewes put it: ‘The ceremony doth not any thing only declareth what is done. The party was before as much as he is after it.’ And, ‘who is anointed? On whom the right rests. Who is inunctus? He that hath it not.’216 There was, nevertheless, an element of logical tension, if not contradiction, in Andrewes’s line of argument here. On the one hand, monarchy belonged squarely to the realm of nature, not to the realm of grace. As Andrewes’s companion Buckeridge put it in his contribution to the Oath of Allegiance controversy: ‘regnum autem regi non contulit gratia sive ecclesia sed natura et res publica’ (neither grace nor the church give the kingdom to the king but nature and the commonwealth). For this very reason a bad king could not be deposed, whereas a bad pope or bishop, lacking the grace which was essential to render his rule legitimate, could very well be deposed.217 On the other hand, this merely natural institution, kingship, somehow bore the imprint of God’s own image and was therefore sacred. For this reason Andrewes could see Christ’s Noli me tangere, which in his interpretation was an admonition not to discuss the mystery of God’s decrees and the nature of his majesty, as a principle which could just as well be applied to the arcana imperii, the mysteries of kingship.218

48 | Sacral Kingship between Disenchantment and Re-enchantment

The image of divine right kingship, which Andrewes and other conformists developed, must be seen in a wider context than that of the history of political thought or political theology. Not a mere theory, it was closely linked to a new ideal of churchmanship and a distinct type of post-Calvinist piety. In fact, as Malcolm Smuts has recently argued: ‘Since the 1590s, conformist clergy had attempted to link divine right arguments to a liturgical emphasis characteristic of anti-puritan theology. [… T]hey sought in addition to show that Christianity’s sacred texts and rituals were suffused with royalist symbols, indicating that submission to kings was fundamental to Christian piety.’219 It thus comes as no surprise that John Buckeridge, a leading conformist and Bishop of Rochester, presented God’s command to worship Christ and the sacrament, not just spiritually, but in proper ceremonies such as kneeling and prostration, very much as mediated by the king’s injunction. In his sermon on Psalm 95: 6 (Venite adoremus…) James I implicitly assumed the position of King David, author of the Psalm. As custos utriusque tabulae (guardian of both tables), the king could establish ecclesiastical ceremonies, which he did in this case so that Christians realized that to worship God went beyond merely hearing his word and would remain imperfect if all ‘adoration and worship’ were ‘turned into hearing a sermon: As if all, soule and body, were turned into an eare.’220 In fact, according to Buckeridge there could be no true obedience if men only heard God’s voice without worshipping him.221 Such statements contained clear implications for the relationship between an anti-Puritan religious culture and the political culture of loyalty regarding the king, which implicitly also required some kind of worship, not just outward obedience to the laws and the king’s commands.222 These implications were particularly relevant in political terms in the years after 1617, when King James tried to impose a new liturgy on the Kirk of Scotland through the Five Articles of Perth (1617). These, inter alia, compelled communicants to kneel while receiving communion, against the fierce resistance of the Scottish Presbyterians.223 The status of episcopacy was also a point of controversy, especially in Scotland, although much less so in England at that time. Both in his own country and south of the Tweed, James VI and I strongly supported the authority of bishops within the church. When he chaired a discussion between Puritan divines and conformists in 1604 at Hampton Court he famously pronounced: ‘No bishop, no king!’224 In defending episcopacy against other ways of organizing the church, in particular Presbyterianism, James was not only seeking an instrument that allowed him to control the church – synods and general assemblies in Scotland did not really provide such an instrument – but also supporting the idea that bishops exercised their office iure divino. This implied not only that episcopacy was an institution with clear scriptural foundations, but also that bishops derived their spiritual authority directly from God, not from the king who appointed them.225 From the king’s point of view this theory had the advantage that it could be used to reject Presbyterian demands for radical equality among ministers, which

The Anglo-Gallican Moment | 49

could undermine the royal supremacy. But in England it also allowed the king to counter a concept of the supremacy that made its exercise subject to parliamentary control. If bishops held their authority iure divino, no merely secular body, such as Parliament, could claim to give them direction. This could be done only by an anointed king whose office was sacred and iure divino, like that of the bishops. From this perspective, it was the king as God’s lieutenant on earth who exercised the royal supremacy along with the bishops, his councillors in spiritual matters, not a secular king-in-parliament. Ultimately, an independent ecclesiastical authority was needed to underwrite the monarchy’s claims to sacred status and to legitimize the king’s rule over the national church; a mere national synod could not or would not fulfil this role. Various versions of the theory of episcopacy iure divino were put about, not just by anti-Calvinist, conformist clergy but also, though perhaps in less fulsome terms, by moderate Calvinists.226 It did not, therefore, yet form one of the principal bones of contention within the Church of England that it was to become later, in the 1630s; nor were bishops tempted to diminish the extent of the royal supremacy by pointing out that they owed their own authority to God, not the king. Even anti-Calvinist conformists who were inclined to foster a new clericalism knew that with an Erastian parliament that showed little sympathy for their brand of churchmanship, royal support was the best chance they had of transforming the church in the way they wished. Nevertheless, with the theory of episcopacy iure divino the seeds were sown both for the sort of ‘lordly prelacy’ that so provoked Puritan ire in the 1630s and for the Anglican episcopal antiErastianism that was to become a powerful force within the Church of England after the Civil War and during the Restoration period. Finally, under James II, it led to the open, though still passive, resistance of leading bishops to the king.227 Under James I, the spectre of Episcopal clericalism was, as yet, only dimly visible on the horizon. By and large the king managed to maintain a stable balance between the various currents and groups within the Church of England for the best part of his reign. Only after the outbreak of the Thirty Years War in 1618, which marked a watershed for Jacobean ecclesiastical policy, did he give increasing support to the anti-Calvinist ceremonialists. These provided him with a more fulsome theory of divine right monarchy, complete with a liturgical culture that offered a suitable setting for a Protestant and English version of the French religion royale (although this potential was only really exploited by James’s son Charles I). With its much milder form of anti-popery and rejection of militant Protestants of the Geneva variety, it also offered the necessary justification for James’s policy of compromise with, if not appeasement towards, Spain.228 In its alliance with a national church governed by bishops iure divino, the English version of divine right kingship offered a clear parallel to the Gallican religion royale revived under Henry IV. In fact, James’s vision of kingship owed a

50 | Sacral Kingship between Disenchantment and Re-enchantment

great deal to the French royalists, as discussed above. There were also important differences, however. In Henry IV’s case, in addition to the traditional religion royale, it was the sacre, the healing of the scrofula and the king’s role as a heroic warrior and an almost messianic saviour that underpinned his claim to a special sacred status.229 Scotland knew no such religion royale and James I always felt uneasy about the miracles he was supposed to work when touching the sick for the scrofula in England.230 Despite his battle against the hard-line Presbyterians, he remained too much of a Calvinist to believe in this all too visible divine endorsement of the sacral character of royal power.231 Instead, both in Scotland and, later, in England, James tried to use the power of the word to re-enchant monarchy in his own writings, in the speeches he gave, in his translation of the Psalms and in his interpretation of scripture. In this he was acting like a true Reformed Protestant, in contrast to his son, who relied far more on images than words to legitimize monarchy. In a world confronted by God’s radical transcendence, shorn by Calvinism of miracles, the word – that is, the word of scripture – retained, or rather, gained an almost magical quality.232 Thus the king’s role as interpreter of the Bible and a new King David,233 or, alternatively, as a Solomonic ruler,234 gave him a special status. He tried to assume the role of a biblical prophet, as it were, stressing the position of the king as ‘persona mixta cum sacerdote’ (a person half secular half priest), as Andreas Pečar has recently pointed out.235 This applied in particular to his reign in Scotland, where it seemed to be the only way to counter the theocratic claims of Presbyterian theologians that they alone were entitled to act for the true ruler of the church, Christ the King. But this outlook continued to influence his vision of kingship after 1603. Scriptural interpretation, both in his political writings and in his exegesis of especially important Bible passages, such as his commentary on the Lord’s Prayer or his Meditation upon the 27, 28, 29 verses of the XXVII chapter of St Matthew, written in 1620, remained part of the image of the wise and learned ruler which he tried to project.236 In Jane Rickard’s words, James presented himself as an interpreter of scripture in order ‘to emphasize the divinely ordained hierarchy by which he [was] king by divine right, with a unique position of proximity to God, and therefore a unique ability to interpret God’s word for his subjects.’237 The problem with a king who did so much to promote his own image as a political theorist, lay theologian and poet, both biblical and secular, was that the works he published were accessible to others who could quote his own words against him. And they did so with increasing frequency, especially during James’s later years, when he seemed to have betrayed the anti-Catholicism of his earlier years (even then often far less radical in practice than in theory). Thomas Scott, a strongly anti-Catholic clergyman and author of the pamphlet Vox Populi (1620), quoted James’s earlier writings against him to argue against the Spanish match which the king had devised to bring about a lasting accommodation with the

The Anglo-Gallican Moment | 51

leading Catholic power.238 But the conformists were often equally, or even more, adept in manipulating, for their own purposes, the image the king projected in his writings, speeches and other forms of self-representation.239 In this respect the heroic image of Henry IV as a warrior and man of action had clear advantages over James’s presentation of himself as an orator and writer. Whatever James wrote or said in public provoked further discussion, whereas the heroic deeds of a Herculean king put an end to all debate. James’s idea of kingship relied on a dialogue with his subjects, despite the king’s insistence on his absolute sovereignty. While certain aspects of Henry IV’s self-representation may have been too rooted in a half-pagan Renaissance culture to be fully acceptable in a deeply confessionalized age, James I’s image, which largely lacked such pagan elements, equally failed to satisfy the religious zealots because it focused too much on peace and concord.

The Oath of Allegiance Controversy and its Repercussions in England and France James’s policy of peace was expressed in his attempts to overcome divisions between the various churches and confessional groups in Europe, at least among Protestants, but possibly even to bridge the gulf between the moderate wing of Roman Catholicism and the Church of England. He maintained close relations with French Huguenots (at least during the first decade of his rule in England) and supported attempts by the Protestant theologian Pierre du Moulin to bring about a union of all Protestant churches in Europe, as discussed in 1614 at the Synod of Tonneins in France.240 Initially, after his accession in England in 1603, James had even wooed Catholics. To some extent this may have been to appease any possible Catholic opposition to the Stuart succession, but he apparently sincerely believed in the importance of overcoming, or at least mitigating, religious tensions in Europe. It seemed to him that there could be no lasting peace without a move towards a more ecumenical form of Christianity.241 In 1603–4 he tried to persuade the Pope to participate in the meeting of an ecumenical council to settle existing confessional differences.242 Such plans, to some extent probably a mere ploy to outmanoeuvre the Pope,243 soon foundered on the hard rocks of confessional Realpolitik. The honeymoon between James and the English Catholics came to an abrupt end when some of them tried to blow up their sovereign, along with the entire parliament and court, on 5 November 1605. Even after the Gunpowder Plot, however, James was careful to keep the door open to a possible compromise with moderate Catholics, although it must be admitted that more often than not his irenicism could serve as a stratagem for isolating religious radicals, both Jesuits and hardline Presbyterians and Puritans. The writings of Catholic authors, in particular

52 | Sacral Kingship between Disenchantment and Re-enchantment

French Gallicans, who were critical of papal power, could thus easily be used as a quarry for anti-Rome arguments.244 In his own polemical writings against the alleged Roman Catholic doctrine of tyrannicide James, on the hand, subscribed to the idea that the Pope was the great Antichrist described in the Revelation of St John. But the decisive reasons for this assumption were the papacy’s political ambitions and the Pope’s ‘claim to universal temporal dominion’.245 Theological questions in the strict sense of the word, such as Rome’s erroneous teachings on salvation and the Eucharist, did not come into this. James made it clear that a Pope who was prepared to abandon his claims to universal secular power might even be acceptable as the first among all of Western Christianity’s bishops and enjoy some sort of spiritual primacy within the church.246 This was no mere theory. When James imposed a special Oath of Allegiance on his Catholic subjects in 1606, he had it drawn up so that it demanded only political allegiance. Catholics were required to swear that they accepted the king as their rightful ruler and rejected all doctrines which might allow the Pope to have him deposed after an excommunication.247 Essentially, Catholics remained free, within limits, to submit their consciences to the Pope as long as they acknowledged the king’s jurisdiction in the forum externum of secular government.248 If James really intended to win over moderate Catholics in this way, however, two factors presented an obstacle to achieving this aim. First, they were required to swear absolute allegiance to a Protestant king. (In fact, a considerable number were probably prepared to do this. Entire passages of the oath were based on declarations of allegiance, which secular priests had used before 1605 to protest their loyalty and gain toleration.)249 And second, all doctrines that attributed any sort of direct or indirect secular authority to the Pope outside his own dominions in Italy were, in the wording of the oath, not just misconceived and erroneous, but ‘damnable’ and ‘heretical’. As these doctrines were upheld by prominent Catholic theologians, and had been for centuries, this amounted to a direct attack on the Roman Catholic Church. The Oath of Allegiance immediately produced a torrent of polemical writings both from Catholics abroad and Protestant theologians in England. James I did not hesitate to make his own contribution to the flood by publishing an Apology for the Oath, which he at least in part wrote himself, and of which he proudly claimed authorship after the appearance of an anonymous first edition.250 The controversy in England was bound to have repercussions in France, where the debate about the English Oath of Allegiance to some extent fused with reactions to the Venetian interdict, a ban the Pope had imposed on the Serenissima in 1606–7, which had ignored the traditional privileges of the church and the clergy. It came as no surprise that French Huguenots eagerly leapt to James’s defence.251 In his own contribution to the controversy, James had tried to show that as long as the Pope claimed some sort of authority over secular rulers, he was

The Anglo-Gallican Moment | 53

the real enemy of all princes, whether Catholic or Protestant. This was grist to the Huguenots’ mill; ever since Henry IV’s accession they had argued that they were the king’s loyal subjects while the Catholics, and in particular the Jesuits, were undermining his authority because they felt that they owed more allegiance to the Pope than to the king.252 These arguments may, at times, have been more ambiguous and backhanded than they at first glance appeared. Before 1629 Huguenot nobles could still recruit armies in the name of the king to defend the privileges Henry IV had granted his former co-religionists. This was not entirely different from the way in which Parliament, or rather, the House of Commons was to fight in 1642, in all loyalty to the crown, against Charles Stuart in the name of the king’s body politic.253 Perhaps for this very reason it was all the more important for the Huguenots to tar their Catholic enemies with the brush of disobedience and rebellion. Interestingly enough, however, the initial reaction of Henry IV and his court to James’s Apology for the Oath of Allegiance was not entirely unsympathetic, although they wanted to avoid any open conflict with Rome over this issue.254 Only when the Pope roundly condemned all of James I’s arguments as heretical in 1609 did Henry IV try to find a theologian who could officially refute the king’s writings, as well as those of his bishops and court chaplains.255 The initially somewhat muted French reaction was immediately transformed when Henry IV was killed in 1610 by an assassin seemingly inspired by Jesuit theories of tyrannicide. The English debate now gained immediate relevance for France.256 Henry’s violent death led to an outbreak of Gallican anti-Papalism in France, often coupled with attacks on the Jesuit order and all it stood for.257 It was difficult, if not impossible, to pursue such a course without condemning precisely those authors who had fought for the Roman Catholic cause in the battle over the Oath of Allegiance, such as Cardinal Bellarmine and the Spanish theologian Francisco Suárez. And this is exactly what was done by the Parisian parlement, always a stronghold of Gallicanism, and the Sorbonne, another institution steeped in Gallican traditions, though more of the conciliarist than the royalist variety. Even if this was not intended to provide immediate support for James I and his arguments, given the state of the controversy it was bound to have this effect. In his recent study of relations between the French crown and the papacy between 1607 and 1627, Sylvio Hermann De Franceschi has come to the conclusion that four years after Henry IV’s death, an ‘indestructible alliance’ had been created between the anti-Roman Catholics in France represented by the Parisian parlement and strong forces in the Sorbonne on the one hand, and James I on the other. In 1614 the Parisian parlement condemned the Defensio Fidei written by Francisco Suárez in order to refute James I’s (and his theologians’) arguments in the Oath of Allegiance controversy. To condemn this book implied that the parlement preferred James’s ideas to those of the papalists, as De Franceschi has pointed out.258

54 | Sacral Kingship between Disenchantment and Re-enchantment

When the Estates General met in Paris in October 1614, the Third Estate went even further, and the ‘anglo-gallicanisme’ of the French anti-Romanists culminated in the context of this last assembly of the estates before the revolution.259 The delegates of the Third Estate demanded that the French clergy and all office holders should swear an oath similar in many ways to the English Oath of Allegiance, which roundly rejected the Pope’s power to depose kings as an erroneous and dangerous doctrine.260 The article had been inserted into the cahiers of the Third Estate by prominent lawyers in Paris and some of the French provinces (in particular, Normandy, Champagne, Lyons and Orléans). ‘The article’s original redactors were all high-placed Parisian lawyers’, as Jotham Parsons has emphasized.261 Their claims were clearly inspired by some of the leading Gallican theologians of the time. One of the most prominent of these was Edmond Richer, who held the important office of syndic of the Sorbonne from 1608 to 1612. In 1611 he published a short tract, soon to be translated into English, on the relationship between spiritual and secular power, De ecclesiastica et politica potestate. This treatise immediately caused a scandal because it tried to demolish all papal claims to wield supreme authority in both spiritual and temporal affairs. The papacy was attacked not only for its interference in secular matters but also because it had allegedly perverted the character of the church as an aristocratic, and in some respects perhaps even democratic, and certainly not strictly hierarchical, community of both laymen and clergy.262 Although there were more than enough Gallicans among the French bishops, such extreme positions were unacceptable to most of them. During the meeting of the Estates General the First Estate roundly condemned the First Article, which the Third Estate had proposed in its cahier. The required law and oath would not only damage relations with the papacy beyond repair, they argued, but also isolate the French church within the wider Catholic community, where the papal deposing power was, if not widely accepted, at least seen as a perfectly respectable doctrine. This was certainly one of the main arguments in the speech which Cardinal Du Perron, one of the leaders of the First Estate and its spokesman in this debate, delivered against the Article of the Third Estate in January 1615. As the Pope had already condemned the English Oath of Allegiance, a French oath of similar content would provoke a schism in the church. And for Du Perron, there was no doubt that the French oath was only a copy of the English one. The Third Estate’s proposal was like a sea monster, he suggested: half beautiful and alluring woman, half fish. And it was indeed a sea monster, ‘because it has come across the sea, and has swum from England. For it is the English oath, unchanged, only that the English one is milder and more modest’.263 However pernicious the idea of tyrannicide, it remained an incontrovertible truth for Du Perron that heretical kings could and should be deposed by the Pope, although at least in France, the assent of the bishops and possibly a national synod was necessary for a papal judgement of this sort to become valid. For this

The Anglo-Gallican Moment | 55

very reason, but also because the French king was and remained the ‘fils aisné de l’Église Catholique’ (firstborn son of the church) and ‘le premier Catholique de tous les roys’ (the first Catholic among all kings), the French monarchy could only flourish in harmony with the papacy. The turbulent early years of Henry IV’s reign, when the king was still a Protestant, had been demonstration enough of this.264 Du Perron, who had the backing of the regent, Marie de’ Medici, was victorious; the Third Estate’s proposition was rejected. Clearly the court considered a further conflict with the papacy too dangerous, given the fragile position of royal authority in the years after Henry IV’s death. But there was more to this decision than political expediency. In the long run, the political implications of the sort of radical Gallicanism that the Third Estate’s Article embodied were, it seemed, not easily compatible with strong and unquestioned royal authority. A look at the theoretical arguments behind the Third Estate’s proposal reveals what was at stake. Most of these arguments are neatly summarized in a long treatise written by Edmond Richer after the dissolution of the Estates General. Under papal pressure, Richer had been dismissed as syndic of the Sorbonne in 1612 and ordered not to publish any more writings concerning the power of the papacy. He was not a man, however, to accept his dismissal and the defeat of 1614–15 as final. After the Estates General had ended, he secretly wrote a long and learned book, De Potestate Ecclesiae in Rebus Temporalibus, which, however, remained unpublished during his lifetime.265 In fact, Richer’s ideas were not to have their real apogee until the eighteenth century, when richérisme became an important movement in the French church, aiming to give the lower clergy and parish priests a much more prominent place within it. In De Potestate, Richer summed up most of the arguments which, over the last forty to fifty years, a number of royalist writers had elaborated against a right of resistance based on religion. According to Richer, the sole purpose of the state was to make sure that its subjects could live in peace; whether the ruler himself was a good Catholic or not was hardly of relevance to this. As long as a king protected his subjects against foreign attack and made sure that they could live in peace, he could not be considered a tyrant. Even if he was a bad ruler, nothing could be done about it; in the same way that God sent good and bad harvests and mild or stormy weather, he gave mankind good or bad rulers. This just had to be accepted.266 Richer denied almost all right of resistance to rulers and argued that an excommunication pronounced by a bishop or the Pope which risked disturbing the political order was automatically invalid. In thoroughly subjecting the church to a state whose purpose was primarily a secular one, Richer at times almost appears to be a predecessor of Thomas Hobbes. Although at first glance Richer’s arguments seemed favourable to an absolute monarchy and were strongly anti-papal, they remained rooted in the tradition of conciliarism. Thus Richer not only

56 | Sacral Kingship between Disenchantment and Re-enchantment

insisted on a residual distinction between ecclesiastical and secular authority,267 much as he subjected the former to the latter, but also saw the power of kings and princes as rooted in the sovereignty of the community, that is, ultimately, the will of the people.268 This may explain why the extreme conciliarist Gallicanism which Richer espoused did not appeal to the defenders of a strong monarchy, although it seemed to solve the problem of resistance based on religious arguments and justified by papal intervention. But the link between conciliarism and Gallicanism which, in practical politics, was mirrored by the alliance between the Parisian parlement and the Sorbonne, was seen as dangerous.269 In his famous speech, Du Perron had already accused the authors of the Article of 1614 of subscribing to the same (conciliarist and democratic, or at least aristocratic) ideas that those who had justified the murder of Henry III had advocated. Other authors loyal to Rome had followed the same line of argument.270 Some of Richer’s critics also pointed out that an ecclesiastical authority limited to the sole power of excommunication for heresy and other crimes – an act that had no effect whatsoever on the political authority of the excommunicated ruler – opened the door to the sort of Caesaropapism that had triumphed in England, where the king claimed to be head of the church. This was nothing but Protestantism in disguise.271 Clearly the Catholic defenders of a strong monarchy, the catholiques d’État, preferred an alliance between the crown and a papacy that had been shorn of most of its political ambitions and had abandoned its claim to control and, if necessary, punish all Christian rulers.272 A sacral monarchy like France could not, in the last resort, exist without a spiritual authority underwriting its claims to a special religious status. And in the context of Tridentine Roman Catholicism, this spiritual authority could only be provided by the Pope himself, not by mere bishops as in Protestant England. Thus France, which had come so close to Anglo-Gallicanism during the years from 1610 to 1614, ultimately took a different path.273 James I was deeply irritated by the defeat the Gallicans had suffered in France and now intervened personally in the French debate. His Declaration du Serenissime Roy Jacques I. […] contre la harangue de l’illustrissime Cardinal du Perron prononcée en la Chambre du Tiers Estat le XV. de Januier 1615 (London, 1615),274 probably largely ghost-written by the French Protestant Pierre du Moulin,275 bears the unmistakable imprint of the king’s own style. In James’s view, Du Perron’s attack on the Third Estate was full of contradictions; the greatest of all was that he roundly condemned all doctrines of tyrannicide but left the Pope with the power to excommunicate and depose kings. As James put it, ‘but who doeth not know that a King deposed is no longer King? And so that limne of Satan, which murthered Henry the III then un-king’d by the Pope, did not stabbe a King to death.’276 But James’s protest against the turn taken by events in France proved fruitless. If he felt that the principle ‘no bishop, no king’ was one of the

The Anglo-Gallican Moment | 57

foundations of any sound system of politics, Marie de’ Medici’s advisors were apparently convinced that ‘no Pope, no king’ was equally valid, if not more so.

Concluding Remarks The last decade of the sixteenth century into the beginning of the seventeenth century was a period when there was an ongoing dialogue between political theory in France and political thought in England, and almost constant interaction between representations of monarchy in the two countries. The early Bourbon and late Tudor monarchies, as well as the Stuart kingship in Scotland and, to a lesser degree, in England after 1603, saw themselves as under threat from theocratic models of political order. These models could, in the last resort, transform kingship into a merely human, natural institution subservient to the church, or they could confront the king with such exacting standards of piety and godliness that failure – and therefore a loss of legitimacy – was inevitable. For a man like the Presbyterian theologian Andrew Melville, the king could only be obeyed in religious matters as long as his injunctions were compatible with God’s commands as expounded by the ministers of the Kirk.277 The Catholic League’s world view was not entirely different from such a radical approach, although its basis was a strong allegiance to the Pope and the belief that God was present not just in his word but also in the sacrament of the Mass. Both Henry IV and James VI (and I) faced the challenge of resacralizing the monarchy in a world which seemed to leave little room for sacral kingship, except where the monarch was content to define his role exclusively as that of an obedient servant of the ecclesiastical authorities. James VI and I, confronted by the enmity of both radical Presbyterianism and militant Catholicism, chose to promote the ideals of a via media between the religious extremes and a lasting peace based on moderation and irenicism, thereby marginalizing all advocates of a more theocratic model of politics. In the writings of his early years in Scotland, he nevertheless made some substantial concessions to the eschatological world view of the strict Calvinists. And by denouncing the Pope as Antichrist he could potentially claim for himself the role of the providential godly prince who defended the church against her enemies, if not by force of arms then through his writings and his wisdom as a ruler and supreme governor of the church (at least in England, after 1603). But by ultimately rejecting the role of leader in a holy war, even a merely spiritual one, against sinfulness and vice, he was bound to disappoint those who had hoped for a crusade against the Romish Babylon. Henry IV was, at first glance, more successful than James VI and I in putting an end to religious strife in his country and creating a new model of monarchy in which the corps mystique of the king and the king’s natural body became inseparable.278 Henry’s image as saviour and hero, however, conceived in terms

58 | Sacral Kingship between Disenchantment and Re-enchantment

of an aggressive masculinity and his confidence in his own role as God’s chosen instrument for bringing peace and greatness to France – probably going back to his earlier, Protestant faith in God’s providence protecting his servants – posed problems of their own. They were not easily compatible with his newfound role as a pious, Counter-Reformation Catholic. Or, as Kléber Monod puts it: ‘The sovereign royal body that emerged in opposition to such millenarian visions [of the League] was a more potent legal fiction than the English two-bodies doctrine, but its cultural roots were weak, because it was so heavily dependent on humanist concepts of natural domination rather than on confessional doctrines.’279 The contradictions became apparent not least in Henry’s foreign policy which, for the very reason that it was not that of a rex pacificus, failed to quell the mistrust of devout Catholics. In the case of both Henry and James, it was left to their heirs and successors to give more stable foundations to the resacralization of kingship which had emerged at the end of the sixteenth century. As we shall see, however, by their specific approaches to what it meant to be a Christian ruler, Louis XIII and, even more, Charles I provoked new doubts about the religious mission of monarchy.

II

Kingship Transformed – Kingship Destroyed? The French and English Monarchies in the 1630s and 1640s

?

Introduction As was demonstrated in Chapter I, the English and the French monarchies underwent a process of resacralization at the beginning of the seventeenth century. In reaction to the threat posed by religious radicals and a theocratic, clerical vision of government, both Henry IV and James VI and I emphasized the divine origin of royal authority and its essentially sacral character. Nevertheless, there were important differences in how the sacral nature of kingship was conceived. In France there was a tendency going back to the political theology of the Middle Ages, revived and reinforced by the new principles of divine right monarchy, to attribute to the king a ‘mystical’ body, a corpus mysticum, in addition to his mortal body. This mystical body stood for the office of kingship as an institution and transcended the sphere of merely human politics. The mystical body and the mortal body of an individual king were united in such a way that no human being could separate them.1 The idea of the individual king as the full and adequate representative of kingship in all its sacred dignity was strengthened by a new tendency, apparent from the mid sixteenth century, to see the coronation and the sacre as a marriage ceremony between the king and his kingdom.2 The sacre, constituting an act of holy political matrimony, was assumed to create an indissoluble bond between king and kingdom which precluded any intervention by a third party. Or, as Robert Descimon has put it: ‘The fiction of a political marriage, which was directly related to the symbolic order of the sacre, expressed the idea that the crown enjoyed unbroken continuity at a lesser cost for royal power’ (at a lesser cost, that is, than the English theory of the king’s two bodies). Descimon goes on: Notes for this chapter begin on page 194.

60 | Sacral Kingship between Disenchantment and Re-enchantment

The strong dynastic element inherent in the idea of a persona idealis of the king contributes to a process that reinforces a vision which is more natural and organic, and less corporative and juridical: the distinction between the supernatural elements of kingship and its personal aspects is thereby concealed. In this area the metaphor of the political marriage gains its real usefulness.3

In England the parallel notion of a body politic and a body natural united in the king had developed in a different constitutional context. The body politic, although clearly conceived as immortal in the same way as the French king’s corps mystique, was seen much more as bound up with the legal and constitutional order of the commonwealth. In fact, it could be seen as the embodiment of this legal order.4 This approach was reinforced by the tendency of English common lawyers to attribute to the common law an origin beyond ‘time immemorial’, and therefore also beyond the reach of any royal legislator.5 The common law itself was seen as the great palladium of English liberties, which were grounded in a unique national tradition. The political language of the common law was clearly distinct from that of natural law and Roman jurisprudence, but common lawyers nevertheless could and did deploy arguments, borrowed from Roman antiquity and humanism, which defined the members of a commonwealth as citizens, and not as mere subjects of a monarch.6 What is more, the debates on the nature of sovereignty engendered by the crisis of political authority during the confessional conflicts of the late sixteenth century had fostered the growth of ideas that made it possible to conceive of the state as an abstract legal persona, distinct from the person of the monarch. Even thinkers and writers who were royalists in the Civil War, such as Thomas Hobbes, at least implicitly adopted an approach that laid the foundations for a notion of the state as an abstract entity which, at least under certain circumstances, could do without a monarch at all.7 Precisely because there had been no real breakdown of political order in England during the later sixteenth century, despite the challenge posed by radical Catholics, it was easier to discuss the possible limits of monarchical authority openly than in France after the end of the Wars of Religion. Some historians have therefore discovered a strong latent republicanism in English political thought before the outbreak of the Civil War,8 but not everyone who read and quoted Cicero was a closet follower of republican ideas, if these are taken to imply a principled rejection of monarchy. Almost all common lawyers and many other members of the political nation believed in the rule of law and drew a distinction between a ‘legal monarchy, where property rights were secured by law, and a lordly, or regal monarchy, essentially a tyranny, where they were not’.9 Most lawyers and political thinkers in early seventeenth-century France would have shared this conviction. But in France, at least between the end of the Wars of Religion and the early eighteenth century, there was no real equivalent of the appeal to an ‘ancient constitution’ that limited royal authority. In the early eighteenth century these

Kingship Transformed – Kingship Destroyed? | 61

notions were revived by men such as the Comte de Boulainvilliers, who wanted to show that the nobility’s rights were at least as old as the authority of the monarchy; not to mention Montesquieu’s impact on constitutional thought later in the eighteenth century. In their interpretation of history most French jurists and legal scholars were solidly royalist in the seventeenth century.10 This clearly did not apply to the same extent in England. There, men such as Sir Edward Coke, Chief Justice during the reign of James I, could use legal precedents from the Middle Ages to oppose any claim the king might make to extra-legal powers, either in person or through lawyers with a different idea of the law from theirs.11 As has been discussed in Chapter I, in England it was at least in theory conceivable that the king’s body politic, and thus the state, could be separated from his natural body, his human person. Admittedly, before the Civil War, influential English lawyers emphatically rejected any such idea and in Calvin’s Case (1608) Lord Chancellor Ellesmere declared that to maintain such a doctrine was treason.12 He proclaimed: ‘there is but one king, and soveraigne, to whome this faith and allegeance is due by al his subjects of England and Scotland’ and asked pointedly: ‘can any humane policie divide this one King, and make him two kinges? Can Cor Regis Angliae be in manu Domini, and cor Regis Scotiae not so?’13 Nevertheless, even at this stage, judges and lawyers did not always find it easy to deal with the tensions created by the regal union between Scotland and England in 1603.14 Clearly, the king’s body politic in Scotland was not identical with the king of England’s body politic, as the two countries were governed by different legal rules and laws. So one human person, James VI and I, had two different bodies politic, depending on whether he was acting as king of Scotland or of England.15 Despite the union of France with the Kingdom of Navarre, the Bourbons did not face a similar problem; Navarre was far too small. It was, therefore, not surprising that the potential to limit and question royal authority inherent in the theory of the king’s two bodies was exploited by the English parliament after the outbreak of the Civil War. At least initially, Parliament fought against King Charles in the name of the king himself (that is, kingship as an institution).16 Such a direct attack on the king and his policies in the name of a higher political and legal order would have been quite difficult to sustain in France after 1610, not least because it would have been tainted with the proscribed legacy of two regicides (1589 and 1610). Henry IV’s sacrificial and heroic death had ensured that fundamental opposition to an adult monarch could never again be openly voiced, as it had been by the League in relation to Henry III and later, in the early 1590s, to Henry IV himself – at least until the Enlightenment created a different framework for political debate. In France the mystical body of the king had, to some extent, replaced the celestial city and the mystical body of the church as the focus of absolute personal loyalty. At least, it had become much more difficult to oppose the king in the name of a religious allegiance of this sort.17

62 | Sacral Kingship between Disenchantment and Re-enchantment

This does not imply that before 1660 opposition to the policies of the king and his ministers was impossible in France. Such opposition, in fact, could go as far as open rebellion. More noble revolts took place in France than in England, becoming an almost legitimate part of the political game in the early seventeenth century, without necessarily posing a challenge to the political system per se.18 But the person of the king, and especially his office, largely remained sacrosanct after 1610. The recharge sacrale of the monarchy that can be observed in France after 1589, or at least from 1594 on, may not have led inexorably to full-blown absolutism, however defined, as has so often been argued, but it was not easily compatible with a more constitutionalist and participatory approach to royal government.19 Debates about the shortcomings of royal government tended, in the last resort, to be conducted more in the language of psychology than of law and history, or even theology (although theological arguments did play a part in discussions of foreign policy, for example).20 Historians have often maintained that James VI and I’s attempt to put forward his own, very distinct, idea of kingship in England and Scotland was intended to protect the king against any sort of fundamental criticism, though it was often less than fully successful in practice. James’s emphasis on both the paternal and sacral nature of royal authority, and his insistence that mere subjects should not meddle with the arcana imperii, can be seen in this light.21 The main thrust of divine right theory, however, both in James’s own writings and in those of later protagonists of this approach, was to refute arguments that tried to justify a right of (active) resistance against rulers who were alleged to be heretics, or who oppressed their subjects in other ways.22 This did not necessarily imply that the monarch’s authority was not subject to limitations grounded in custom, statute and divine law. It meant only that God alone could enforce these limitations. Even during the Civil War, royalists who strongly believed that the king was ‘The Lord’s anointed’ and God’s vicar upon earth, who could not, therefore, be judged by any human tribunal, could still see the same monarch as a defender of the ancient constitution and traditional liberties – rightly understood. As Andrew Lacey has put it: ‘the individual who honoured a king who could heal scrofula by a touch and was God’s vice-regent on earth, was at the same time honouring the traditional constitution and the “good old laws”’.23 It was not entirely impossible to take this approach in France. Some of the opposition to Richelieu and Cardinal Mazarin and their tendency to invoke reason of state to justify extraordinary measures intended to deal with an almost permanent state of emergency was rooted in just such an attitude. Moreover, the king’s position as God’s image on earth could well be seen as involving a range of religious duties that subjects – in particular, representatives of the church – could invoke to criticize royal policy.24 Nevertheless, France had no institution like the English Parliament. The Estates General had only ever flourished at times of crisis, and always remained

Kingship Transformed – Kingship Destroyed? | 63

a mere event more than an institution. Consequently, there was no foundation for the idea that the king-in-parliament was superior to a king acting on his own, relying merely on his prerogative. In France the members of the cours souveraines, in particular, the parlements, may have claimed, competing with all-powerful favourite ministers, that their courts were the real seat of legitimate royal authority and that they knew best how to make sense of royal orders and edicts. But as they were mere office holders, it was much more difficult to confront an adult king with this claim in order to restrict his power, at least before the eighteenth century. Even during the Fronde, a more republican model of government was hardly ever seriously discussed.25 The question was merely whether a king who could exercise his authority without sharing it with any other political body should do so in a more traditional form, respecting due process, well established privileges and time-honoured social hierarchies, or whether he could and should ignore all such niceties when the survival of state and dynasty was at stake – that is, at times of war. This would allow emergency government to become the ­paradigm for all royal government. The religious context in which the French and the English monarchies were situated was, of course, also different, although certain parallels become visible on closer examination. In France the religious aura surrounding the king was all the stronger because the combination of religious and political opposition that had made the 1580s and early 1590s such a dangerous time for the French monarchy had all but disappeared for good. The Huguenots now tried to demonstrate that if their privileges were respected, they were potentially the king’s most loyal subjects,26 although this did not prevent them from defending their privileges by force of arms in the 1620s. But once they had been defeated and La Rochelle had fallen in 1628, they no longer posed a real challenge to the monarchy. The case of militant Catholicism was more difficult. When the League fell apart and had to abandon its fight against the Bourbons after 1594, the Catholic zealots were left high and dry. Even those who were now prepared to accept Henry IV as France’s legitimate ruler found it hard to stomach the privileges and liberties the new king had granted his former co-religionists, the Huguenots. Those who wished to dedicate their lives to fighting the enemies of the true church in a holy war could no longer find an outlet for their pious zeal unless they decided to fight the Turks in Hungary or in the Mediterranean, like the League’s last leader, the Duc de Mercoeur.27 His action served as a model for other Catholic nobles, such as Charles de Gonzague, Duc de Nevers, who created his own ‘Christian militia’, a pan-European military order, to fight the Ottomans during the regency of Marie de’ Medici and in the early 1620s. The ideal of the crusade remained influential in France, and one of Cardinal Richelieu’s closest advisors, Père Joseph, was an ardent advocate of the liberation of both Constantinople and the Holy Land.28 Others, however, chose a different path. The religious heroism of militant Catholicism was spiritualized in their lives. It was no longer manifested

64 | Sacral Kingship between Disenchantment and Re-enchantment

in the will to fight battles in a holy war, but rather in works of charity, ascetic self-discipline and a new mysticism. What appears in France after the end of the Wars of Religion is a Catholic ‘voluntary religion’, to use an expression coined by Patrick Collinson for English Puritanism.29 With its emphasis on the Mass and prescribed ritual, Catholicism at first glance offered a less favourable environment for the sort of individualized piety found in Protestantism, but there are certain analogies. Puritanism proved to be fertile ground for a Christian spiritualism that gave greater weight to the inner voice of faith than to the injunctions of secular and ecclesiastical authorities, while the Catholic dévots tended to emphasize that the logic of the heart could trump the logic of reason, and that real faith was based on personal religious experience.30 Men and women who were dissatisfied with run-of-the-mill religious observances found scope for deeper commitment in a retreat from the world in monasteries and lay fraternities, such as the famous community of Port-Royal, or in religious mysticism.31 A truly saintly life now had to be defined differently from in the past. The League had tried to establish a polity in which state and church, secular and ecclesiastical order were almost identical or, at least, so closely tied to each other that they formed a perfect unity. Christian society was to be Christ’s body in this world. This dream had been shattered by the League’s defeat, and the former ideal of a reformed Tridentine religion could now survive only in a more spiritualized form, such as mysticism, for example. This meant that the seventeenth century was the age when mysticism in France had its last great efflorescence, before slowly succumbing to theological rationalism during the reign of Louis XIV at the end of the century.32 But the seventeenth-century mystics were different from the martyrs the League had venerated. As Robert Descimon has put it: ‘The saint distinguishes himself more by the condition of his soul than by his deeds. One can recognize him more by reading his writings than by witnessing his miracles.’33 This spiritualized piety, which was much less politicized than the religious fervour of the League, had accepted the reconstituted monarchy as God-ordained.34 But the various manifestations of the dévots’ movement, although they clearly lacked the revolutionary potential the League had shown, could (especially in its Jansenist variety) pose an implicit challenge, if not an open threat, to monarchical authority. This was a function of the movement’s moral rigorism, critical attitude to all worldly glory and insistence on policies that were, or were perceived to be, in harmony with its religious ideals.35 The incipient Jansenism of the late 1630s and the 1640s was certainly seen as subversive by Richelieu and Mazarin, and Louis XIV was to accept this view when dealing with the Jansenists of his own reign. Neither these aspects, however, nor the potential parallels between the more militant dévots and Puritanism should be over-emphasized. Ultimately the dévots’ movement was also about re-establishing the authority of the hierarchical church, led by bishops, after the turmoil of the later sixteenth century. The agenda of the dévots, inspired not least by a strong clericalism, was in some

Kingship Transformed – Kingship Destroyed? | 65

respects not so different, mutatis mutandis, from that of the conformist wing of the Church of England in the 1630s. For both, it was important to protect the church against laymen who wanted to divert its revenues into their own pockets, or those of the crown.36 Ultimately, even when in conflict with individual ministers in the 1630s, the dévots were more integrated into the French clerical and political establishment than strict Calvinists with Puritan leanings were in England. The dévots’ endeavours were part of an attempt to apply the ideals and norms of the Catholic Reform to France. This was, by and large, supported by Louis XIII and his ministers, including Richelieu, despite all conflicts about the appropriate means of reform. Those who called for a further reform of the Church of England to bring it closer to the ideals of strict Calvinism, however, had very few supporters at court before the Civil War. Matters were different in the past. In the 1580s it had still seemed possible to reform the Church of England and turn it into a model of godliness, defined more or less according to strictly Calvinist and, possibly, Presbyterian ideals. But this was not to be. Radical Protestantism, with all its violent anti-popery, may have been useful to Elizabeth I as a counterweight to those who secretly sought an accommodation with Spain and Rome; but the 1590s saw a concerted campaign, led by Archbishop Whitgift and Richard Bancroft, Bishop of London (from 1597), against ministers and, to a lesser extent, laymen who criticized the Church of England as a mere halfway house between the true community of saints they hoped to establish and the Babylon of popery, and therefore refused to comply with its liturgy and orders.37 Puritans – that is, those radical Protestants who put the conflict with Rome into an eschatological perspective – saw the Reformation as a process that had yet to be completed in England. This would require both a real reformatio vitae and an ecclesiastical order which imitated the ‘best reformed’ churches of Christendom, such as those in Geneva and Zurich and, perhaps, the Dutch and Scottish reformed churches. They had to accept that for the time being at least they were no more than a godly minority within a church marked by the ‘cohabitation of the faithful with the unfaithful’.38 This was not easy. In their view the Church of England was still characterized by a ‘mingle-mangle of the Popish Governement with pure doctrine’. From an eschatological perspective such a church, which all too closely resembled the Biblical Laodicea from the Book of Revelation, could not survive.39 After the end of the war against Spain (1604), however, such extreme views were no longer as dominant as they had been in the past, even among strict Calvinists. Like the piety of the religious zealots in France, Puritanism became more spiritualized at the beginning of the seventeenth century. Puritans found fulfilment in prayer and meditation, constant self-examination and a godly life. This mostly took place within the context of a circle of like-minded men and women, who listened attentively each Sunday to a sermon by a truly pious

66 | Sacral Kingship between Disenchantment and Re-enchantment

minister (or, better still, to several hour-long sermons by various preachers), not necessarily the rector of their own parish church.40 This sort of spiritualized Puritanism which had, for the time being, given up any hope of fully reforming the entire nation and had become instead the religious culture of a distinct minority, provided an important element within the early Stuart church. James I, who had been brought up as a strict Calvinist, was largely content to tolerate this movement within the church as long as his own authority and that of his bishops was not openly challenged. With the appointment of George Abbott as Archbishop of Canterbury in 1610, the Protestant zealots gained an important protector at the tip of the ecclesiastical hierarchy. It would therefore be wrong to describe the Puritan movement within the Church of England as in any way revolutionary, with the possible exception of small separatist groups which tended to emigrate to the Netherlands and, later, New England.41 Nevertheless, as in the case of the French dévots but in a politically more explosive form, Puritanism’s moral rigorism and religious fervour, even in its spiritualized form, created the potential for opposition to royal policies when these seemed to be betraying the cause of the true faith. This applied in particular to issues of foreign and dynastic policy, which proved to be even more contentious in England (especially after about 1620) than, for different reasons, in France. There, the 1630s were the years when many dévots became most deeply opposed to Richelieu’s anti-Spanish foreign policy. James I’s decision to give more support to anti-Calvinist forces within the Church of England during the last years of his reign42 was at least to some extent motivated by his growing anger at the fact that his policy of appeasement towards Spain had been castigated in ever harsher terms by militant Protestants in his three kingdoms. He needed theologians prepared to deliver arguments that could justify a compromise with Spain and therefore implicitly with the papacy itself. The anti-Calvinist conformists were all too happy to oblige with just such an arsenal of arguments. What was especially important to James after about 1620 – as it was to be to his son in the 1630s – was that the conformists in the Church of England should no longer identify the Pope with Antichrist. As Richard Montague, one of the leading antiCalvinist theologians in the Church of England put it: ‘that he [the Pope] is magnus ille Antichristus is neyther proved by publick doctrine of the church nor proved by any good argument of private men’. Even if the Pope were somehow an antichrist, he was not the ‘egregious, eminent and transcendent Antichrist’ mentioned in the Revelation of St John, the ‘Man of Sinne and Son of Perdition’. It would be more apposite to consider the Turkish Sultan as this Antichrist.43 From this point of view, even an alliance with the House of Habsburg, which was almost permanently at war with the Ottoman Empire, seemed quite acceptable. And that was all James I wanted to hear. English Puritans and Scottish Presbyterians, however, detested such foreign policy compromises with as much if not more fervour than many French dévots

Kingship Transformed – Kingship Destroyed? | 67

demonstrated in castigating Louis XIII’s alliances with heretics. Even when the French dévots opposed Richelieu’s anti-Spanish policy,44 they often subscribed to a vision of politics that still gave the king a special place as God’s vicar and image upon earth, although they may have rejected the claim that the king ranked above the Pope and the bishops in ecclesiastical matters.45 English Puritans and Scottish Presbyterians clearly had problems with this style of kingship, or its Protestant equivalent. The French dévots, however, now tended to see rebellion as almost as bad a crime as heresy, so long as the king and dynasty remained personally fully committed to Catholicism. Of course, none of the Bourbon kings after Henry IV would have dared to show any personal sympathy for Protestantism. Nor could they have been tempted to marry a Protestant; that was out of the question, whatever alliances might be forged with foreign princes.46 Matters were clearly different in England and in Scotland. The religious allegiance of the Stuarts as a dynasty was never entirely beyond doubt. James VI and I’s mother had died as a Catholic martyr and his wife, Anne of Denmark, showed marked sympathies for Catholicism. She may, indeed, have converted to Catholicism in later life.47 Whatever doubts James’s subjects in Scotland and England may have harboured about the ruling dynasty’s confessional allegiance, they were dramatically increased by the king’s attempts to marry his son Charles to a Spanish infanta in the early 1620s. And they were exacerbated by Charles’s ill-judged decision to travel to Spain in 1623 to court Maria Anna, the youngest daughter of Philip III of Spain.48 But the reservations held by militant Protestants about the monarchical style which marked early Stuart court culture as much as the image of kingship projected by James I and Charles I went deeper than the ­mistrust provoked by an unorthodox marriage policy. There was certainly room within the context of militant Protestantism for a ruler who claimed a special mandate from providence, a godly king who fought the Lord’s battles against the Babylonian whore and defended the faithful against the presumptuousness of the Roman prelates. But it was the (godly) king’s role as the instrument of divine providence, not his priest-like status, that created a religious aura for kingship. This aura and its sacred status always depended on the ruler’s righteousness and piety; the sacredness of the office was never sufficient.49 Both Scottish Presbyterians and the more rigorous Calvinists in England therefore tended to take a sceptical view of ceremonies such as the coronation, which claimed to endow the king with a sacred character, or at least to manifest the sacral charisma inherent in kingship in a unique way. For Scottish Presbyterians, in particular, the coronation was merely a civic ceremony, not a religious one.50 Even strict Calvinists in England may not have taken quite such a stern view, but they clearly had misgivings about too obvious a continuity with the medieval coronation ceremony. Such continuities were only too evident when James I was crowned in 1603, especially as this was the first coronation which had taken place in a purely Protestant context using an English not a Latin

68 | Sacral Kingship between Disenchantment and Re-enchantment

liturgy.51 The revival of medieval traditions within a Protestant context was even more visible and contentious when Charles I was crowned in February 1626; the ceremonies emphasized the almost sacramental character of the coronation and the special relationship between the king, represented as both rex and sacerdos, and the clergy.52 The old prayer of the medieval liber regalis was revived, which established a parallel between Aaron, the priest of the people of Israel, and the anointed king.53 But the coronation of 1626 was only one, ultimately minor element in a more thoroughgoing transformation of the culture of power associated with kingship in early Stuart England (and Britain). This transformation gained a new momentum in the 1630s, during the Personal Rule of Charles I. Governing without Parliament between 1629 and 1640, the king could impose his own vision of politics on court, church and state.54 For Charles it was important that art, ceremonies and court festivals rendered visible his claim to a divinely sanctioned status. For the conformist clergymen he promoted to key positions within the church, there could be no ‘inner piety without its visible manifestation’. In the same way, for the king there could be no proper deference to an anointed ruler without visible manifestations and a unique quasi-religious liturgy.55 Before 1640 the aesthetic aspects of Caroline court culture clearly appealed to many of Charles’s later opponents in the Civil War as much as to those who were to become ardent royalists.56 Yet its tendency to fuse secular and religious ceremonies, to give an implicitly religious form to the cult of majesty while enrolling ‘the parish church as the main vehicle for the propagation’ of ‘sacramental kingship’ was likely to offend strictly Calvinist sensibilities.57 In many ways Calvinism had disenchanted the world, at least as far as the visible and corporeal presence of the divine in the world was concerned (although less so with regard to a belief in providence and the power of the word).58 It therefore left little room for sacral kingship in the traditional sense, or the ceremonies and rituals that gave kingship a special religious legitimacy. This was to be one of the central problems for the Stuart style of kingship in the 1630s and beyond. It was one that Louis XIII, as a Catholic king in a mostly Catholic country, clearly did not face, whatever misgivings the dévots may have had about his choice of ministers and his foreign policy.

The Personal Rule of Charles I and the New Culture of Power The problems Charles I faced in creating an image of royal authority that would appeal to the political nation as a whole and, ideally, be equally acceptable to Scotland and England (not to mention the Protestants and perhaps even Catholics in the Stuarts’ third kingdom, Ireland), were exacerbated by the fact that his wife was both Catholic and French. At the time France was seen as posing

Kingship Transformed – Kingship Destroyed? | 69

a lesser threat than Spain to the future of Protestantism in Europe. But Henrietta Maria’s commitment to the Roman Catholic religion – moreover, to a variety of Catholicism that was less Gallican and therefore more Romish than Richelieu’s59 – automatically posed the question of how a king who was married to a Catholic could fight for the true faith against popery and idolatry at home and abroad. The queen was also bound to exert considerable influence on the education of Charles’s sons. Even if Charles himself remained faithful to the gospel as preached by the Reformation, what about his successor?60 But Henrietta Maria’s influence went beyond the visible presence of Roman Catholicism at court. It has recently been argued that she saw traditional English court culture as deficient. Except for royal funerals and coronations (and as a Catholic, the queen refused to take part in Charles’s coronation in 1626), its great ceremonies were either entirely secular in character, such as solemn entries into London or other cities, or had a strong anti-papal tendency, such as the celebrations of 5 November (the day when the Gunpowder Plot was foiled) and Accession Day (when Elizabeth had succeeded to the throne, an event still celebrated after her death).61 What was lacking in England, in Henrietta Maria’s eyes, was the subtle fusion of court ceremonial and ecclesiastical liturgy, or great religious celebrations dedicated as much to the king’s glory as to God’s, such as the celebration of the Te Deum after military victories or other events important to the dynasty and the country.62 In this respect Charles’s wish to create a court culture that adequately expressed the monarchy’s special status as a divinely sanctioned institution and the queen’s preference for court ceremonial and festivals that were more in keeping with what she had experienced in her own country were in harmony. This was an important factor because after the death of the royal favourite, the Duke of Buckingham, and peace with France in 1628–9, the royal marriage became the centre of court life. It was celebrated in many masques and paintings as a paradigm of chaste love.63 Thus the French influence on representations of kingship reinforced the tendencies of the 1630s. These would probably have shaped court culture even without this influence, but to a lesser degree, because Charles’s personal style as a monarch differed so profoundly from that of his father. James VI and I, despite his aversion to any sort of ‘holy war’ and violent religious conflict, for most of his life defined himself as a Calvinist king; he did not reject godliness, but tried to redefine it so that it became compatible with his personal idea of sacral monarchy and a more flexible attitude towards both Rome and the ungodly of every description (including his own favourites). His son went much further. For political and cultural reasons, ‘Charles made no secret of his desire to cast off the political mantle of Calvinist kingship’, as Paul Kléber Monod has put it.64 And whereas his father had relied largely on the power of the word to promote his particular vision of divine right kingship, Charles, who suffered from a severe stammer, was no great master of the spoken or even written word. Only when faced with the prospect of dying a martyr’s death did he try to express his idea of

70 | Sacral Kingship between Disenchantment and Re-enchantment

kingship in a programmatic text, the Eikon Basilike, which, in its final published form, however, may have been heavily edited by one of his chaplains (see below, pp. 91–92).65 Until his captivity and trial, Charles relied more on images than on words to give expression to his political ideals, which is not to deny the importance of proclamations, occasional speeches and similar texts.66 But ultimately, especially before the outbreak of the Civil War, Charles saw ‘visual symbolism and outward ceremony’ as ‘more effective’ than words in promoting his particular vision of kingship.67 There were drawbacks to this strategy: ‘as interventions in debates about politics these images [of the King] had limited relevance’.68 No concerted effort was made in England before the outbreak of the Civil War to persuade the political nation, by means of official newsletters or other regular publications, that the king’s policies were sound and in the nation’s best interests. In fact, Charles found it much harder than Louis XIII and his leading minister to control the trade in news, in the form either of printed texts or manuscript, ‘scribal’ communication.69 He therefore found it difficult, if not impossible, to ensure that his version of events prevailed against rival ones, or against the sort of gossip and hostile interpretations spread by libels and satires that attacked court papists, both imagined and real, including the queen, with particular venom.70 Although he was often inept at guiding or manipulating public opinion (certainly by comparison with Louis XIII or, rather, Richelieu), Charles I did transform English court culture. As a young man in Spain he had been exposed to Habsburg court culture, which must have seemed infinitely superior to anything his father’s court could offer. During his own reign he tried to emulate the visual culture of continental courts. To some extent this may be seen as merely an attempt to accumulate ‘cultural capital’ by collecting works of art, staging masques and giving commissions to prestigious artists. But there was more to it than this. Art and ceremony were to demonstrate that the king was more than a mere mortal. They were to grant him a place among the gods of Olympus, the heroes of antiquity and Christian tradition, and to demonstrate that, like his French counterpart, the king was truly rex et sacerdos (king and priest), a priest-like figure, but without committing him too deeply to a confessionalized concept of kingship. When Charles was crowned in 1626, prayers and ceremonies had put greater emphasis on the king’s position as a persona mixta cum sacerdote (a person half secular half priest) than immediately preceding coronations had done.71 Court ceremonies as well as religious acts and performances in which the king took part displayed a similar tendency. As Kevin Sharpe has written recently, the king’s commitment to ritual and ceremony ‘went to the core of Charles’s character and kingship. His personal piety was manifested not in print but in devotion and practices and performances’.72 Julian Davies has argued that the driving force behind the liturgical reforms of the 1630s, which to hard-line Protestants were just popery in disguise, was not so much a theological doctrine, in this case Arminianism, as a sort of ‘caesaro-sacramentalism’, Charles’s attempt to find

Kingship Transformed – Kingship Destroyed? | 71

adequate expression for his very personal view of ‘sacramental kingship’.73 This may underestimate the extent to which, even before 1625, conformists within the Church of England had tried to give their church a specific profile that distinguished it from both Calvinism and Roman Catholicism, while stressing continuity with pre-Reformation traditions untainted by blind subordination to the Pope.74 Nevertheless, there was a close correspondence between the much stricter etiquette at court and secular ceremonies sanctifying the monarchy on the one hand, and the new emphasis on the beauty of holiness expressed in the liturgy of the church on the other.75 Ceremonialist reforms in the church and the reform of court culture were intimately connected, both based on the assumption that ‘monarchy and Christianity depend[ed] on a shared symbolic system, reflecting their fundamental homology’, as Malcolm Smuts has put it. Laudianism was of central importance to Charles’s political agenda because it promised to ‘reshape aesthetic sensibilities’ in line with a new political culture centred on the monarch.76 In a sermon Archbishop Laud proclaimed that to look upon the king at prayer was like looking upon God Himself, reflected in the devotions of the monarch: It is an excellent thing to see a king at his prayers, for then you see two things at once: a greater and a lesser king, God and the King, and though we cannot see God as we see the King, yet when we see majesty humbled, and in the posture of a supplicant, we cannot in a sort but see that infinite, unspeakable Majesty of that God whom even Kings adore, and are made far greater by their humblest adoration.77

The drawing of such parallels between God and king, but also between worshipping God and the deference due to the king, was seen as controversial by many of Charles’s subjects. They considered the ‘beauty of holiness’, which Laud and others preached, to be a new, but all too familiar form of idolatry, and feared that this sort of rhetoric might undermine the legal safeguards protecting liberty and property.78 But the king’s self-presentation was also marked by other elements that were politically problematic. In practice, his policy in the 1630s was guided by a desire not to get too deeply involved in the military conflicts of the Continent. The wars he had pursued, first against Spain and then against France, between 1625 and 1630 had both ended in defeat, creating considerable domestic unrest. This was partly because Charles and his favourite, the Duke of Buckingham, had never been able to persuade Parliament or the nation at large that they were really fighting for the Protestant cause and England’s greatness, despite the fact that Spain was widely seen as the arch enemy of Protestantism, and that war against France broke out because Charles was trying to protect the French Huguenots.79 Charles’s potential for posing as a victorious warrior–king was therefore seriously impaired after 1629–30. Whereas James I had tried to sell his own policy

72 | Sacral Kingship between Disenchantment and Re-enchantment

of avoiding war as based on a principled preference for peace, and as part of his attempt to act as a Constantinian arbiter between the warring religious groups, Charles still wanted to be seen as a heroic monarch who was more than capable of holding his own on the battlefield. He therefore had to transfer his heroic aspirations to an imaginary world of chivalric fantasy and Arcadian delights. Louis XIII may not always have cut a very convincing figure as a hero in painting, but he did command armies that eventually managed to win significant victories, first against his own Protestant subjects and then against Spain. Charles, by contrast, was dazzling enough as the subject of Van Dyck’s paintings or in the masques he danced at court, but his actual performance as the protector of European Protestants was seen by many, including his nephew Charles Louis, the Prince Palatine, as by no means impressive. Court art was to some extent designed to compensate for such deficiencies, but to do so it had to redefine the heroic role of the monarch. When Van Dyck depicted Charles in an imperial, heroic pose, he was trying to demonstrate that a king who thought, felt and behaved like a hero, and displayed true magnanimity in doing so, could justly be seen as one, even though he had never won a single victory in battle.80 Charles’s self-presentation revealed a mixture of ‘imperial ambition, pious aspiration and erotic longing’, as Martin Butler has put it with reference to the masques performed for the court in the 1630s.81 Heroism and eroticism were closely related at court. They were parallel phenomena partly because the images of the manly king and the loving and devoted queen always complemented each other. For good reason, Saint George was one of the figures of Christian tradition with whom Charles was often identified, and not only because George was the patron saint of the Order of the Garter, whose sovereign was the king.82 The Christian knight who saved a princess from being devoured by a dragon was ideally suited to serve as a model for a ruler who put so much emphasis on his love for his wife and the erotic fulfilment of his marriage. In one of the pictures Rubens painted for Charles I, he shows Saint George slaying the dragon, with the saint bearing a likeness to the king, and the maiden whom he rescues to Henrietta Maria.83 In the background can be discerned Lambeth Palace, and next to Henrietta Maria a lamb, clearly a Christian symbol. Thus Charles is depicted not only as a saint and knight, but also as defender of the faith; in fact, it has been argued, as both priest and king.84 But this was not the image of a godly soldier fighting for the Lord of Hosts. It was more that of a chivalric knight serving his lady and, like other depictions of the king, combined an eroticized masculinity hardly palatable to the proponents of strict Calvinist morality with religious connotations that were not clearly confessionalized. They could therefore be seen as compatible with both the milder sorts of Protestantism and certain varieties of Catholicism.85 Moreover, it was deeply theatrical. This was to remain a characteristic feature even in later years, when Charles I commanded armies against his enemies or stood trial as an

Kingship Transformed – Kingship Destroyed? | 73

alleged tyrant. This theatrical element in his self-fashioning continued to irritate those who prized sincerity above all other virtues, especially as the expression of an inner spiritual voice with respect to religion. But then, in the world Charles moved in, to play the role of the pious hero in an Arcadian landscape marked by reminiscences of Roman greatness was, to some extent, tantamount to being such a hero; the question of inner conviction or motivation did not really arise, as long as the role itself was played with panache and poise. Charles’s deeply controversial approach to ecclesiastical policy, in particular towards the role of the liturgy in church services, was in some ways equally problematic, or was perceived as such. The Puritan tradition had always emphasized the importance of absolute sincerity in worshipping God. This was one reason why extempore prayers were preferred to fixed forms of adoration requiring the members of the congregation only to repeat a set of words that did not necessarily express what they were actually feeling at that moment. The ‘ceremonialists’ and conformists in the Church of England, who began to dominate the church in the 1630s, accorded much greater importance to ritual and outward signs of piety. The ‘ceremonialists’ received full support for their refashioning of the church from the king, none more so than William Laud, appointed as Archbishop of Canterbury in 1633 but an influential churchman even before that date.86 Laud and his allies within the church placed so much emphasis on the beauty of holiness expressed in both the material fabric of the church and the liturgy because they believed that only the creation of a special time and space for the sacred by a system of material symbols and ritual could unite the community of the faithful. This was to comprise all of the king’s subjects, not just a spiritual elite. There was to be no chance for the godly ‘to separate themselves off from the usual bonds of community and neighbourhood through their pharisaical private devotions’.87 In fact, in the Laudian vision of the church there ‘was little or no room […] for a godly elite distinct from earthly hierarchies’. It was precisely this sort of elite that hard-line Puritans had always seen as the core of the church, if not as the true church itself.88 Despite important differences in ecclesiology there were, in this respect, certain parallels with the more rigorist dévots and the Jansenists in France, who also wanted to create a special community of the godly within the church. What gave Laudianism its special flavour was its pronounced clericalism. This emphasized the separation between laymen and priests, who alone were the keepers of the sacraments, and it gave bishops a special place within the church, as holding an office which had been instituted by God. For Laud and his allies and followers it was, ultimately, hardly acceptable to subject the clergy to a merely secular authority such as Parliament, or even the king-in-parliament.89 Critics were later to charge Laud with subverting the royal supremacy.90 There were, indeed, times when Laud denounced lay interventions in church affairs in such fulsome terms that his attacks could be seen as a criticism of the royal supremacy

74 | Sacral Kingship between Disenchantment and Re-enchantment

itself. In the early 1630s a man who had been fined by the ecclesiastical Court of High Commission for marrying his niece subsequently obtained a prohibition from the Common Law Courts against this judgement. Laud proclaimed that the judges who had tried to obstruct the course of justice should have been excommunicated by the Archbishop of Canterbury (Laud had not yet obtained this office), had they persisted in their efforts.91 But if an archbishop of Canterbury could excommunicate royal judges, could he not also excommunicate the king himself? Of course, Laud himself never posed this question, and his loyalty to Charles I was never really in doubt. But given different circumstances, the idea of the church as a hierarchical community governed by bishops iure divino could certainly be turned against an Erastian model of church government, even one that was centred on the king, not Parliament.92 This did not happen before the outbreak of the Civil War, partly because Laud needed the king’s support to transform the church in the way he wanted, but partly also because for him and other conformists the king possessed an almost divine authority and sacral ­position.93 He was, indeed, persona mixta cum sacerdote. This did not prevent advocates of strong episcopal authority, such as the Laudian Peter Heylyn, from taking a more critical view of the royal supremacy once the Civil War had broken out. At this stage royal support for the Laudian variety of churchmanship became questionable or worthless, when it was still forthcoming, which was not always the case.94 During the 1630s a more critical view of the Henrician and Edwardian Reformation emerged, especially with regard to the expropriation of church lands. This was now seen as sacrilege by some clergymen and even lay landowners who were influenced by their arguments.95 Edward Brouncker, one advocate of giving back to the church what rightfully belonged to it, went so far as to argue that the parliamentary decrees that had enacted the English Reformation were not beyond doubt: ‘O let no man hood-winke himself with a conceit of infallibility of a state met in a Parliament, as if their decrees were Sybilla folia meer oracles, especially when feare and covetuousnesse are the speakers as they usually were in Henry the VIII His Parliaments.’ He reminded his readers that Parliament had also approved the deposing of Richard II and the reintroduction of popery under Queen Mary. And as far as kings were concerned, he went on, there was many a ‘vaineglorious self deifying Herod’ prepared to betray the church, who would be punished by God in due course.96 Men like William Prynne, the Presbyterian scourge of all clerics deviating from the path of pure Calvinism, may have been disingenuous in accusing Laud of usurping the king’s ecclesiastical jurisdiction.97 But as the later seventeenth century was to show, bishops who derived at least some of their authority directly from God could ultimately challenge the king’s power.98 At Laud’s trial during the Civil War, the prosecution went so far as to accuse him of claiming a position similar to that of the Pope in the Roman Catholic Church, thus coming

Kingship Transformed – Kingship Destroyed? | 75

dangerously close to playing the role of Antichrist in the latter days of the church.99 What Laud’s critics refused to understand, or perhaps understood only too well, was that a monarch claiming a sacral power and an almost priest-like position needed an ecclesiastical authority to underwrite his claims. And this authority had to be at least to some extent autonomous, otherwise its endorsement of the royal claims would be worthless. In many ways Charles I tried to revive the medieval religion royale which England had shared with France before the Reformation. To do so, however, almost automatically entailed a debate about the role of bishops within the church and the commonwealth, and about the meaning of ecclesiastical ceremonies. Reinvesting ceremonies with a deeper meaning, beyond the threshold of what might be considered a mere diaphoron [something that was neither good nor bad], risked undermining the precarious compromise on which the church settlement in England rested.100 And even more than his father, Charles I needed a strong episcopacy, based ever more explicitly on a iure divino concept of the episcopal office, as a complement to his sacerdotal kingship. Thus the idea of iure divino monarchy, originally designed during the reign of James I to combat a Presbyterian or Catholic clericalism, gave rise to a new clericalism within the Church of England itself. Ultimately, it led to the religious divisions that were of such crucial importance for the outbreak of the Civil War, and for the alignment of individuals and communities in this conflict. Even for moderate Calvinists, the sort of churchmanship and ecclesiastical policies Charles favoured could easily look like ill-disguised popery. What made matters worse was that Charles maintained regular contact with the papal court. During the 1630s Whitehall discussed schemes for some sort of reunion of the churches, which might have given the Church of England a similar position to that of the Gallican Church in a reunited Christian community.101 This may not have been meant too seriously, but the presence of a French queen at court, combined with the king’s anti-Calvinist church policies, was sufficient to feed rumours of some kind of popish plot. This greatly contributed to the crisis of confidence that led to the breakdown of royal authority in 1640–1 and, ­ultimately, to the outbreak of the Civil War.102

Religion and Politics in France during the Ascendancy of Cardinal Richelieu in the 1630s In 1610, a few months after his father’s death, Louis XIII was crowned king of France, though still a child. A prominent clergyman, André Valladier, pointed out that the sacre in Reims was bound to be particularly effective in his case and certain to procure him God’s blessing, less because this was to be expected in any case, regardless of the qualities of the ruler being crowned, than because the king

76 | Sacral Kingship between Disenchantment and Re-enchantment

as a mere child (born in 1601) could not yet have committed any mortal sin, ‘[it] being my conviction that the effect of the ceremony of the sacre, which is not a sacrament, is due more to the authority of the person involved in it than to the performative capacity of the act itself.’103 Because the sacre was not a sacrament, it could only be truly effective if the king possessed the necessary moral and religious integrity. This doctrine dangerously resembled the League’s political Donatism, which had claimed that in the case of a heretic, or even a Catholic who favoured heretics, the sacre could never be valid.104 The days of the League were gone, but Louis XIII felt under pressure all his life to demonstrate that he possessed the virtues and piety that made him truly worthy to rule his kingdom. Few people doubted that the king was personally devout. He fully embraced the new confessionalized culture, including frequent prayers and pilgrimages to prominent shrines. Not much given to sexual adventures of any kind – though possibly more tempted by men than women – he lived as the paradigm of a chaste and devout, almost saint-like ruler. His policies, however, were rarely in harmony with this image, especially in later years.105 His leading minister from 1624 on, Cardinal Richelieu, although a man of the church, seemed to take a very generous and flexible view of what it meant to be a Christian king. As far as Richelieu was concerned, fighting the House of Habsburg in alliance with heretics abroad, tolerating the Huguenots at home, and suppressing all movements within the church whose objective was spiritual and ecclesiastical renewal independent of the king’s authority were all entirely compatible with Christian kingship.106 One of his literary supporters, Guez de Balzac, wrote Le Prince in 1631, at a time when Richelieu had just victoriously overcome resistance to his policies during the famous Journée des Dupes (11 November 1630). In it, Balzac pointed out that kings should indeed be pious, but that their piety should be rational rather than based on emotional exaltation.107 It should not be confined to the ‘plaisirs oisifs de la simple méditation’ (the idle pleasures of simple meditation) but needed to be compatible with the virtues of a heroic soldier–king. The valour that a king who was both devout and a good soldier, like Louis XIII (who possessed all these virtues in abundance, according to Guez de Balzac), displayed on the battlefield was in itself an act of piety not necessarily inferior to that achieved in martyrdom, and much more becoming for a king.108 Louis XIII was in many ways as unlikely a candidate as Charles I for the heroic idea of kingship, especially by comparison with his father Henry IV. Nevertheless, works of art, poems and historical writings extolled him as Hercules or Jupiter Imperator, even as a ruler who had the potential to become a new Alexander the Great in some ill defined future.109 In fact, he was the first French king to be compared to the Greek conqueror more than occasionally. Although Louis XIII did not pursue a policy of appeasement like Charles I, he was, strictly speaking, unlike his son, not a great conqueror. He was, however, keen to lead his armies into battle personally, and did so during the war with Savoy and Spain fought

Kingship Transformed – Kingship Destroyed? | 77

in Italy early in 1629, crossing the Alps in midwinter, and, close to the end of his life, in Catalonia.110 And, of course, he managed to subdue La Rochelle in 1628. This triumph was celebrated in great style both in La Rochelle itself and later in Paris, when the king ceremoniously entered the city and was celebrated as a victor over heresy.111 Thus for contemporaries, comparing Louis XIII to Alexander the Great may not have seemed as incongruous as it did to later generations. Alexander the Great embodied a political programme and was depicted by poets, historians and artists as a Catholic hero who stood for the idea of a new crusade against the Ottomans led by France, not Spain;112 and attributing the virtues of a great hero to Louis XIII could justify his controversial foreign policy. Who would question the decisions taken by a new Alexander the Great?113 These arguments, or rather, iconographic and poetic strategies, by no means convinced all critics of royal policy. In the 1630s two ideas of kingship were in conflict with each other in France – and the king was often hesitant about which one he should subscribe to. The dévots, having abandoned the League’s theocratic and clerical vision of politics, were prepared to accept the king as God’s image upon earth, a mortal god who participated in Christ’s majesty, but only by grace and not by nature.114 This idea, however, while giving the king a special sacral status, imposed specific limits on his freedom of action. In the late 1630s, Louis XIII’s Jesuit confessor, Father Caussin, confronted the monarch with his sins, not as a man but as a king, pointing out that he was waging an unjust war (against the House of Habsburg) and was responsible for all the misery and hardship the French population were suffering as a consequence. Caussin justified his interference in politics by pointing out that the king was, indeed, ‘le dieu visible des peuples’ (the visible god of the nations).115 Because he held this special position, God would ask him to give an account of his actions as a ruler, not just as a man, when He came to judge the world. It was the confessor’s task to confront the king with his duty to pursue a truly Christian policy both at home and abroad. Otherwise God, as the supreme judge, would condemn both the confessor and the monarch.116 Caussin and those who thought like him were not necessarily opponents of a strong monarchy or even of some form of ‘absolutism’, to employ a controversial term. What they rejected was the potential secularization of politics and the fact that traditional instruments of government such as the parlements were being pushed aside.117 What they resented even more was that a single minister like Richelieu could enjoy almost unlimited power, thus ­overshadowing the king himself.118 For Richelieu, this attempt to translate religious ideals directly into politics was totally misguided, quite apart from the attack on his own person. The king’s authority was, indeed, divinely sanctioned; sacred in nature. But for this very reason his actions could not be judged by normal human rules, and least of all by rules which lawyers and legal scholars – as opposed to political theorists inspired by the notion of raison d’État – were trying to establish. Politics at this

78 | Sacral Kingship between Disenchantment and Re-enchantment

level, when the fate of entire kingdoms was at stake, was part of a sphere accessible only to the king and his most intimate councillors, not to normal human beings, whether jurists or theologians or simple subjects. For most of the more traditional dévots, success or failure in politics, and especially in war, was a direct manifestation of divine providence. But for Richelieu and the theorists who saw politics in more rational if not Machiavellian terms, events in this world could be manipulated by those who were far-sighted enough. Those who were stronger, more ruthless and clever enough to exploit the vagaries of fortune often won the day instead of those who were more pious, but refused to face up to the hard realities of power politics. For the very reason that the king ruled iure divino, his actions in this world could follow the logic of a more or less secularized rationality.119 There was undoubtedly a deep tension here between ‘un État resacralisé, mystérieux, situé hors de toute emprise humaine’ and ‘un État bien terrestre, capable d’être […] transformé par des hommes’.120 Many historians have argued that ultimately the king replaced God at the centre of politics as a result of Richelieu’s efforts to assert the autonomy of the political sphere.121 It should not be overlooked, however, that the same Louis XIII who relied so much on Richelieu’s advice was a deeply religious man, as was the Cardinal himself. Although Richelieu rejected the mysticism of many dévots, their penitential soul searching and excessive cult of contrition,122 his faith in miracles was in harmony with the popular Catholicism of the time.123 When Louis XIII dedicated himself and his entire kingdom to the Virgin Mary in December 1637 in order to obtain an honourable peace for his country, this was certainly in keeping with the religious sentiments of Richelieu, who sought solace in religious reflection when threatened by failure and was advised by a Capuchin monk who dreamed of renewing the crusades.124 Louis had apparently made an earlier vow, in 1630 after recovering from a potentially fatal illness, to serve the Virgin Mary and God to the utmost of his power and to dedicate his kingdom to them. Far from being just a political ploy, the vow of 1637 was therefore a genuine act of personal piety, despite the fact that it was widely publicized and publicly celebrated.125 Louis’s piety was undoubtedly in harmony with the religious sentiments of many other devout Catholics, regardless of their feelings about the war against Spain or the monopoly of power that Richelieu had achieved at court. This personal religious fervour created a bond between Louis and many of his subjects which Charles I tried in vain to establish in England. His rejection of Protestant godliness, or at least those aspects of godliness most cherished by militant Calvinists, created a distance between himself and many of his subjects that he never quite managed to bridge. The peace that Louis had hoped to obtain by means of his vow of 1637 proved to be elusive, but when the queen gave birth to a son in 1638, after many years of childless marriage, this was widely celebrated as a true miracle. The birth of Louis Dieudonné (the future Louis XIV) was seen as an event that in some ways

Kingship Transformed – Kingship Destroyed? | 79

reminded the faithful of the miraculous birth of Jesus himself.126 For men such as Père Joseph, one of the most important members of Richelieu’s personal staff and inner circle of advisers, there was no contradiction between a dévot vision of the world and support for war against Spain. On the contrary, it was the French king’s providential role to lead Christianity in the fight against infidels and h ­ eretics, and he could only fulfil this role when the pride of the House of Habsburg had been humiliated and its power broken. Père Joseph conducted diplomatic negotiations for Richelieu, but he also guided religious orders, such as the Nuns of the Calvary (Calvairiennes), in intercessions and prayers for a French victory and a just peace. In fact, as Pierre Benoist has put it, in the later 1630s the monarchy increasingly tried to mobilize the spiritual forces of the reform movement within the Catholic Church for its own purposes; the prayers and political prophecies of priests and nuns were intended to give credibility to the providential mission of the French king as the oldest son of the church.127 During the reign of Louis XIII the cult of Saint Louis was revived, finding a new centre in the Jesuit church of Saint-Louis in Paris.128 For the dévots critical of the autonomy of politics, the saint was an example of a ruler who had faithfully served the church and died for the faith. But for those who emphasized the right of the king to pursue a more secular course in politics, Saint Louis’s position as the ancestor of the ruling dynasty gave his descendant a mandate to pursue his policies regardless of clerical criticism. They were sanctified because they were the policies of a king who was the descendant of a saint and held an office that was in itself sacral.129 Freed from some of its medieval traditions, the new cult of the saint became a symbol of the alliance between church and state.130 For Richelieu and the writers defending his position on his behalf, the sacred origins of royal power were of the utmost importance. Because the king had been anointed at his coronation, because he had received his sword from the hands of the bishops, the wars he waged were in themselves just, and the king’s enemies were God’s enemies.131 This applied not only to wars against infidels but to other wars as well.132 It was not for mere subjects or theologians to scrutinize the justness of the king’s political decisions: ‘The Laws of the state are not the same as those of the casuists, and the maxims of the academy have nothing in common with politics.’ Ultimately, kings were ‘the most glorious instrument which Divine providence employs to govern this world. The Ancients, who were by no means flatterers, call you corporeal gods accessible to the senses.’133 Thus a king’s mission was and remained a sacred one, and among other marks of sovereignty it was the sacre that corroborated it. But this sacred mission could not be accomplished by policies that tried to follow narrow theological or legal rules. Although Richelieu may have tried to separate religious principles from those guiding secular morality and politics – at least in areas such as foreign policy, which formed part of the mysteries of statecraft – this was only possible on a religious foundation.134

80 | Sacral Kingship between Disenchantment and Re-enchantment

Louis’s claim to be the most Christian of kings with a special status by comparison with other European rulers was of considerable importance in justifying his foreign policy, which to many devout Catholics seemed all too secular both in motivation and in the means it employed to achieve its objectives. In 1634 a French clergyman, Besian Arroy, who held a benefice in the cathedral chapter of Lyon, published his Questions décidées, sur la iustice des armes des rois de France.135 For Arroy, Spain’s claim that it was fighting for the true faith and was the real protector of Catholicism was merely hypocritical. Among a range of arguments which he used to prove that the king of France was the real defender of the church, Arroy pointed out that the kings of Castile were not even crowned, let alone anointed, whereas the holy chrism used in the sacre of the French kings gave the ‘rex christianissimus’ a special sacral status. Thus Arroy’s line of argument, at least implicitly, was that whatever the king of France did, even if it was to sign a temporary alliance with heretics, he always held the higher moral and theological ground because he embodied everything Roman Catholicism was about. Philip IV, by contrast, could only pretend to do so. Arroy emphasized that the sacre was far more than a ‘simple ceremonie spirituelle’ and explicitly compared the ritual to the ordination of a priest, which conferred an indelible character on the consecrated person. Thus an anointed king was like an officier [an officeholder with a patent of office] who, unlike a mere commis [somebody employed by an officeholder, without an official status], could not be divested of his office; he remained king whatever happened, even if he lost his actual power to govern. All this applied to the kings of France, but much less to the Spanish king who, in the last resort, was the descendant of mere counts (of Castile and Leon), feudal lords who had at some stage assumed the royal dignity.136 It comes as no surprise that the Spanish side did not leave this attack unanswered. In this case it was Cornelis Jansen, the founder of the Jansenist movement and a bishop in the southern Netherlands, which were part of the Spanish empire, who wrote one of the most incisive tracts refuting Arroy’s Questions and thus the French monarchy’s claim to a particularly sacred status. The whole idea of sacerdotal kingship, which was of such central importance to the French monarchy, was suspect to Jansen. For him there was only one kind of priesthood, and it allowed the consecrated clergy to celebrate the Mass; kings might act as intermediaries between the clergy and the laity. But to do so, they did not need to, indeed, could not, hold a priest-like position themselves. Although the prayers of the coronation Mass, which largely followed the same basic liturgy in France and England, admonished the monarch to imitate Aaron’s example in serving God, this did not give the monarch a status similar to Aaron’s during Old Testament times. Otherwise it might also be inferred that the French king had to slaughter cattle as a sacrifice to God, as Aaron had done.137 But Jansen went further in his attack on the French religion royale, which accorded the French king a pre-eminent status by comparison with the kings

Kingship Transformed – Kingship Destroyed? | 81

of Spain. For Jansen the sacre was merely a symbolic act lacking any performative quality. It certainly did not confer any sort of character indelebilis on the monarch, as Arroy argued.138 To say that the sacre was essential to give a king the authority to govern was to assume that it worked like a real sacrament, as an opus operatum (a work which ensures its own efficacy by being performed), regardless of the personal character of the consecrator and the consecrated candidate. This, however, was sacrilege because it was not one of the real sacraments. But if the sacre was essential but not a real opus operatum, like the Mass, according to Jansen one fell into the trap of a political Donatism that could not define the legitimacy of royal authority without reference to the king’s virtues or capacity to perform certain sacral acts such as the healing of the scrofula. In fact, Jansen tried to prove that Arroy’s strong emphasis on the virtues and special gifts which the sacre conferred on the king of France was undermining the monarchy as an institution: ‘The authority, however, of kings and popes […] depends not on the power to work miracles or heal the sick, nor does it depend on the gift to foretell the future, to speak in tongues or to exorcize demons or on any other miraculous act.’ To think otherwise was to play into the hands of the enemies of monarchy, because ‘the entire authority of kings would begin to totter if it were dependent on the moral integrity of the ruler and the capacity to heal the sick’.139 God could grant the ability to heal the sick even to a ruler who worshipped idols, or he could let donkeys speak with a human voice. But all this was irrelevant to political legitimacy. Otherwise it would have to be assumed that some donkeys had more authority than others in the animal kingdom.140 What did Jansen’s attack amount to? He clearly rejected the idea that any king, and least of all the king of France, could claim a special religious status that gave him authority similar to that of a priest, let alone a bishop or pope. No secular ceremony had any truly performative quality in the same way as the Mass possessed the force to change reality. Nor was the ability to heal the scrofula – and Jansen did not deny that the kings of France could perform such miraculous healings – a sign that a ruler with this gift was somehow God’s chosen instrument, as Arroy had at least implicitly argued. Other French writers, however, followed Arroy’s line in attempting to refute the Mars Gallicus. Thus in his Vindicae Galliae of 1638 Daniel de Priezac repeated the claim that the sacre, the distinctive mark which distinguished French from Spanish kings, really did change the character of the new ruler: ‘Thus Christian kings through the power and effect of the act of anointing […] become holy men and combine an almost priestly dignity with their royal majesty.’141 This view of the sacre as a ritual with a performative quality was by no means universally accepted in the early seventeenth century.142 More than twenty years after the outbreak of the controversy, another pro-French author tried to distance himself from the arguments that Besian Arroy and de Priezac had put forward. For Nicolas Forest du Chesne, the sacre had little in common with a true sacrament, but he attacked Jansen for applying

82 | Sacral Kingship between Disenchantment and Re-enchantment

his theory of grace to the coronation. Jansen had argued that the human soul was incapable of developing a real ‘habitus charitatis’. Following a similar logic, Forest du Chesne denied that anointing could confer divine grace on the king in any lasting way.143 After 1640, when Jansen’s famous Augustinus appeared, there were certainly attempts to link his theology with his attack on the French crown after the outbreak of the Franco-Spanish war. Jansen had written his tract primarily as a loyal Spanish subject, and not as a theologian interested in systematic problems. Thus it would be rash to assume that Jansenism as a movement within the church and its Augustinian theology on the one hand and its attack on the priest-like status of the French king on the other were linked in any way that was more than merely contingent. Nevertheless, for theologians like Jansen or Jean du Vergier de Hauranne, the Abbé of Saint-Cyran (a close friend of Jansen’s and the real founder of the Jansenist movement in France),144 who put so much emphasis on the utterly corrupt character of human nature and the world in general, it was certainly difficult to admit that any human institution – and ultimately kingship, as opposed to the priesthood, was a human institution – could aspire to sacral status, and that a layman could act as a priest-like intermediary between God and the world. Puritans in England, who, with their Augustinian theology of grace, were not entirely dissimilar to the Jansenists, were equally disapproving of the English variety of the medieval religion royale, and rejected any claim the king could make to enjoy priest-like authority. At best a righteous king was the instrument of God’s providence. In this respect there are clear parallels between Jansenism and Puritanism. In any case, the polemic about Jansen’s Mars Gallicus was to sour relations between the French crown and the Jansenist movement in France for a long time to come. Apart from more fundamental differences and the reservations Jansen, and some of the other theologians who thought like him, had about the traditional religion royale, the moral rigorism which French Jansenists such as Saint-Cyran espoused did not lend itself easily to the much more flexible approach to politics that was typical of Richelieu. Ultimately, the emphasis that the Jansenists put on each individual’s conscience could serve to justify a critique of government policies. Moreover, the total dedication to a life lived in saintliness and the unlimited fervour that SaintCyran and others like him saw as the only reliable sign of God’s grace could only constitute the religion of an elite, a minority. This sort of religion could never really be that of the mass of the faithful, and in this sense there were again clear parallels with Puritanism. But this sort of ‘elitism’ was seen by many, including Richelieu, as a threat to a church which was trying to be truly national in character and to minister to the weak as well as to the strong, quite apart from any political implications which this spiritual elitism might have. Saint-Cyran was imprisoned in 1638 and only released when Richelieu died in 1642.145 In due course the papacy condemned Jansen’s great theological work, the Augustinus (1640), at first in somewhat uncertain terms in the bull In eminenti

Kingship Transformed – Kingship Destroyed? | 83

(1642), then in a much more uncompromising way about ten years later in the bull Cum occasione (1653). Important elements of the rigorist doctrines espoused by the Jansenists later became part of the church’s mainstream teaching in France and even found favour in Rome.146 But these papal decisions reinforced tendencies within the Jansenist movement, visible right from the start, to identify with the Gallican and conciliarist – that is, anti-papal – tradition. While there were times when the papacy could seem to be an ally against a hostile French crown, as in the 1680s (see below, pp. 118–21), first Richelieu then Mazarin and Louis XIV needed its support to suppress Jansenism and condemn doctrines which they saw as a threat to the unity and discipline of the French Catholic Church. Richelieu himself, although strongly opposed to any papal intervention in the political or even the ecclesiastical affairs of France (apart from matters of doctrine), was by no means an unqualified supporter of radical Gallican positions. But he used their arguments when he considered them useful. He saw clearly enough, however, that the conciliarism which formed part of the Gallican tradition, with its emphasis on participatory forms of government within the church, could ultimately pose a threat to the king’s position if such ideas were transferred to secular matters.147 On the other hand, the theological heirs of the late sixteenth-century Catholic zealots were careful to distance themselves from ­doctrines such as the papal deposing power or, even worse, a defence of tyrannicide. When an Italian Jesuit, Antonio Santarelli, mounted one last systematic defence of these doctrines in his Tractatus de Haeresi, published in 1625, the ‘bons catholiques’ (the dévots) were eager to emphasize in public that they did not support them. Richelieu for his part refrained from giving total support to the radical condemnation by the Parisian parlement and the Sorbonne of De Haeresi and all related doctrines extolling the authority of the Pope. Such judgements were essentially manifestos of an extreme Gallicanism that might call into question the church of France’s position as a member of the universal church, and even the Pope’s authority in spiritual matters.148 According to De Franceschi, the Santarelli affair of 1626 was the real turning point in relations between the religious zealots in the tradition of the League and the crown. While the more radical Gallicans who had vociferously attacked the papacy in recent decades, especially after Henry IV’s murder, were now increasingly marginalized, the catholiques d’État, those for whom Catholicism and absolute loyalty to the king were virtually identical, now formed a group with most of the former zealots. A new royal mystique is about to reach its maturity. It is both the political Catholics loyal to the state and the former zealous radicals who create this mystique: by insisting on the divine character of the monarchy, they directly attack one of the constitutive doctrines of classical Gallicanism which they thereby marginalize. This classical Gallicanism insisted on respecting the existence of parliamentary assemblies which played an intermediary role in the government of the kingdom.149

84 | Sacral Kingship between Disenchantment and Re-enchantment

A new mysticism of kingship did, indeed, develop over these years, as we have seen, rendering extremely difficult attempts to separate the king as an individual from his corps mystique. Yet as in the case of Father Caussin and many others, theologians who subscribed to this mystique royale nevertheless remained capable of criticizing royal policies right up to the point of asking the king to dismiss ministers who were not Christian and Catholic enough in their approach to politics. Even to think about regicide, however, had now become impossible in France, unlike in England, where people did not just think about regicide, but actually practised it in the late 1640s.

Civil War and Regicide in England This is not the place to rewrite the history of the Civil War in England, nor of the War of the Three Kingdoms, which began in 1638 with the revolt of the Scottish Covenanters against Charles I’s rule. It was not to end until the battle of Worcester in 1651 and the surrender of the last strongholds of the Catholic Confederation in Ireland to the troops of the Commonwealth in 1652.150 This chapter will consider only certain aspects of the struggle between the Westminster Parliament and the king from 1642 to 1649. Of particular importance here are the religious aspects of the Civil War and the final act of regicide in January 1649. The cause that Parliament (or, to be more precise, a majority of the members of the House of Commons elected in autumn 1640 and a minority of the peers) was fighting for from summer 1642 on has been variously described as primarily a constitutional one, ultimately, perhaps, even a fight for republican ideals, or, alternatively, a religious one.151 What is clear is that both royalists and parliamentarians in England were more reluctant than the warring parties in Scotland and Ireland to justify their cause with arguments that were primarily religious in nature. In fact, they hesitated to go to war at all. As the majority of both the population in general and the social elite would probably have preferred to avoid the Civil War altogether, or to stay neutral in the fight, it was important to woo the moderates; religious fervour was not always the best way to do this. Things were different in Scotland, where Charles’s commands were first openly opposed in 1638–9, long before his English subjects took up arms against him. The National Covenant of 1638 was in many ways a manifesto for a Holy War. It transformed the people of Scotland into a covenanted nation, which had sworn allegiance to God to further His cause. This allegiance clearly took precedence over any obligations the Scots might have as subjects of Charles I, if he refused to join this league with God and His church.152 For theologians such as Samuel Rutherford, who provided the theoretical foundations for this radical approach to politics, the nation as a whole, not the king alone, was responsible for keeping the covenant with God. If the king failed to do so, he could legitimately be resisted.153

Kingship Transformed – Kingship Destroyed? | 85

In England the king’s opponents were much more reluctant to present their struggle as a war of religion. As Glenn Burgess has put it, while many parliamentarians believed that they were fighting against men who were trying to undermine the gospel and the true church, they were reluctant to fall back on this idea as the principal means of legitimizing their own position and the war. Rather, the war they were fighting was ‘legitimated as a legal religious war, in defence of the church (or faith) by law established’.154 The king’s authority was rejected largely because Charles was apparently listening to councillors, including his own French wife, who were Catholics. Popery was to be abhorred, not just because it was idolatrous, but also because it was incompatible with the fundamental principles of the English legal system and its notion of sovereignty. To be a Catholic meant owing allegiance to a foreign power. The official reason for executing Catholic priests in Elizabethan and early Stuart England was because they were traitors, not because of their religious allegiance. Thus a king succumbing to popery could easily be seen as a monarch who had become a traitor to himself or, rather, to the king’s body politic.155 In England, more than in Scotland, it is therefore extremely difficult to disentangle religious from merely ‘political’ issues when looking at the causes of the Civil War. Some historians, like Quentin Skinner, emphasize that the parliamentarians were ultimately inspired by a secular vision of politics whose roots lay in classical republicanism. They were fighting not so much for traditional liberties and the rule of law as defined by the Common Law – let alone for the gospel and a further reformation – as for a civic liberty whose apogee had been in ancient Rome. But historians who see Parliament’s struggle as a battle against political ‘slavery’ tend to overlook the fact that for most parliamentarians this was as much spiritual as political in nature: the demonic threat of popery stood for both at the same time.156 And there was not necessarily a contradiction between the quest for collective and individual liberty in this world and a Christian vision of freedom, which could be described in terms of a deliverance from Pharaoh’s yoke.157 This is not to deny that the need to defend the republican order after the execution of the king fostered a more secular republicanism, which was expressed in James Harrington’s Oceana, for example, or in the writings of Marchamont Nedham, and was inspired by the civic humanism of the Florentine Renaissance.158 Other republican writers who expressly approved of the regicide of 1649, however, offer a more complicated picture. Milton, for example, may have owed his republican enthusiasm and hatred of political slavery to the classical tradition.159 But it is difficult to place his attack on monarchy into an appropriate context without taking account of the fact that for Milton, the respect and deference shown to earthly kings was ultimately incompatible with the obedience due to the only true king, God. In this rejection of human kingship, Milton was inspired by rabbinical comments on the Old Testament. These were accessible to him if not in the original, then in Latin translations and through the works of British and continental theologians

86 | Sacral Kingship between Disenchantment and Re-enchantment

(cf. below, pp. 93–94 for Milton’s attack on Eikon Basilike), as Eric Nelson has argued recently.160 While the Old Testament was an important source for Milton’s anti-­ monarchical political thought, the sermons that Puritan clergymen preached in London and Westminster during the war often placed the struggle into an eschatological context; they were fighting not just against a monarch advised by evil councillors, who had persuaded him to attack the rights and liberties of Parliament, but against the Whore of Babylon and the devil himself.161 Sermons based on the Book of Revelation and those that used passages from the Old Testament to justify the war against the king both desacralized the person of the monarch, while Parliament and its armies were depicted as fulfilling a sacred providential mission. Protestant theologians in late Tudor and early Stuart England had never been certain that England really was an elect nation, let alone ‘the elect nation’ (to the potential exclusion of other nations, a thought that was contrary to most theological principles of reformed Protestantism). There was clearly too much backsliding, too much spiritual and moral corruption in England, but what increasingly became a certainty for many radical Protestants was that England had a special part to play in the final battle between light and darkness, which they now saw as imminent in their own time.162 Many Puritans assumed that because England had betrayed the true faith under the rule of a popish queen (Mary Tudor) even after the truth of the gospel had been revealed to the nation, its salvation (in the sense that the true church was to triumph in England) was essential for the salvation of mankind. A late Elizabethan sermon had proclaimed as early as 1603: ‘Popery shall never bee established againe in this kingdome.’ This was impossible, for ‘if the true faith were not to survive in England how could Rome be ruined[; …] how shall fire come down from heaven and devour both God and Magog?’163 England may have long been less than fully committed to the fight for the true faith – a sort of Laodicea, like the church in the Book of Revelation which was condemned by the apostle for being lukewarm – but now was the time to decide which side to fight on: for the Whore of Babylon or for Christ.164 God’s providence had saved Elizabeth I from persecution under the rule of her sister Mary and had saved her country from the Armada. His providence was certain to save the faithful again, in the face of an imminent threat of popery, as the Irish rebellion of 1641 with its real and imagined slaughter of Protestants by Catholics had shown.165 A truly godly ruler who saw himself as the instrument of God’s providence could have led England in the fight against popery. But in the eyes of many of his subjects, Charles lacked what it took to be such a providential leader. The nation, therefore, under the leadership of Parliament, had to fend for itself, acting on its own in the eschatological struggle which lay ahead. As early as 1641 this had been the opinion of a number of Puritan theologians, such as Henry Burton, who had been exiled and imprisoned in the late 1630s for his opposition to Charles’s church policies. Recalled

Kingship Transformed – Kingship Destroyed? | 87

by Parliament from the Isle of Guernsey, he now proclaimed that the voice of the House of Commons ending his exile was like the voice from above which had called upon the two witnesses mentioned in Revelation chapter 11 to ascend to heaven; clearly in some ways Burton saw himself as one of these witnesses.166 He explained that the fight against the Whore of Babylon, mentioned in the Book of Revelation, was not to be waged by kings and princes alone. Many kings would have to be forced by their own kingdoms and subjects to take part in this struggle, should they be reluctant to do so.167 This was a perspective shared by other Puritan clergymen. For example, in his Glimpse of Sion’s Glory of 1641, John Goodwin argued that it was for the common people and the ‘multitude’ to make manifest ‘that God omnipotent reigneth’. Every single Christian was to join in the fight against Babylon, for ‘Blessed is hee that dasheth the brats of Babylon against the stones’.168 A nation that embraced this sacred mission, however, to some extent assumed the role that the king had traditionally claimed for himself, as God’s chosen instrument on earth. As early as the mid 1620s some radical pamphleteers, in the debate about England’s participation or neutrality in the Thirty Years War, had attributed to Parliament a special role as God’s representative in politics.169 Now, immediately before the outbreak of the Civil War and during the war itself, such ideas were taken even further. Parliament became a ‘sanctified’, ‘consecrated’ institution, and it was no longer kings who were the Lord’s anointed, but the people. ‘Parliament, representing the people, or the people themselves, in arms for their just liberties, and in God’s cause, were the hosts of the Lord, the chosen of an elect nation’, as Robert Zaller has put it.170 Parliament claimed not only that it could exercise the king’s political power without his assent, but also that his sacerdotal powers had been transferred to the House of Commons and the Westminster remnant of the House of Lords. Parliament and its armies were thus sanctified, but ‘in sacralizing the parliamentary host, the London preachers demonized the royal party and ultimately the king himself. One could not settle differences with the Antichrist’.171 Regarding the growing trend to reject monarchy as such, especially apparent near the end of the Civil War, it could be said that the sacral authority claimed by Parliament could to some extent justify a secular republicanism, rather as the sacralization of royal power in France provided a basis for policies guided more by reason of state than strictly religious ideals.172 But this secular republicanism was not the dominant tendency. If it was not just Charles’s role as a monarch that was being called into question but, implicitly, monarchy as an institution; there could, in the final analysis, be only one monarch for many of the Puritan clergy who preached to Parliament and its soldiers, namely, Christ the King, who ruled this world as much as the next. Such inherently theocratic arguments may not have been as pronounced and as common in England, at least before 1649, as they were in Scotland,173 but they were present. They certainly undermined Charles’s position, and perhaps because

88 | Sacral Kingship between Disenchantment and Re-enchantment

of their wider appeal outside a small, educated elite, were more effective than any attempt to link Parliament’s struggle to republican ideals and the paradigmatic history of the Roman Republic. They rendered difficult and, ultimately, untenable the position of those moderate parliamentarians who sought a compromise with the king.174 What answers could royalism provide to this attack on the king and on monarchy itself? The politics and theoretical framework of royalism during the Civil War have been much less studied than those of the parliamentary side. This situation has only recently begun to change.175 It is tempting to assume that on the royalist side the principal distinction was that between moderate, constitutionalist royalists, who wanted a return to the political arrangements of 1641, before the outbreak of the war but after legislation which curtailed the king’s prerogative had been enacted, and radicals who essentially wanted to establish some kind of absolute monarchy. This distinction, however, was far less clear-cut than it seems at first glance, partly because strategy and tactics were impossible to separate during the war, and partly because a moderate in politics could well be violently opposed to a compromise in ecclesiastical affairs, and vice versa.176 Moreover, royalist politicians who wanted no more than to establish the traditional constitutional framework as they saw it could still remain, at heart, opposed to serious, and not just tactical, negotiations with rebels. In their view, severe punishment was the only treatment that a rebel deserved. What complicated matters even further was that at various stages Charles was forced to decide whether to seek help from abroad – in particular, from France or Spain – or to look for allies in his other kingdoms, Scotland and Ireland, even if the conditions for doing so were unpalatable. In the case of Ireland, possible cooperation was an especially controversial subject among royalists. Associating himself with popish rebels who had allegedly slaughtered Protestants in their thousands was unlikely to endear the king to his Protestant subjects. But Scottish Presbyterians were not necessarily much more popular with royalists as potential allies. Too many royalists saw the need to defend the Church of England against sectaries and Covenanters as a prime reason for joining the king’s forces in the first place. They were reluctant to sacrifice their religious convictions only to preserve the king’s prerogative powers in secular matters. Charles found it difficult to prevent the motley crew of followers who provided him with officers, courtiers, soldiers and local supporters from falling apart altogether, especially after early hopes of winning a quick victory against Parliament had vanished and the prospect of defeat was looming on the horizon. His task was not made easier by the fact that his generals and officers had a strong tendency to indulge in exalted notions of personal honour, which led them to see every setback in debates about royal strategy at court or in the field as a personal slight.177 The propensity to challenge an opponent to a duel or to leave the royal army or council altogether in a fit of pique was endemic.178 This made it all the

Kingship Transformed – Kingship Destroyed? | 89

more important for Charles to appeal to the personal loyalty of his supporters. The image of the king was promoted by innumerable woodcuts and prints to remind the royalists what they were really fighting for: not so much a cause as a person.179 Charles had tried to emphasize the divine nature of royal authority before 1640, but this message was now hammered home with much greater force and often less subtlety. Charles was depicted as the Anointed of the Lord, a figure like the biblical king David. To attack such a monarch was clearly sacrilege.180 As the war progressed and the king’s position became increasingly difficult – in purely military terms almost hopeless – his supporters began to emphasize the parallel not so much with King David as with Christ himself and his sufferings. This image was to dominate representations of monarchy in 1649, the year of the king’s execution, and in the following years.181 In the context of this emphatic sacralization of the king’s authority and power, his ability to heal the scrofula became especially important. The king’s enemies might undermine his authority and win victories over him in battle, but they could not deprive him of the ability to work miracles that had been bestowed on him by God when he was anointed as a king.182 But emphasizing the religious aura surrounding the king and his charisma as God’s anointed was only one among several possible royal strategies. Others took a more secular approach, drawing a parallel between the king’s power and that of a father. As sons could not question their father’s authority, so subjects could not question the power of the king. One of the more important writers favouring this approach was Robert Filmer, who had written a great treatise, Patriarcha, built on the notion of monarchy as the absolute rule of a father over his children, several years before the outbreak of the Civil War.183 Filmer was clearly influenced not just by Jean Bodin,184 but also by other writings which had been produced in France during the Wars of Religion and in their aftermath, when the Bourbons still felt acutely threatened by papal claims to a supreme authority which entitled the Pope to depose secular rulers. Filmer and others who thought like him radicalized the arguments that French politique writers had developed between the mid 1570s and the first decades of the seventeenth century.185 The Kentish gentleman was unusual in building his theory of royal authority on predominantly secular foundations. In this respect his approach was similar to that of Thomas Hobbes who, like him, was a radical anti-Aristotelian. Most royalists preferred to use some variety of divine right argument to defend the king’s position. The king was often depicted from this perspective as a priestlike figure, a mixta persona wielding both secular and ecclesiastical power.186 Royalists of different persuasions, however, and especially those in the tradition of the Laudian ceremonialism of the 1630s, often had reservations about the king’s authority as supreme governor. From 1644–5 at the latest it became clear that to save his crown the king might have to make concessions, either to the Presbyterians or to the Independents, who rejected the traditional structure of

90 | Sacral Kingship between Disenchantment and Re-enchantment

the national church. Quite a number of Church of England clergymen, however, did not hesitate to remind the king that the authority of bishops was ultimately derived not from the king, but directly from God, and that a king who ceased to protect the church so constituted would incur God’s wrath.187 The king’s claim to sacral status clearly came at a price; without far-reaching concessions to the clergy’s own claims to hold their offices iure divino, it risked losing credibility. The problem became even more acute once Charles decided to ally himself with the Scots at the end of 1647, having been defeated in the First Civil War in 1645–6. In return for military support, the king had to promise to establish Presbyterianism not just in Scotland, but also in England, at least temporarily. The alliance with the Scots proved to be a disastrous miscalculation. It destroyed Charles’s chances of coming to any sort of settlement with Parliament and the parliamentary army that would have preserved at least some rudimentary elements of genuine monarchical authority. Parliament was nevertheless reluctant to take the ultimate step of putting the king on trial and deposing or executing him. Only after the House of Commons had been purged by the army did it take the decision to call the king to account for his alleged crimes as a tyrant. Recent research has shown that even at this point many army leaders were reluctant to condemn the king to death. Some only wanted to force him to acknowledge the jurisdiction of the court of law which they had set up to try him. This would have allowed them to depose and replace him with a successor of their own choice, or to reduce his authority to some kind of nominal kingship without any real power. And it would have prevented the Prince of Wales, the future Charles II, who was still able to prosecute the war from outside England, from claiming the crown.188 But Charles did not play along. It remains unclear whether his compliance would really have saved his life, given the strong animosity against the ‘man of blood’ among many of his opponents.189 In any case, he decided in the end to embrace a martyr’s death, thereby preserving divine right kingship. His judges duly condemned him to death and he was executed on 30 January 1649. The republican tendencies in the theory of government that Parliament and the army espoused, still muted in 1642, had by now become much more pronounced. The result was that the king’s trial could be justified as that of a mere magistrate who could be called to account for his crimes, like any other office holder. Even in the early 1640s there had been a trend to oppose the king as a person in the name of the king’s body politic, which amounted, in the last resort, to arguing that the state could be conceived of as an abstract entity, independent of the king. These tendencies now became much stronger and more radical, with the result that the purged Parliament felt entitled to speak for the state and to condemn a monarch who had betrayed the trust of his office.190 To some extent the court that tried Charles I had reinterpreted the history of kingship in England as that of an elective monarchy, although officially it appeared to be a hereditary one. Despite the array of republican and even democratic ideas

Kingship Transformed – Kingship Destroyed? | 91

which the regicides mustered to justify their revolutionary decision, however, most of these men would probably not have had the courage to kill the king had they not believed that they were fulfilling a sacred mission and acting in God’s name. During the trial, the court’s president, John Bradshaw, had proclaimed that ‘we are upon Gods and the kingdoms errand’.191 The treatises, sermons and pamphlets published in 1649 and the following two years to justify the regicide often gave even greater prominence to ‘Gods errand’. Some went so far as to argue that by his crimes the king had polluted the land, which now needed to be cleansed by an exemplary act of justice.192 Others, such as the lawyer John Cook, who had led the prosecution in the king’s trial, tried to prove that God himself had rejected monarchy as an institution for his people. This applied to ancient Israel as much as to the nation of saints that, in Cook’s opinion, the English should strive to become.193 Some, at least, of the regicides embraced a theocratic vision of political order, or as Jonathan Scott has put it: ‘The most powerful reason for laying earthly monarchy in the dust was to realise the monarchy of God.’194 These theocratic ideals, however, were not necessarily incompatible with a rational approach to politics if reason was seen as God’s gift; for the regicides there was certainly no absolute contradiction between classical republicanism and Christianity.195 Classical republicanism was even more easily compatible with the position of those radical opponents of monarchy who firmly rejected all theocratic arguments, employing biblical language instead to preach a political message that owed as much to notions of natural law as to religion pure and simple.196 If the monarchy was to have a chance of surviving both the onslaught of such republican and theocratic ideas, and the actual defeats suffered by the king in two civil wars, Charles I and his supporters had to find a way of transforming these defeats into a potential victory. There were no better examples of this sort of interpretation than Christian martyrdom and, ultimately, Christ’s death on the cross.197 This was exactly the strategy pursued in Eikon Basilike, the book written, or at least conceived, in captivity, in which Charles justified his actions before and during the Civil War. Eikon Basilike was also a meditation on the deeper meaning of his sufferings and imminent death, and a spiritual autobiography. Published shortly after the execution, large parts of Eikon Basilike were in all likelihood written by John Gauden, one of the king’s chaplains, although the general argument of the book was probably based on writings and notes left by the king.198 What Eikon Basilike preached was in some ways an ethos of renunciation, almost self-denial. Charles declared that for a king it was better to be good than great.199 He was deliberately sacrificing his own life, or so he said, for the sake of his subjects’ welfare and the survival of the Church of England.200 Acting as his own chaplain – Parliament having deprived him of the services of clergymen who accepted the validity of the Book of Common Prayer – he gave a new meaning to the claim that the king was both rex and sacerdos. To some

92 | Sacral Kingship between Disenchantment and Re-enchantment

extent every believer could claim that he was ‘a King and Priest invested with the honour of Royal Priesthood’, as Charles put it, but this general priesthood of all believers was made visible in a special and particular way in the king’s life and death.201 As Kevin Sharpe has written: ‘Charles in the pages of Eikon conducts a national service of worship and atonement. Once we read it, we willy-nilly participate in that service and acknowledge the king’s sacerdotal role. […] Indeed, Charles’s appropriations of the language and role of Christ made rejection of the earthly simultaneously a turning away from the heavenly king.’202 Eikon Basilike invoked the sacredness of kingship to reject the accusations of the regicides, but it also tried to depict Charles Stuart the man as a pious Christian and almost as a saint. In fact, between 1657 and 1665 a number of churches were dedicated to ‘Saint Charles King and Martyr’.203 The main thrust of Eikon Basilike was directed not just against Charles’s enemies in the Westminster Parliament and the parliamentary army, but also against those who wanted to defend monarchy by an alliance with religious groups outside the old Church of England, such as the Scottish Presbyterians, or even some of the more moderate Independents in England. Charles’s French wife had favoured this approach. For her, as a Catholic, all Protestants were essentially heretics, regardless of whether they were Laudians, Presbyterians or Puritans inspired by some kind of spiritualism.204 The Anglican royalists who in all likelihood were behind John Gauden, the man who gave Eikon Basilike its final form, wanted to make sure that both Charles II, should he be tempted to abandon the Church of England in exchange for an alliance with the Scottish Covenanters, and those of his advisors who saw the restored monarchy of the future as built more on secular than on religious foundations, would have to confront the image of the royal martyr who had died for his faith and the true church. This was a legacy that they would find impossible to ignore – or so it was hoped.205 All the same, not all Anglican royalists were pleased with the result. There were men like Peter Heylyn, a convinced Laudian, who sincerely disliked the image of kingship presented in Eikon Basilike. For Heylyn, a king who put his own search for virtue before his duties as a king was bound to be defeated and risked betraying his staunchest supporters, as Charles had, in fact, done in the past. And as far as Heylyn was concerned, William Laud, the archbishop executed in 1645, was the true martyr of the anti-parliamentarian cause, not the rather inept and unreliable king. Other royalists preferred to see Charles as a heroic military leader, not a would-be saint.206 Eikon Basilike tried to defend Charles as a king by extolling his virtues as a man and a Christian. The sacral character of kingship was personalized, but this made it dependent on the individual monarch’s ability to prove that he possessed the piety and humility required of a true Christian. At the time the impact of Eikon Basilike was enormous. It would not be going too far to argue that by staging his death with such poise Charles ultimately ensured the revival of

Kingship Transformed – Kingship Destroyed? | 93

his dynasty’s power in 1660. As it turned out, however, the highly personalized image of kingship presented in his book was a dangerous legacy for Charles I’s worldly and self-indulgent successor after 1660. At the moment of his death, Charles had tried to resacralize the monarchy, which had run the risk of losing its aura of sacredness altogether after Parliament’s victory in two civil wars and a trial which had reduced the king’s status to that of a mere office holder. He was in many ways spectacularly successful. Whereas in France, Henry IV brought about a recharge sacrale of the monarchy after the murder of his predecessor, Charles II had his work already done for him when the monarchy was restored in 1660. Whenever he tried to give kingship a religious foundation other than that of Laudian ceremonialism and an ecclesiology based on the supreme importance of episcopacy iure divino, he found that this road had been closed to him by his father’s legacy. He was thrown back on the particular shape Charles I had given to the English religion royale at the moment of his death (cf. below, pp. 130–35). If this had been France, it would have been as if Henry III had, by his death, shaped the dominant image of the Bourbon monarchy and determined its fate through his political and religious legacy – which was manifestly not the case in France after 1589. In the 1650s, however, Eikon Basilike and its popularity undoubtedly posed a dangerous challenge to the new republic and its fragile political culture.207 For a republican like John Milton, who, in his Eikonoklastes, had tried to destroy the image of the saintly king, Charles’s prayers and meditations in Eikon Basilike were no more than mere stage acting. A true prayer should come from the heart and not from a collection of set texts, or worse still, a literary work, as one of the prayers which Charles had used allegedly did.208 Only an ‘image doting rabble’ would be impressed by the theatrical performance which Charles’s death and his pious posturing presented.209 What Milton attacked was not just Charles I as king and man, but the very idea that God’s majesty could become visible in the life and actions of a king. God might manifest Himself in the judgements of providence, but not in manmade images, even those of kingship. For Milton, who was inspired by Jewish readings of the relevant passages of the Old Testament (see above, pp. 85–86), any deference shown to kings was no more than a ‘civil kind of idolatry’.210 Monarchy was, in the end, inseparable from play-acting, from theatricality; a monarch had to use words and gestures that had been borrowed from other authors or just from tradition. This was what state ritual and court ceremonial were about; but for this very reason they were incompatible with true faith and religion, and ultimately idolatrous.211 What Milton rejected was not just Charles’s claim to be a good king or a religious man, but the political culture of monarchy. His Eikonoklastes shows that an alternative to this culture of power was conceivable in England after 1649. Nevertheless, republican political culture in the 1650s was to derive its greatest strength from Oliver Cromwell’s appeal as a charismatic leader. Cromwell appeared as a military hero,

94 | Sacral Kingship between Disenchantment and Re-enchantment

the chosen instrument of providence and the perfect citizen, who was careful to demonstrate his republican simplicity and modesty even when, at other times, he adopted some of the trappings of monarchy. But in his self-fashioning he always remained the servant of a higher cause, whether God or the republican state. In many ways, Cromwell’s charisma compensated for the deficiencies of a political order that could no longer use the symbols of royalty. Especially near the end of his life, Cromwell may be seen as a substitute monarch, but his presentation of himself as the instrument of providence differed markedly from traditional monarchical culture. Despite some continuities with the pre-Civil War monarchical tradition, the world Cromwell moved in was that of the Bible and ancient (republican) Rome, not that of a romantic, subtly erotic chivalry or of the gods and demigods of ancient mythology, which had been such important ingredients of Caroline court culture before 1640.212 Both the frontal attack on kingship which Eikonoklastes and similar writings presented and, perhaps more dangerously, the prestige of the new republican hero, Cromwell, threatened to undermine and disenchant hereditary kingship once and for all. Yet Charles’s death and martyrdom had given monarchy a new lease of life; but this success came at a price, as the years after the Restoration were to show. Kingship became more dependent on a self-assertive clergy and more easily risked losing its aura of authority if the king failed to live up to the standards set by Charles I in his death.

The French Monarchy between the Death of Louis XIII and the Coronation of Louis XIV 1643–1654 In 1649 Charles I died a martyr’s death, or so it seemed to most royalists. His brother-in-law, Louis XIII, had died peacefully, though painfully, in his bed six years earlier. Nevertheless, there are parallels in the way the deaths of the two kings were staged and presented, and these point to a transformation in the prevailing ideals and representations of monarchy that was at least to some extent independent of the impact of the Civil War on kingship in England. Although personally not without sympathy for the dévots, during his lifetime Louis XIII had consistently – or almost consistently – supported the policies of his chief minister. Richelieu disapproved of theologians or laymen who wanted France to serve, at all costs, the cause of Catholicism as defined by Rome and Madrid. Louis XIII was to survive the cardinal, who died in December 1642, by only a few months, but it would not be going too far to say that he deliberately staged his final illness and death as a great spectacle. Louis XIII clearly wanted to demonstrate that he was a loyal son of the Roman Catholic Church, and truly committed to the Christian ideal of humility. His illness and death were presented almost as an act of expiation. In England, Charles I believed that his own death

Kingship Transformed – Kingship Destroyed? | 95

was a punishment for his lack of loyalty towards the Earl of Strafford, whom he had abandoned in 1641. Charles therefore conceived of, and almost designed, his death as both that of a contrite sinner – but not contrite in the way his judges had wished for – and a true martyr, whose end could be seen as an image of Christ’s own passion. Of course, Louis XIII was not tried and executed by his own subjects; he died a peaceful, though painful, death, succumbing to ill health. But this makes it all the more remarkable that there are similarities between the depiction of his death and the way Charles’s death was presented to the world in Eikon Basilike and similar publications. Traditionally the funeral of a French king was an important act of state and a rite de passage that marked the transition of power from one ruler to the next.213 The arrangements for his funeral that Louis XIII had made in his last will, however, provided for a comparatively modest ceremony; the solemn funeral procession through the streets of Paris was to be omitted, as was the use of an effigy of the dead king, which in the past had been displayed on a bed of state in the royal palace for up to forty days before the actual funeral.214 At the centre of the funeral ceremony was to be not the celebration of kingship as an institution that survived the death of each individual king, but the death of the man, Louis XIII, as a devout Christian. Louis’s body – his actual body, not an effigy – was therefore displayed without the symbols of his power and royal dignity.215 Moreover, the numerous funeral sermons emphasized the piety of the deceased, and how patiently he had accepted the torments and pains of his mortal illness. In one of these sermons the priest exclaimed: His death was his glory, by leaving this world he found entry into heaven, and this star never shone brighter than at the moment when it was about to be extinguished, and this king never appeared holier, than at the moment when he was about to join the blessed in heaven. Heaven allowed his death to be slow so that it was more beautiful, and so that those who had been unable to learn a lesson from his actions as king were now instructed by his actions as a Christian.216

His pious death was used to demonstrate that Louis XIII had been wrongly accused of neglecting his filial duties by meting out harsh treatment to his mother, who had pursued a much more pro-Spanish line in politics and sided with the dévots’ opposition to Richelieu. His death, one of the sermons argued, showed, ‘that politics must submit to religion and nature, that the love of his position should not diminish the love of his mother and that one can be a good son without being a bad king’.217 From this perspective the king’s death could appear as the death of a martyr, and the king himself as a Christ-like figure. The parallels with Charles I’s death in England (however different the circumstances), and how it was depicted by his followers, are palpable. In fact, during the last weeks of his life, Louis XIII had suffered very much in public, and had shown that he was willing to embrace and accept this suffering as a true Christian.218

96 | Sacral Kingship between Disenchantment and Re-enchantment

His suffering and death had demonstrated that the king was all too human, a mere mortal like other men. But this very affliction could be seen as something that transformed the king’s suffering and death into an image of Christ’s death on the cross. In this sense, Jean-Marie Le Gall has remarked that far from detracting from the king’s dignity and status as imago dei, the human frailty that his illness and dying revealed added to this dignity in a specifically Christian perspective: ‘les rois sont pleinement rois en étant pleinement hommes’ (kings are fully kings by being fully human).219 Even Louis XIII’s decision to scrap some aspects of the ceremonies that had traditionally been part of royal funerals, like the use of effigies, should not be seen as necessarily desacralizing the monarchy by reducing the role of the king to that of a mere human being, not very different from other men and women. Rather, it showed that in France kingship as an institution – the king’s corps mystique – and the mortal body of the individual king had become largely i­ ndistinguishable, had fused. To quote Le Gall again: The royal office becomes the patrimonial property of the ruler and no longer has any autonomy with regard to the individual king and his dynasty. But at the same time the sacred character of this office affects the physical body of the prince, and the fact that the prince has a human body – far from destroying the religion royale – has a sanctifying effect.220

The extent to which the mortal body of the individual, living king became the visible and exclusive image of kingship as an institution in France is also demonstrated by other changes around the king’s death and how this potential threat to the continuity of authority was treated. Whereas the Valois had built magnificent funeral monuments for their deceased predecessors, the Bourbons were buried in the crypt of Saint-Denis without a monument to keep their memory alive.221 This change in the representation of kingship is also found in other monarchies at the time. In England, for example, the tombs that James I built early in his reign in Westminster Abbey for his predecessor and his mother, Mary Stuart, were the last such monuments.222 In France the coffin of the last king – an empty replica, of course, as the real coffin was in the crypt – was placed in the choir of the church in Saint-Denis, thus replacing the monuments that had been customary in the past. But again, the fact that artistic representations were rejected by no means denotes a decline of the traditional religion royale. In some ways, the coffin and the dead body of the deceased king symbolized the dynasty’s continuity with greater force than the various tombs of individual rulers, each of them in a different style. And burying all members of the immediate royal family in the crypt, not just the ruling kings, emphasized the unity of the dynasty more strongly than in the past. To quote Le Gall once again: ‘What ends in Saint-Denis is less the sacral character of the king as a person than the empty s­ uperficiality of ­everything concerning the way in which it is presented.’223

Kingship Transformed – Kingship Destroyed? | 97

The death of Louis XIII thus marked an important change in how the transition from one reign to the next was managed in ceremonial terms (remarkably, Louis XIV was not crowned until 1654) and in how the sacral and sacerdotal character of kingship was defined. Its impact was all the greater as it also ushered in another regency – and thus a period of crisis – which was officially to last until 1651, when Louis XIV came of age (although he was only thirteen years old at the time). In reality, however, it lasted longer, as Louis XIV did not take up the reins of power himself until 1661, when Cardinal Mazarin died. This was the second time within less than fifty years that France was ruled by a female regent (the last instance had been Marie de’ Medici’s regency after the death of Henry IV in 1610). Anne of Austria, by birth a Habsburg, governed France, like her husband had done, with the help and under the guidance of a clerical chief minister – in this case, the Cardinal Mazarin. Mazarin was soon even more unpopular than his predecessor, Richelieu, had been. The military conflict with Spain proved interminable and despite the Peace of Westphalia, which ended the war in Germany in 1648, France found it increasingly difficult to find the financial resources to continue the war. This was now being waged only against the Spanish Habsburgs and no longer against their cousins in Vienna as well. The contrôleur général and later surintendant des finances, Michel Particelli d’Émery, tried to ameliorate the state of French public finances by all sorts of expedients not very different from those that James I and Charles I had employed to increase royal revenues. New fees and special taxes (for example, on houses that had been built without permission outside the walls of Paris), collected by unpopular tax farmers and financiers, remind one of the monopolies that were such a popular fiscal device in England, whereas forced loans, a fiscal expedient that had a crucial role in England in the late 1620s, were meant to undermine the fiscal privileges of the rich and powerful. These would otherwise have contributed next to nothing to the expenses of the state, at least as far as direct taxation was concerned.224 These measures, which also included the sale of new offices, threatening to reduce the income of existing office holders, provoked the ire of the members of the cours souveraines in Paris. These were the highest law courts, staffed by officials who had generally bought or inherited their positions and one day hoped to bequeath them to their sons, a privilege that now also came under threat. The cours souveraines and, in particular, the powerful parlement initially took the lead in the rebellion that broke out in Paris in the summer of 1648. The crisis soon escalated when discontented noble magnates joined in. These included princes of the blood, such as the Prince de Condé, the victor of the Battle of Rocroi, who enjoyed great prestige as a successful military leader. The princes had no real interest in weakening the authority of the monarchy per se. Rather, they wanted to remove Mazarin, and possibly push aside Anne d’Autriche, in order to control the government themselves. Many members of the high nobility resented the fact that an upstart like Mazarin, who

98 | Sacral Kingship between Disenchantment and Re-enchantment

was not even French by birth, exercised so much power. Richelieu’s harsh and increasingly unpopular exercise of power, continued in a slightly milder but not necessarily less controversial form by Mazarin, had left its mark. It was widely seen as an aberration from the normal course of government, a ‘dérangement des lois’.225 The frondeurs tried to reverse this situation. Their ideal was a monarchy that respected ancient customs and privileges. Apart from this, they found it difficult to agree on clear objectives, on a political programme that might replace the policies of Richelieu and Mazarin. This was one reason why the Fronde ultimately failed.226 In any case, the radicalism of many pamphlets of the time was more verbal than practical. It was directed against Mazarin as a person, sometimes also against the queen, but hardly ever against the child king, Louis XIV, or the monarchy as an institution. Some rebels wished to moderate and restrain the monarchy, possibly by giving more influence to the Estates General or to the parlement as a substitute for the Estates, but not to destroy it.227 The stake that the judges of the parlement and other office holders as well as the noble magnates had in the state created by a succession of kings over the previous 150 years was just too great to undermine the monarchy now.228 Although judges of the parlement attacked the policies the king and his ministers had pursued over recent decades, they were reluctant to draw away the veil that protected the mysteries of monarchy, as Cardinal de Retz famously put it in his memoirs. Ultimately, they respected the sacred character of royal authority that had been reaffirmed so strongly after 1593–4.229 Aristocratic leaders, possibly more inclined than the parlements to take drastic action, always had the image of the Holy League and its failure before them. Where a man such as the Duc de Mayenne, ‘the leader of a party formed for the defence of religion and fortified by the blood of the Guise brothers, who were widely seen as the Maccabees of their time’, had failed, a Condé could not really hope to succeed, or so it seemed.230 The final phase of the Wars of Religion had demonstrated that an aristocratic revolt and a radical popular movement (in the case of the League, exemplified by the Sixteen, the leaders of the revolutionary movement in Paris) were strange bedfellows. The English peers who joined and initially led the rebellion against King Charles were to have a similar experience. But in 1642 they could still hope to dominate the movement which was eventually to destroy the aristocratic constitution they hoped to re-establish.231 There was generally little enthusiasm among high-ranking French noblemen for a meeting of the Estates General, which might have brought about more profound constitutional change. The attitude of the provincial nobility, however, was different. Assemblies of provincial nobles met in 1651, when a meeting of the Estates General seemed to be imminent, and in some provinces these assemblies continued to discuss political problems beyond this date.232 The lower nobility, however, lacked the leadership and political networks required to transform regional manifestations of political discontent into a nationwide movement.

Kingship Transformed – Kingship Destroyed? | 99

Ultimately, the Fronde remained much more limited in its objectives than the revolution in England. It lacked the religious radicalism, and therefore also the unifying ideology, that was such a prominent feature of the war waged against Charles I by the Covenanters in Scotland and the parliamentarians in England.233 Both Jansenism and the Compagnie du Saint-Sacrement (a fraternity of Catholic zealots who combined an agenda of Tridentine reforms with a principled opposition to any compromise with heretics) seem to have played a certain part in the opposition to Mazarin,234 but even they could not accuse a cardinal of the church of being a heretic (although unlike Richelieu, Mazarin was not a priest). The Huguenots, on the other hand, remained conspicuously quiet. They had long since moved away from a political position grounded in ideas of legitimate resistance. The civil war and revolution in Britain, to all appearances caused by the rebellious spirit of radical Protestantism, made it all the more essential for them to distance themselves from such events and to demonstrate that they wholeheartedly supported monarchical government in all its forms.235 On the whole, events in England made a distinct contribution to the political debate in France during the Fronde, with the exception of the Ormée in Bordeaux,236 less by fuelling demands for radical political change than by dampening any revolutionary fervour which may have existed there. Mazarin tried to create the impression that the frondeurs were just a different version of the Puritan radicals in England, enemies of monarchy and stable government in any form. But many of the frondeurs did their utmost to distance themselves from the English Parliament, even more so after the regicide of January 1649. Some accused Mazarin of having encouraged the rebels in England because he considered Charles I to be too closely connected with political circles in France who were opposed to his policies, especially concerning the war with Spain. A number of the leaders of the Fronde clearly saw themselves as the real royalists, defending the young king’s interests against a minister who had usurped his authority and was secretly in cahoots with the English regicides.237 Mazarin himself was later to argue that the Fronde had prevented him from granting Charles I any real help against Parliament.238 On the other hand, however, there were pamphlets advising Henrietta Maria to charge Jules Mazarin in the Parisian parlement with having betrayed her husband.239 By and large, for most of the frondeurs, the English Revolution could serve as an example of a great historical disaster, but hardly as a model to be followed in France.240 The majority of observers in France certainly saw the execution of Charles I as scandalous, although most French Catholics probably had more sympathy for Charles as a man than as a king. Eikon Basilike, the bible of royalism after 1649, was almost immediately translated into French and found a wide audience in France. Almost all translations were by French Protestants, who were genuinely shocked by the radical politics of their co-religionists in England and felt a deep need to distance themselves from them.241 There was, however, one translation by a

100 | Sacral Kingship between Disenchantment and Re-enchantment

Catholic author, the Sieur de Marsys. He suggested that in his religious convictions, Charles could almost count as a Catholic, although he had justly detested those ‘Catholiques Puritains’ who were so utterly subservient to the pretensions of the Pope that they did not respect the rights and prerogatives of secular princes. This, of course, was a position, far removed from that of the Gallicanism prevailing in France, which in Marsys’s eyes was easily compatible with Charles’s real convictions and even his claim to be acting as the Supreme Governor of the Church of England.242 Marsys tried to humanize the fallen king in other ways. His sufferings were depicted as the ordeal not so much of a monarch who had succumbed to his enemies, as that of a humble Christian who had accepted his fate. This tendency was to some extent implicit in the original Eikon Basilike but became more pronounced in Marsys’s translation. This version also rejected the original illustration with its many emblematic elements establishing a connection between kingship in this world and the kingship of Christ in heaven. Marsys wanted to show not ‘un roi depouillé mais un homme orné de toute sorte de vertu’ (a king deprived, but a man in possession of all sorts of virtues).243 This emphasis on the monarch’s qualities as a human being and his personality at the same time revealed the weakness of the French monarchy. Charles I may have been a king who had been overcome by his enemies, but he was also a king who, in his own life and death, even in failure, symbolized what Christian kingship and the English monarchy stood for. In France, on the other hand, even before 1643, when Louis XIII was still alive, the king as a person had been almost effaced by his own chief minister and the cold, impersonal, bureaucratic state he had created.244 Louis XIII had tried to compensate for the lack of appeal to the emotions and loyalty based on personal devotion that had characterized Richelieu’s policies with his personal piety, the speeches he gave from time to time during sessions of the Parisian parlement and, not least, as described above, the manner of his dying.245 After 1643, however, France had no adult king. All that was left was the power structure Richelieu had created, administered by an Italian clergyman (who, unlike Richelieu, was not even a priest) and a queen of Spanish origin. The personal monarchy that Louis XIV established when he grew up was to some extent a response to this problem. The king as a person, as a human being, was once more to take centre stage and reassert his place as the real focus of power, both at Versailles and at the head of the royal armies in war (at least until 1693). What Louis was to ask from his subjects, and especially his nobility, was not obedience to the state as an anonymous structure, but personal loyalty and service, which would be rewarded by the king’s personal favour and the privilege of living and dying ‘under the sovereign’s gaze’.246 The frondeurs had been unable – and perhaps only half willing – to dismantle the authoritarian structures that Richelieu had created. Nor had they more than briefly reduced the terrible burden of taxation that the cardinal-minister and his successor had imposed on the French taxpayer. But their rebellion nevertheless

Kingship Transformed – Kingship Destroyed? | 101

did have a lasting impact on the French monarchy. This became clear immediately after the end of the Fronde, when Louis XIV was finally crowned king, eleven years after the death of his father. By comparison with the coronations of the first two Bourbons, the significance of the sacre for legitimizing royal authority was now much reduced. The coronation of 1594 had been of crucial importance for Henry IV. Without it, he could not have realized his claim to rule the country as a king accepted by (almost) everyone in France. And in 1610, when dynastic continuity was by no means automatically assured, it was almost equally important to silence all the regency’s critics by making it clear that the Bourbons as a dynasty were there for good, and would hold the crown of France for as long as they produced male heirs. The situation was different in 1654. Mazarin seems to have believed that in hereditary monarchies coronations, although important for propaganda purposes, might give ammunition to those who wanted to diminish the king’s authority. They could lend themselves to an interpretation that was republican in tendency, in particular regarding the coronation oath. The judges who tried Charles I had argued that he had become a traitor to his own kingdom because he had broken the oath he had sworn at his coronation.247 It therefore seemed best to downplay the constitutional significance of the coronation. To a certain extent, the sacre of 1654 anticipated later developments that were to reduce even further the importance of the traditional rituals of state, including the entrées royales and the lits de justice. Their place was now taken by the ceremonies of the court, which were centred on the monarch as an individual and his glorious actions as a warrior and patron of the arts, and less on kingship as an institution.248 Nevertheless, official and semi-official comments on the coronation still emphasized that the sacre gave the king of France a status almost like that of a priest, and made him a spiritual ruler (‘roy spirituel’).249 Before and after the Fronde, absolutism in France remained a sort of religion (‘une sorte de religion’), as Joël Cornette has put it.250 But the real high altar of this religion was now in the king’s bedroom in his palace (after 1683 in Versailles), or at least in his royal chapel, not in Reims or Saint-Denis.

Concluding Remarks At first glance, the fates of the Stuart and Bourbon monarchies in the second third of the seventeenth century could not have been more different. On the one hand, there was Louis XIII, who overcame all resistance to his authority and laid the foundations for classical ‘absolutism’, which was to triumph during the reign of his son; on the other hand, there was Charles I, who was defeated in a civil war, tried by his own subjects and finally executed, while monarchy itself as an institution was abolished and replaced by a republic. Kingship was radically desacralized by the act of regicide in England, whereas the Fronde in France, far

102 | Sacral Kingship between Disenchantment and Re-enchantment

from becoming a genuine revolution, remained a badly organized revolt, if not at times a political farce. In any case, it was directed not against the authority of an adult king, but against an unpopular first minister of foreign origin and a female regent, who was also born outside France. But matters were actually more complicated. In staging his own death, Charles I put more emphasis on his virtues as a Christian than his authority as a king, which had already been largely destroyed by Parliament and its victorious army. In the version presented in Eikon Basilike, the dying king offered an image not so much of an all-powerful, majestic God ruling the world, as of Christ, who suffered to redeem mankind. Although Louis XIII never had to face a court of law accusing him of waging war against his own subjects, the sermons after his death similarly emphasized the character of the king as a humble believer following Christ. Kingship was humanized and Louis XIII himself apparently wanted to die and be buried less as a powerful ruler than as a devout Christian. Charles I wrote that a king should strive to be good rather than great, and the dying Louis XIII would probably have agreed with this sentiment, much as his first minister had seemingly rejected such ideals. In both England and France, kingship was made more human in the mid seventeenth century, but this did not necessarily destroy or weaken the traditional aura of sacrality surrounding the ruler. Rather, death and suffering patiently borne could reduce the tensions between the king’s two bodies: his human body and the body of kingship as an idea and an office. As Kevin Sharpe has put it: ‘the ever-present tensions between the king’s two bodies, personal and politic, were only ever resolved by death’.251 While the king’s body politic or corps mystique (a concept which, as discussed above, had different constitutional implications from the English term ‘body politic’) became visibly inseparable from his human body, which was subject to all the afflictions suffered by other human beings, this could well reinforce the traditional religion royale. To quote Sharpe again, the image of the king as martyr made ‘regality both mystical and popular’.252 For this political theology to work, however, the dominant theological perspective had to focus more on Christ than on the authority of God the father, ruling in majesty. The power of an omnipotent God might well be seen to have theocratic implications, and could easily be deemed not to leave much room for any other authority, even that of a king claiming to be God’s visible image on earth. But this did not apply to the same extent to a Christo-centric conception of the divine. In his meditations Pierre Bérulle, the French mystic, wrote that Christ was the only ruler who remained king even in death; the monarchs of the earth lost their kingship when they died.253 In a way, both Charles I and Louis XIII tried to prove that they remained monarchs even in death – presenting an image of Christ – because they primarily died as mere Christians. They were prepared to renounce the power and outward splendour of royalty, having decided to embrace death and suffering.254 This was a risky strategy. A rejection of the signs of power could all too easily be seen as part of the theatricality that was at

Kingship Transformed – Kingship Destroyed? | 103

the core of court culture and the cult of majesty. If a king tried to demonstrate that he was dying as a sincere and pious Christian and a repentant sinner, this very sincerity could be criticized as mere play-acting, like everything else that happened at court. This was the line taken by Milton in his Eikonoklastes. Louis XIII was undoubtedly in a more favourable position in this respect. Baroque Catholicism, even in its comparatively sober and ‘classical’ French version,255 ultimately left more space for theatricality and the acting out of a predesigned role, even that of a martyr, than the spiritualized Calvinism of the Puritan variety of Protestantism found in England. In France, the resacralization of churches and other buildings and spaces dedicated to God which had been profaned by the Huguenots, and the revival of the culture of religious images and symbols in a renewed Counter-Reformation form after the end of the Wars of Religion, went hand in hand with the resacralization of monarchy itself.256 The two processes were almost inseparable in France. This contributed to the monarchy’s strength in the seventeenth century, but perhaps also to its weakness in the Age of Enlightenment. The situation was clearly different in England, let alone Presbyterian Scotland. Here the question was whether the theatricality inherent in kingship and all it meant could be compatible with the personal sincerity in religion which strict Calvinism demanded. Charles II, the royal martyr’s successor, answered this question in his own way. He never really tried to be sincere on any religious matter. His brother, however, eventually became a Catholic. The brand of Catholicism he favoured offered him the combination of sincerity, ritual, theatricality and subjective, individualized piety that was so difficult to achieve in Protestantism. James II’s personal religious predilections proved to be the undoing of the Stuart dynasty in Britain. But as will be shown in the next chapter, that defeat was as much a result of James II’s failure to distance himself from Louis XIV’s style of government and French political culture, as of his Catholicism.257

III

In the Shadow of Versailles Stuart Kingship and the French Monarchy 1678–1688

?

Introduction Any attempt to establish a comparison between the Stuart and the Bourbon monarchies in the later seventeenth century may, at first glance, seem hazardous. In France, there was a monarchy which, for this period, was the epitome of strong, if not absolutist, government. Royal authority there faced hardly any major domestic crises after 1660. In England, by contrast, there was the restored monarchy of an exiled dynasty, resting on unstable and fragile foundations, as a series of crises from the late 1660s on, and the final overthrow of James II’s rule in 1688, were to show. What can a comparison demonstrate other than what historians have so often pointed out already – the vast contrast between Continental absolutism and a monarchy which, for all its attempts to escape from constitutional and fiscal constraints, in the end had to accept that England and, to a lesser extent, Scotland could not be ruled without the consent of Parliament? It is not, however, the overall constitutional development of royal government in England and France after 1660 that will be investigated here. Rather, this chapter will focus on the relationship between religion and kingship, and its impact on representations of monarchy. Even here it could be argued that the differences in the structural preconditions for the exercise of royal authority were so huge that any comparison risks becoming almost meaningless. On the one hand is France, where even in the 1660s Catholicism was hardly challenged as the dominant religion, although the Huguenot faith was not finally suppressed until the mid 1680s; on the other hand is a composite monarchy whose religious situation could hardly have been more complex. Despite the reestablishment of the Church of England in the early Notes for this chapter begin on page 214.

In the Shadow of Versailles | 105

1660s, its relationship with the Dissenters remained more than controversial. Catholics were a small but potentially influential minority, tolerated or openly favoured to a greater or lesser extent by the king and his successor designate. Catholics also formed the majority of the population in Ireland, although many Catholic landowners there had lost their estates in the 1650s. To make matters even more complicated, there was a strong, hard-line Presbyterian opposition to the official, Episcopalian Church in Scotland, which showed a clear tendency to embrace open and even armed resistance to the Restoration settlement. France, however, provided a model that both Charles II and his brother tried to some extent to emulate. This attempt was not as preposterous as it might, in retrospect, seem. In the 1680s – more specifically, between the dissolution of the Oxford Parliament by Charles II in 1681 and James II’s disastrous decision to abandon his alliance with the Tories and the Tory clergymen dominating the church – the Stuarts seemed to be quite successful in establishing strong royal government.1 Recent historical debates have pointed to the internal contradictions of absolutism and the limitations to which royal government was subjected almost everywhere in western and central Europe, even in France. Given this, it is a moot point whether or not the sort of regime created by Charles after 1681 during his personal rule, which James tried to redesign so that it was compatible with his religious convictions, can be called absolutism.2 What is clear is that despite its limited financial resources (which did, however, increase in the 1680s), the English monarchy was not as inherently weak as has sometimes been maintained. In some ways an English king (and especially the king of Scotland or Ireland) had more political options and was less constrained by tradition and vested interests than his French counterpart. It is inconceivable that a French dauphin, or even the brother of the French king, could have become a Protestant; whereas the Protestant Duke of York became a Catholic in the late 1660s. In 1593–4 the Bourbons had accepted, once and for all, the principle that the ruler of France had to be a Catholic. This principle was widely seen as one of the fundamental laws of the monarchy, like the Salic law governing the succession, and something which no king could ever change. It is almost equally inconceivable that a late seventeenth-century French king would have openly favoured the Huguenots by dismissing Catholic office holders and replacing them with Protestants. Louis XIV did just the opposite, and his decision to suppress Protestantism was probably one of his most popular ever – at least to judge by the reaction of the majority of the French population.3 If the French king’s authority was hardly ever openly challenged between 1660 and 1715 – apart from a revolt in Brittany in 1675, the war of the Camisards between 1702 and 1705 and minor provincial conflicts – this was at least partly because Louis XIV knew what he could get away with, and when it was wiser to refrain from actions that might seem provocative. This applied not only to his religious policy, but also to his relations with the social elite. As Jeroen Duindam and many other historians

106 | Sacral Kingship between Disenchantment and Re-enchantment

have pointed out, Louis was careful to do nothing that might be seen as an attack on the established social hierarchy.4 To dismiss dozens or even hundreds of office holders, including judges, and replace them with social outsiders and upstarts, as James II did in his campaign to promote men who were absolutely loyal to him in the army, the judiciary and, at a local level, as Justices of the Peace (JPs), would have been inconceivable in France as long as Louis XIV ruled.5 It might be said that James II – and to a lesser extent Charles II, in his attempt to cleanse the government of urban corporations of Whigs, crypto-Dissenters and other troublemakers – took such extreme and desperate steps just because their position was so precarious. Yet neither judges nor JPs held their positions by purchase or hereditary right,6 so they could much more easily be removed than the officiers in France. Thus at least for the period of the ‘Second Restoration’7 – that is, between 1681 and the first years of James II’s reign – it would be wrong to assume that royal authority was inherently weaker in England than in France, although the potential for rebellion, if not revolution, was always much greater. But this was largely because political opposition in the Stuart kingdoms was so closely linked to religious grievances. It could thus acquire an edge and an aggressiveness that were alien to protests of dissatisfied courtly aristocrats, or even of over-taxed and halfstarving peasants in France. The Huguenots, for their part, had been conspicuously loyal to the crown in France ever since the 1630s. They remained so almost to the very last minute before the Edict of Nantes was finally revoked.8 It could, of course, be argued that the real parallel to the crisis of the monarchy in England after 1678 is to be sought not in contemporary France, but in the more distant past: in the late sixteenth century. This was the view that many Tories, and probably Charles II himself, took. In 1684 the English poet John Dryden published a history of the French Catholic League, his translation of a French work written by a former Jesuit, Louis Maimbourg. Dryden had, in fact, been asked to translate the Histoire de la Ligue by the king himself. In the preface, Dryden, who had already tried to use the history of the French Wars of Religion for the purposes of Tory propaganda in his earlier play The Duke of Guise,9 pointed out that ‘[n]ever was there a plainer parallel than of the troubles of France and of Great Britain, of their leagues, covenants and associations and ours, of the Calvinists and our Presbyterians, they are all of the same family’. He continued: ‘1584 and 1684 have but a century and a sea betwixt them, to be the same.’10 It is difficult to deny that England in the 1680s faced a similar problem to that confronting France from the mid 1580s to 1594 (the year in which Henry IV was crowned king in Chartres). France was a largely Catholic country with a small but powerful Protestant minority. Suddenly, after decades of civil war, it faced the prospect of handing over the crown to a Calvinist. In England, the Catholics may have been an even smaller part of the population than the Protestants in France. If the English Civil War or the War of the Three Kingdoms had been a war of religion it was – outside Ireland – more a war between different groups of

In the Shadow of Versailles | 107

Protestants than between Catholics and Protestants. Nevertheless, anti-popery, going back at least to the 1570s and 1580s, when the Catholic threat in combination with Spanish power had been very real, was an essential ingredient of English political culture in the late seventeenth century. It was as essential as the bond between the religion royale and traditional Catholicism in France. While Catholics in England were a small and largely peaceful minority, matters looked different from a British and a European perspective. In Ireland, the religious and political order that Cromwell had imposed on the country in the 1650s, with its implications for landownership and the fate of the Old English and Irish elite, and the subsequent Restoration land settlement (which had largely confirmed this order) faced the real possibility of being overturned under the rule of a Catholic monarch.11 In England, an anti-Protestant policy which undermined the Church of England, possibly supported by Catholic regiments recruited in Ireland and if necessary also by French subsidies and troops, was a political option that could not be ruled out once Charles II had died and been succeeded by his Catholic brother. But in both cases – France in the late 1580s and early 1590s, and England between 1678 and 1688 – more was at stake than the religious allegiance of the reigning monarch. The very nature of kingship itself was the issue. Charles II had never fully committed himself to any specific model of kingship after the Restoration. One option was to represent the king as a Christ-like figure exercising a sacred office, who ruled the country as the successor of an Anglican martyr and saint, surrounded and guided by his spiritual counsellors, the bishops.12 Another alternative was a more secular, rationalist idea of kingship. This was compatible with a degree of religious toleration, but could also potentially draw on Hobbesian notions of absolute royal sovereignty.13 Or, finally, Charles could theoretically have chosen to ally himself with those who wanted the king to act as a godly ruler in the Calvinist or Presbyterian mould, governing strictly within the framework provided by the Common Law and parliamentary statute and strenuously fighting against both popery and vice. Charles was clearly not the right man for this model of kingship, which, after 1688, would appeal to William III. But it should not be forgotten that this option was favoured by an influential and powerful minority among the elite in his three kingdoms, or at least in England and Scotland.14 Matters were further complicated by the fact that all debates about the nature of monarchy in the three Stuart kingdoms were strongly overshadowed by the most powerful model of kingship in later seventeenth-century Europe: the rule of Louis XIV. The Stuarts had always seen their own rule, both in Scotland and England, in a European context. But the impact of the French monarchy on England, both as an example to be followed and as a bogey that could be used to whip up opposition to the Stuarts, was now much more profound than before 1660. If Louis XIII had personally been a rather shadowy figure, neither much

108 | Sacral Kingship between Disenchantment and Re-enchantment

feared nor much admired outside France, the same could hardly be said of his son. Having lived in exile for such a long time, and facing the prospect of having to go into exile for a second time should a revolution in England and Scotland shatter royal authority again, both Charles II and James II were much more likely than their father to look to France, either as a source of political support at times of crisis or as a model of monarchical representation to be followed. But the lessons that could be learnt from looking at France changed in the 1680s, because French kingship itself changed at this time. Even in the early 1670s, France still seemed to be a reasonably tolerant country. Its king, although a Catholic, did not define his role as a ruler primarily in religious or confessional terms, or so it could seem when looking from abroad. Certainly there were English Dissenters in the late 1660s for whom the combination of a strong monarchy with a reasonably high degree of religious toleration was not entirely unattractive, as Mark Goldie has pointed out.15 Even someone such as Algernon Sidney, who had strong Republican sympathies, could, from his exile in France, offer Charles II advice intended to persuade him to follow the French example in granting toleration while seeking close cooperation with Louis XIV on other matters. This advice may have been somewhat disingenuous. Sidney probably believed that monarchy and an intolerant state religion were superstitions that could not survive without each other, so that religious toleration would bring down monarchy in any case.16 Yet, nevertheless, it remains remarkable that France could be seen as a country which, in some ways, was more tolerant than England at the time. Louis XIV’s war against the Dutch Republic in 1672–8, which attempted to restore the dominant position of the Catholic Church in those Dutch provinces that had been temporarily conquered early in the war, put paid to all that.17 The increasing pressure which the French crown put on Huguenots to convert during the 1670s also contributed to destroying this positive image of France among English Dissenters. Matters were different, however, for those, like Charles II and his brother the Duke of York, who saw the French monarchy in a more positive light for the very reason that it was strong and autocratic. To the extent that they took France as a model, at least in some respects, their policies and political styles were bound to be affected quite differently by the changes the French monarchy underwent in the 1680s. It has been claimed that James II’s own absolutist aspirations were closely modelled on Louis XIV – a conventional Whig argument going back to the late seventeenth century and often restated over time. It has also been suggested that he tried to imitate Louis XIV’s particular Gallican brand of Catholicism, which was clearly distinct both from the native English tradition of recusancy and from the official Roman version of Catholicism. This is clearly a far less conventional argument. Steve Pincus, who describes James II’s personal commitment to strengthening Catholicism in his three kingdoms and subduing all opposition to his policies as an example of a ‘Catholic modernity’ most

In the Shadow of Versailles | 109

clearly expressed in France itself, asserts that James was not a real Catholic at all because, like Louis XIV in the 1680s, he had no great respect for the authority of the Pope. Therefore, Pincus suggests, the conflicts leading to the Glorious Revolution were not primarily religious in nature. James’s opponents were not so much fighting popery as French-style absolutism, which just happened to be combined with a rather heterodox and, from a papal point of view, outlandish Catholicism.18 This attempt to downplay the religious element in the revolution crisis of 1688 is far less convincing than Pincus’s emphasis on the European context of the Revolution. Pincus is certainly justified, however, in highlighting the importance of the Continental background of the political and religious conflicts of the 1680s in England and, more specifically, showing that this background had a distinctly French dimension. There have, of course, been other attempts to see the political turmoil suffered by the Stuart kingdoms from the Exclusion Crisis onwards in a European context. Jonathan Scott, for example, has argued that English history, in common with that of European countries, was shaped by a number of long-term processes in the long seventeenth century. Among these, the religious conflicts which originated in the clash between Reformation and Counter-Reformation in the late sixteenth century were as important as the challenge which the process of statebuilding posed to traditional constitutional arrangements.19 In Scott’s account France’s role was crucial because English Protestants, or at least the more militant among them, felt that they were being confronted by a double threat: popery and absolutism. In their opinion, throughout the 1670s, but most visibly from 1678, the year of the Popish Plot, onwards, ‘the two plots, against Protestantism and parliaments, were intertwined. The connection was the king’s [Charles II’s] relationship to France’.20 More recently, Tony Claydon has presented his own account of how political events in England interacted with political and religious change on the Continent and, more particularly, in France. Claydon agrees with Steve Pincus that after the early or mid 1670s, Louis XIV was increasingly seen as a new universal monarch, or at least as a ruler who, like Philip II of Spain before him, tried to create a universal dominion. For Pincus this implies that notions of political and constitutional freedom and the stability of the European system of states were far more important than religious concerns, but Claydon rightly insists that these issues cannot be separated. ‘Even as Louis emerged as a credible, universal monarch, the nation continued to consider foreign policy in spiritual terms.’21 Louis XIV’s Catholicism was seen as different from that of Emperor Leopold I, for example, and far more perfidious. This perception was at least to some extent shaped by the barrage of criticism directed against the French government after 1685 not only by Huguenot writers, but also by discontented Catholics who objected to Louis’s church policies and his autocratic style of government. Like so many other historians, Claydon ultimately wants to explain why England was

110 | Sacral Kingship between Disenchantment and Re-enchantment

different from, and somehow more modern than, many other European countries in the eighteenth century. He is convinced that England’s, and Scotland’s, engagement with the politics and religious conflicts of the Continent was at the heart of this divergent development. Because the English saw their own country as an integral part of Protestant Europe, he suggests, they were deeply involved in Continental conflicts. They saw their own domestic problems in the light of a European-wide struggle in defence of a common Christian cause between popish tyranny on the one hand and enlightened Protestantism allied to moderate Catholicism on the other. ‘England became even more unlike her neighbours because her people divided on how to fulfil duties to the godly abroad […] . Although the English became powerful and peculiar enough to set themselves apart from believers elsewhere, they reached that position convinced that they shared, indeed were servants of their cause.’22 Even if this is only part of the explanation for England’s peculiar historical course, there is no doubt that the French dimension of English politics is crucial for understanding both the crisis of the years 1678–82 and subsequent events, from the 1680s to the Glorious Revolution and beyond.

The Changing Nature of the French Monarchy in the 1680s and after The reign of Louis XIV is often seen as the triumph of a king claiming absolute authority over a recalcitrant nobility and older corporations defending their ancient privileges, indeed, as the triumph of absolutism as such.23 It is true that in the 1660s France overcame a period of instability which had begun in the mid sixteenth century, with the early Wars of Religion in the 1560s. Even after the civil wars ended in 1598 and the Huguenots lost their special privileges in 1628–9, provincial rebellions remained an almost normal part of political life, culminating in the Fronde in 1648–52. It was Louis’s great achievement to have surmounted these problems. The army, long almost a republic of semiindependent warlords, was subjected to much stronger control by the ministry of war and its bureaucracy.24 Clientelism survived within the army, but even the greater aristocrats were no longer able to transform their regiments into an army of personal retainers, always ready to turn against the crown. The court became the predominant centre of social and cultural life; not to be present at court, at least from time to time, meant losing all influence on the crown’s patronage policy and therefore, ultimately, all credit with one’s own clients in the country. Before the 1660s noble magnates could threaten to leave the court and create unrest in the provinces; this option now hardly existed. Yet it would be wrong to depict Versailles as a golden cage for the nobility. Many noble families present at court also pursued a career in the army, and connections at court were of the

In the Shadow of Versailles | 111

utmost importance for a military career.25 Many military careers, especially for high-ranking officers, began at court, in the regiments and units that were part of the king’s maison militaire at Versailles. And the bureaucrats who controlled the central administrative institutions, mostly members of the noblesse de robe, interacted with the more powerful families of the noblesse d’épée. There was a degree of intermarriage between families occupying the highest ministerial positions and the noblesse d’épée, and without aristocratic allies few ministers could be certain of keeping the king’s favour in the long run.26 As the eighteenth century was to demonstrate, the great aristocratic families retained their considerable and often predominant influence on patronage and politics. The noblesse de robe may have served the ‘absolute’ monarchy faithfully during the reign of Louis XIV; open opposition to royal policies was rare between 1660 and 1715. But the king respected the special privileges of senior office holders, who could treat their positions like their own private property.27 The venality of office and all that it entailed was never really called into question. Some crucial positions in the provinces were filled by administrators, the intendants, who exercised their authority by virtue of special commissions. Unlike the letters patent of the officiers, these could be revoked at any time. But this was not the rule. France had more office holders than most other European countries of its size, but as the bureaucracy could not be fully controlled by the king, this was both a weakness and a strength.28 The Parisian parlement had lost its right to delay the enactment of royal legislation almost indefinitely in 1673. And while the Parisian and the provincial parlements were much easier to handle than either before 1660 or after 1715, recent research has demonstrated that the justices sitting in the parlements lost neither the ability to influence legislation nor their self-confidence and will to reassert their authority at the first opportunity.29 The greatest weakness of the state, however, was the fiscal system. During the early decades of Louis XIV’s reign, the 1660s and 1670s in particular, the situation was favourable and royal revenues comparatively abundant. Richelieu had managed to raise the level of taxation, and in the absence of long and costly wars, the state’s financial resources were sufficient both to expand the army and to fund the expensive cultural and artistic projects that were to turn the French court into Europe’s most splendid one. From the 1690s at the latest, however, the situation deteriorated markedly. Both the social elite and entire cities and regions were seriously undertaxed in Louis’s France. The impoverished peasantry, which had to bear the brunt of the taxation, was unable to finance the ever more costly wars that, after 1689, the king waged almost continuously and with diminishing success for almost twenty-five years. By the time the king died, the financial situation was truly desperate.30 These problems, however, were not yet visible in the 1680s, when the French monarchy’s impact on its neighbours was probably greatest. For Charles II, who barely managed to hold his own in conflicts with a recalcitrant parliament, as for his successor James II, Louis XIV’s kingship

112 | Sacral Kingship between Disenchantment and Re-enchantment

seemed to embody everything they could hope for but were failing to achieve in their own country. Louis XIV was undoubtedly a master of relentless self-promotion, whatever his failings in foreign policy (in the end he was waging war against an almost united and deeply hostile Europe) or in reorganizing and overhauling state finances. He ensured that art, poetry, history and official news reporting presented him as a ruler who outshone all his rivals and was a true hero in war and peace. Court culture had always been about extolling the ruler as victorious, wise and virtuous; as both courageous and pious. The monarch’s glory and honour constituted a dynasty’s symbolic capital. Louis XIV, however, undoubtedly went further than other rulers, both past and present, in having his own glory and greatness depicted and acclaimed by artists and poets. Whatever the reality of absolute monarchy, the rhetoric of absolutism was all too audible in French court culture, in the sermons of loyal preachers and the encomia of obsequious poets and members of the academy after 1660.31 For Louis’s enemies and critics this was no more than abject flattery, if not downright idolatry verging on the blasphemous.32 The Austrian Habsburgs, for example, were generally more careful about allowing themselves to be praised as heroic and almost divine figures. They certainly left more space for an aristocratic culture to compete peacefully with that of the imperial court.33 Nevertheless, it would be wrong to see mere vanity and flattery, an ingredient in all courtly art, as the principal foundation of court culture in Louis XIV’s France. What gave French court culture its special flavour was that the office and institution of kingship were entirely conflated with the king’s body natural. The man Louis XIV was not just king; he embodied the very idea of kingship. The tendency to let the king’s corps mystique disappear behind his natural body had already emerged in the past. Even earlier, court ceremonial had begun to concentrate more on celebrating the acts of individual kings than the institution of monarchy. This was expressed in the traditional rituals of state, such as the sacre, the funérailles and even royal entries into cities.34 With Louis XIV, however, as Gérard Sabatier puts it: ‘the division between the two bodies has entirely disappeared. The entire state, the monarchy, all principles of authority, order, sovereignty and unity are contained in this body of this particular king’. In Sabatier’s opinion, this is much more than a quest for glory and limitless pride (‘orgueil’); it is ‘the fullest expression of absolutism’ (‘la formulation la plus achevée de l’absolutisme’).35 In the representations of kingship Sabatier examines, mainly works of art such as public monuments and sculptures – panegyric poems or sermons would yield a different result – this fusion of the king’s body natural with the idea of kingship often lacks a clear religious dimension, at least in the sense of a distinctly Christian as opposed to a mythological vocabulary. This is true at least for the first decades of Louis XIV’s rule.36 To some extent this was to change towards the end of the Sun King’s reign, but during the 1660s and 1670s the religious dimension of

In the Shadow of Versailles | 113

court culture was, if not absent, then less prominent than it had been in the more recent past. Although conventionally religious and certainly aware that his position as an anointed ruler conferred a special status upon him, Louis XIV was at the centre of a splendid baroque court which was not conspicuous for its excessive piety and high moral standards, unlike the Habsburg courts in Vienna and Madrid.37 The language which the king’s artists used to glorify the ruler was primarily that of pagan mythology or that of ancient and contemporary history (relating to Louis’s own victories and achievements), not that of the Bible or theology. The king was not just depicted as Apollo–Helios or Alexander the Great but even took part in dramatic performances such as those by the ballets de cour, where he took the roles of the ancient god and the Greek military hero. To some extent the theatrical culture of the court had a performative quality which really transformed the king from a mere human being holding high office into a superhuman heroic or semi-divine figure who belonged to a sphere transcending the world of mere mortals.38 The great frescoes at Versailles, however, emphasized the heroic virtues of the king (magnanimitas and magnificentia) more than the divine origin of royal authority in the sense of a Christian kingship iure divino and Dei gratia.39 This emphasis on the king as a hero, or at least a heroic figure, may partly be a result of the fact that the language of mythology and ancient histories could be controlled entirely by the king and his artists, whereas the language of religion was ultimately controlled by the church.40 This tendency to depict the king as a semi-divine hero, ultimately superior to any other heroic figure, even the great examples from antiquity such as Alexander the Great, culminated in the 1680s. Louis XIV was now increasingly addressed as ‘the Great’, and his actions and entire reign were praised not just as equal in greatness and splendour to the age of Augustus – the golden age of monarchy in antiquity – but as far superior to anything France or Europe had ever seen. As early as the mid 1670s the ‘modernes’ had asserted this superiority of the glorious presence over the past.41 However, although royal panegyric in all its forms reached its apogee in the 1680s, a period marked by the greatest efforts to promote the royal image at home and abroad that France had ever seen, this decade was also marked by an incipient crisis of representation. Versailles, which now became the king’s permanent residence, not just one of many palaces in and around Paris where he held court, was now dominated by works of art demonstrating that Louis was absolutely incomparable. There was no longer any need to depict him as Apollo or a new Augustus, as he himself had set the standard for what it meant to be a great ruler. He had defined greatness itself, or as Olivier Chaline puts it: ‘Seul Louis est capable de rendre compte de Louis’ (Only Louis is able to give an account of Louis).42 Mythological stories were still used on occasion to decorate ballrooms, gardens and apartments, but their political message was reduced in scope. They were now mere metaphors for

114 | Sacral Kingship between Disenchantment and Re-enchantment

glory and greatness, which could be used more or less at random, and ceased to be a means for effecting a true metamorphosis of the man at the centre of all this glorification.43 Historians have spoken of a crisis of representation in the 1680s because mythological and historical figures became mere signs and representations. They lost the deeper symbolic quality by which they not only invoked the presence of what they represented but to some extent embodied the higher order and transcendent truth they mysteriously hinted at.44 Although the language of mythology and Greek and Roman history could be adapted and manipulated for political purposes, it was never entirely and exclusively the king’s own. It could also be used by others, for example, high-ranking noblemen, for their own purposes. By freeing himself from the constraints and limitations which this language had imposed on him, and having himself depicted as an absolutely incomparable figure, it may seem that Louis XIV ultimately also laid the foundations for an increasing disenchantment of kingship. Along with the fact that Louis now faced ever stronger criticism from his opponents in other countries and from French writers who had fled abroad, this may partly explain why, in the later decades of his reign, discursive and not merely panegyric rhetoric, as well as legal and political arguments, became much more important in defending his claims to authority than previously.45 Images were clearly no longer enough. With the vocabulary of mythology and heroic history both in decline, however, the monarchy also had to fall back on different languages to articulate its claim to authority and represent it to a wider public. One of the most important of these languages was that of Christian religion and theology. It was no coincidence that the last great building that Louis XIV constructed in Versailles was the magnificent chapel (begun in 1688), designed to celebrate the idea of Christian, Catholic monarchy. This chapel was a monument to the idea of sacerdotal, divine right kingship, which influenced representations of the French monarchy from the mid-to-late 1680s much more visibly than during the 1660s and 1670s.46 A change in the predominant strategies of representation can be discerned in this period, as Nicolas Milanovic, among others, has pointed out. Buildings and works of art that served a direct religious purpose, such as the royal chapel at Versailles, or the Dôme des Invalides in Paris, now became much more important. With this change in emphasis, the role of the monarch as mediator between God and man also gained prominence. In the profane buildings – the Palace of Versailles, the Trianon and the Château de Marly – the figure of the king, in so far as he was depicted at all, receded into the background. Louis XIV became almost a ‘roi caché’, a hidden king, as Milanovic argues.47 It was now clearly regarded as increasingly difficult to invest the king with the attributes of a superhuman, divine nature outside a strictly Christian frame of reference centred less on promoting the king’s glory and advertising his position as God’s image on earth than on proclaiming his virtue and piety,

In the Shadow of Versailles | 115

if not humility. There had already been an outcry against the cult of majesty which Louis XIV had promoted until the 1680s. French Protestants and foreign critics of the French monarchy alike had denounced the statues and paintings celebrating the French king as a hero and semi-divine figure as mere idolatry, and ultimately blasphemous.48 French artists and writers had tried to respond to such criticism. They either argued that statues represented the king only in a legal sense, taking his place when he could not be present in person, or claimed that kings were justly venerated as almost divine because they presented visible images of God’s majesty on earth.49 At the end of the 1670s, Bossuet had already strongly emphasized this aspect in his Politique tirée des propres paroles de l’écriture sainte, in which he had compared the king, sitting in his cabinet and giving orders to his servants and officers, to God ruling the entire world.50 Much as Bossuet emphasized that the king’s throne was God’s own, and the monarch God’s image on earth,51 he was nevertheless an implicit opponent of theological assumptions that gave such analogies solid foundations and made them more than mere figures of speech. Bossuet was critical of religious mysticism, one of whose sources was a neo-Platonic philosophy that established an analogy between the celestial hierarchies of angels and saints and the order of this world. Mystics who favoured this view took their inspiration from the works of St Dionysius the Areopagite (or rather, works written in the fifth century under his name). Until the late seventeenth century he was often identified in France with the martyr and first bishop of Paris, Saint Denis. There are historians who have found an echo of this neo-Platonic mysticism even in Louis XIV’s Mémoires; in particular, in the reasons he gives for adopting the image of the sun as the symbol of his power and majesty.52 This neo-Platonic philosophy may have been influential until the second third of the seventeenth century, but the authenticity of the corpus of writings attributed to Saint Denis, the identification of the Eastern saint with the French national martyr and neo-Platonic mysticism itself were increasingly attacked by influential theologians and historians in the later seventeenth century. Thus a cult of majesty built on these foundations and on the analogy between celestial and earthly hierarchies, which was at the core of the Dionysian theology, gradually lost its persuasive power.53 These changes in the general intellectual climate were bound to have an impact on the political theology of kingship and, ultimately, on the prevailing representations of monarchy. From the 1680s on, works of art that celebrated and extolled Louis XIV became more subdued in style and also more conventionally Christian, as Nicolas Milanovic has pointed out: At the same time the portrait of the king disappears, or perhaps we should say, is dissolving. This process can also be interpreted within the context of a larger problem: the impossibility of assuming the sacredness of the king in the occidental monarchies. The monarch is not transformed into a deity, he only holds an intermediary position between his subjects and God.54

116 | Sacral Kingship between Disenchantment and Re-enchantment

Other aspects of the style of monarchical representation also changed. It could be said that the spoken or printed word now became relatively more important than the symbolic language of paintings and other works of art. For the young Louis XIV, words and texts had been of comparatively limited significance as a means of projecting an image of his own person, and of kingship in general, to a wider world. Or as Kléber Monod puts it, following Jean-Pierre Néraudau: ‘Louis XIV did not want to be heard, because he had no desire to let mere words encapsulate his person [… .] The royal language of praise and panegyric was for his subjects to employ in what were understood to be inadequate attempts to describe him. The king’s own special means of communication was his own body.’55 To the extent that this image of the king’s body was at least partially disenchanted, other strategies of representation superseded or complemented it. This change in representational strategies was also influenced by the fact that the king, seemingly forever victorious and glorious, faced the experience of defeat after about 1690. To the extent that Louis suffered a number of setbacks in his struggle against his enemies in Europe in the 1690s and even more after 1701, he increasingly allowed himself to be depicted as a Christian ruler who followed Christ in his sufferings.56 James II of England, who had lost his crowns and fled to France as an exile, may have offered Louis XIV an example of a monarch who represented the sacred character of kingship through his sufferings and piety, if not his martyrdom. In 1690, when it had become clear that the Stuarts would not regain their crowns for a long time, if ever, a court preacher at Louis’s court invoked the example of Josiah, the pious king of the Jews, in a sermon: Look here, gentlemen, upon an event which will really test and astonish your faith: God’s disposition regarding the saintly king Josiah. Never did a prince show a more fervent zeal for the religion of his forefathers. He took care that all the profane monuments, which his royal predecessors had built in their ungodliness, were destroyed. He wanted to restore all the ancient ceremonies and lead his subjects back to the purity of the law.57

This pious king, however, had been overthrown and succumbed to his enemies, just as James II had suffered a terrible defeat. As a result, France and Catholic Europe were witnessing the spectacle of ‘piety dethroned, fugitive, abandoned, and revolt and perfidy being crowned’.58 As Louis XIV, in all his power and glory as a militantly Catholic king, to some extent became a model for James II before 1688,59 so the exiled James II, as a saintly ruler, seems increasingly to have become a figure who influenced how Louis XIV saw himself and his mission as a king; or, at least, he influenced how this mission was represented by Louis’s chaplains and the artists working in the chapelle royale at Versailles. A few years before Louis’s death, a preacher at Versailles could declare that through his sufferings, Louis had demonstrated that he was his predecessors’ true heir. Since

In the Shadow of Versailles | 117

Saint Louis, they had held the crown as a token and simulacrum of Christ’s crown of thorns.60 The allegedly original crown of thorns was one of the most precious relics which the French kings had owned since the Middle Ages and was kept in the Sainte-Chapelle in Paris. Of course, all this was still in the future in the early 1680s, when Louis was at the height of his power, but at the time the turn towards a more sacerdotal and militantly Catholic concept of kingship was already visible. There were a number of reasons for the gradual transformation of the dominant idea of kingship at this time. Apart from the relative devaluation of mythological metaphors and the language of heroism, there had always been competition between Versailles and the Habsburg courts in Vienna and Madrid. But this competition assumed a new dimension in the 1680s. Emperor Leopold’s victory over the Ottoman army besieging Vienna in 1683 allowed him to emerge as the successful leader of a new crusade against the enemies of Christendom. This permitted him to reclaim the position of pre-eminence among the Catholic princes of Europe to which his imperial status had, in his own opinion at least, always entitled him.61 At this time, the likelihood that the last Spanish Habsburg ruler, Charles II, would die childless in the near future created vast new prospects for the Bourbons as a dynasty. Louis XIV’s descendants had a reasonably good claim to the Spanish crown, but it was almost self-evident that it would be difficult for a Bourbon prince whose credentials as a fervent Catholic were not absolutely unimpeachable to become king of Spain.62 Thus Louis’s decision in the 1680s to pursue a policy that was in some sense more devout, but also more aggressively anti-Protestant than before, must be seen as an attempt to make his dynasty more acceptable to those Catholics in Spain and elsewhere who had always rejected the least compromise with Protestantism.63 He clearly wanted to claim the leading position among the Catholic rulers and princes of Europe. In some ways his fight against the Huguenots in his own country was a substitute for Leopold I’s victories against the Muslim armies in the 1680s and thereafter. Louis seems to have felt that the suppression of Protestantism offered him an opportunity to demonstrate that his defence of the Catholic Church was more sincere than that of the Pope, with whom he was in conflict. At the time, the Pope was toying with some form of ecumenical irenicism to win over the Protestants to Rome.64 But an outbreak of anti-popery in England during the Popish Plot, an event that the Jansenist Antoine Arnauld discussed at length in his Apologie pour les catholiques,65 and the subsequent Protestant rebellion against the Catholic James II, led by the Duke of Monmouth, may also have strengthened Louis’s resolve to get rid of what he saw as a potentially disloyal minority, once and for all.66 The fact that England was no longer governed by a Protestant monarch (albeit inclined at times to favour Catholics), but by a Catholic seemed to give Louis a freer hand in persecuting the remaining Protestants in his own country. The Dutch Republic, the only major Protestant country which might oppose

118 | Sacral Kingship between Disenchantment and Re-enchantment

France, did not appear to be powerful enough to protect French Protestants in their conflict with the crown.67

The Conflict between Crown and Church in France and its Repercussions in England in the 1680s The French monarchy to which Charles and his brother might look as both an ally and a model for their own kingship in the 1680s was much more aggressively Catholic and in some ways ‘hispanized’ – that is, oriented towards an image of Christian monarchy influenced by Habsburg traditions – than it had been in the past. It was certainly more ostensibly devout than it had been in the 1660s and 1670s.68 Louis XIV’s relations with the papacy, however, deteriorated rapidly from the late 1670s on. Ever since the great councils of the early fifteenth century the French church had claimed a special status within the Catholic community. It had preserved the conciliarist tradition, which limited any attempt by the Pope to intervene in the government of national churches, and qualified even his claim to enjoy absolute authority within the church on all matters of faith and doctrine.69 The Bourbons, however, had generally hesitated to give the French bishops’ repeated attempts to assert their semi-independence from Rome wholehearted support. This was to change with the Pontificate of Innocent XI. Elected in 1676, Innocent XI harboured considerable sympathies for the rigorist reform movement within the French church, including the Jansenists, who formed an important part of it. Innocent XI distanced himself from the splendour and corruption of the High Renaissance and baroque papacy, but also from the flexibility which his predecessors had often demonstrated in their dealings with secular rulers.70 This in itself was bound to have an adverse effect on his relations with Louis XIV, who deeply mistrusted the Jansenists and their individualist ideal of piety, if only because the piety the Jesuits preached seemed to be much more politically flexible. The Societas Jesu had come to share the king’s view that religious policy should be guided by political priorities.71 But it was a conflict over more mundane matters that led to a dramatic deterioration in Louis’s relations with the papacy. Since the thirteenth century, the kings of France had enjoyed special rights (to make nominations to vacant benefices and to claim specific ecclesiastical revenues) whenever a bishopric within their kingdom fell vacant; they could exercise these rights, called the régale, until a successor to the former bishop had been nominated and consecrated. It remained unclear, however, whether the régale also applied in bishoprics south of the river Loire, and in provinces that had only recently been conquered. The parlement in Paris had always insisted that this was the case; the French kings had hesitated to subscribe to this interpretation. This was to change with Louis XIV. In 1673 and 1675 he issued two edicts which imposed the régale on all French bishoprics. Most bishops accepted this

In the Shadow of Versailles | 119

decision. Not so, however, the bishops of Alet (Nicolas Pavillon) and Pamiers (François-Etienne de Caulet) in southern France, who both had Jansenist leanings. The newly elected Pope Innocent XI intervened in their favour, but the Assemblée du Clergé de France, which met in 1681–2, supported the extension of the régale. Innocent XI, however, was not prepared to accept the synod’s decision. He could, of course, use the traditional weapons of the papacy, for example, by excommunicating clergymen who supported the royal claims, or the king’s spiritual and secular advisors, or even, in an extreme case, the king himself.72 To guard against any such escalation, the Assemblée du Clergé passed a resolution in 1682. In this, the so-called Four Articles, it reasserted the validity of the Gallican liberties which, since the fifteenth century (at the Council of Basle), the French church had claimed as the basis of its special status. These liberties were also upheld as the principles on which all church government should, ideally, be based. Thus the synod maintained that the Pope could not depose the king of France, or any other Christian king or prince – a statement reminiscent of the First Article of the Third Estate in 1614. It further argued that papal authority, like that of the church itself, was merely spiritual and in no way extended to temporal affairs. No Catholics, it was argued, could reasonably hold a different opinion if their position was to conform with the injunctions of the Bible and the teachings of the church Fathers. It was this assertion, more than the mere principle that the French king was not subject to the Pope’s authority, which made a conflict with Rome almost inevitable. In 1614 Cardinal Du Perron had rejected a similar proposition made by the Third Estate during a session of the Estates General (see above, p. 54). The French clergy had always, in fact, been careful not to declare as heretical theological positions opposed to the Gallican liberties and the tradition of conciliarism.73 But this was what happened now, at least implicitly. Furthermore, the other three articles passed by the synod in 1682 not only reasserted the relative autonomy of the French church in matters relating to ecclesiastical jurisdiction, but also rejected (Article 4) the papal claim that doctrinal decisions by the Pope were infallible. On the contrary, it was claimed that the Pope was subject to the judgement of the entire church, either in a General Council or possibly in the form of a tacit assent to papal decisions given by all the bishops of the entire church: ‘In matters of faith the Pope enjoys a special authority and his decrees have a universal relevance for all individual churches. Nevertheless his judgement is only infallible if the consensus of the church as a whole has been obtained.’74 Although the Sorbonne’s theological faculty had already declared in 1663 that it did not support the doctrine of papal infallibility, it had refrained from stating openly that this opinion was in any way heretical or against the tradition of the church.75 It could come as no surprise, then, that the Pope reacted strongly to the direct attack on his authority which the French national synod now embarked upon. Whenever a bishopric became vacant after 1682 and the king nominated

120 | Sacral Kingship between Disenchantment and Re-enchantment

for this dignity a clergyman who had subscribed to the Four Articles of 1682, the Pope refused to confirm the new incumbent in office. By the end of the 1680s, about thirty French bishoprics lacked a properly constituted bishop, for no bishop could exercise office without the necessary papal confirmation. Thus at the end of the 1680s France was on the brink of a schism with Rome.76 Provoked by the far-reaching claims of the national assembly of French bishops, those who supported traditional notions of papal supremacy now articulated their own position much more openly and aggressively than they had done for a long time. Antoine Charlas, the vicar general of the exiled Bishop of Pamiers, Caulet, published a lengthy work in which he set out to refute the Gallican arguments. He pointed out that in the early seventeenth century the clergy led by Du Perron had rejected the proposition that the Pope had no right to punish secular rulers for their misdemeanours. Citing numerous examples from the history of the church in late antiquity and the Middle Ages, he demonstrated that the Pope and other patriarchs could, and did, take action against rulers who had persecuted the church. Ultimately they could even be deposed, in the sense that the Pope declared null and void all oaths their subjects had sworn to them. He went on to argue that it was entirely erroneous to assume that temporal power – although if justly exercised, it was certainly approved and supported by God’s commandments – had the same divine origin as the church and its ministers, who had the power to forgive sins and celebrate Mass. Charlas wrote trenchantly: However, we do not want to waste time on a matter that is so clear. Therefore I ask those who teach that royal authority was instituted in the same way as spiritual authority, and that each and every reigning king draws his power directly from God, to tell me by which sacrament kings receive this authority and where, how, when and by whom this sacrament was established.77

Only if the coronation was considered a rite with a dignity similar to that of a true sacrament could the king claim a sacral status similar to that of bishops or the Pope. In the later Middle Ages, however, the French monarchy had moved away from this sort of sacramental conception of the coronation. Such ideas had been left even further behind by the end of the Wars of Religion, when authors writing for the Catholic League had tried to revive the sacramental conception of the coronation, not in order to strengthen the monarchy, but to exclude Protestants and crypto-Protestants from the succession (see above, pp. 24–7). In refuting such arguments Bossuet, to whom it fell to defend the Four Articles of 1682, was remarkably cautious. He admitted that the coronation and the sacre did not have sacramental status. But, he argued, the specific dignity of the regal office was constituted by the fact that it remained part of a divinely ordained order, even if it was exercised by a pagan ruler. As Bossuet put it: ‘Ultimately, the rites that serve to consecrate priests are entirely of divine origin […] However,

In the Shadow of Versailles | 121

the consecration of kings has neither been universally established by God, nor is it absolutely necessary or essential to the royal office.’78 Despite Bossuet’s caution in defending royal policy, the decisions of 1682 had wide-ranging implications. The crown had finally decided to ally itself unreservedly, at least for the time being, with the conciliarist tradition, which had always been influential in France and at the Sorbonne. But in the sixteenth century Louis’s predecessors had been much more reluctant to subscribe fully and unreservedly to statements claiming that the general council and the body of the church were always superior in authority to the Pope acting on his own. When Louis XIV reached a compromise with Innocent XI’s successor in the early 1690s, he agreed to stop applying the decisions of the national synod of 1682 (although the king was permitted to extend the régale to all bishoprics). Nevertheless, they continued to some extent to inform the instruction provided for young clergymen in France.79 Gallican conciliarism had, more than ever, it seems, become the official doctrine of the French church. In the last two decades of his reign Louis decided to seek the Pope’s support again in his fight against the Jansenists, the breach with Rome having been mended in 1692–3. Louis had pursued this struggle with various degrees of intensity for decades. In this situation, it was natural for the Jansenists to use the tradition of conciliarism for their own purposes, although they had largely sided with the Pope in the 1680s.80 The confrontation between the king and the Jansenist movement was by no means inevitable. This movement was not united or homogeneous in itself, and had changed profoundly over time, despite efforts to demonstrate an unbroken continuity with the early days of Port-Royal. Neither Antoine Arnauld nor Pasquier Quesnel (1634–1719), who became the movement’s most important theologian after Arnauld’s death in 1694, were in any way opponents of royal authority as such. On the contrary, Quesnel, in particular, had emphasized that the king’s power and position were as sacred as the Pope’s, and that the secular hierarchy of the state was as much based on divine right as were the laws of the church.81 To some extent, Quesnel’s strong rejection of any right of resistance was a reaction to the Glorious Revolution in England.82 Quesnel’s emphasis on the role of the simple parish priest and even the laity in the church – as opposed to the authority of the Pope and the bishops – could be seen as undermining the spirit of unquestioning obedience demanded by Louis XIV in ecclesiastical as much as secular affairs; it gave too much space to independent thought and reflection, to the initiative of the simple priest or believer.83 After all, a similar combination of conciliarist ideas, which defined the church as more a community than a hierarchical order, and an affirmation of the autonomy of the state had already led the crown to reject Edmond Richer’s positions during the reign of Louis XIII (see above pp. 54–55). Quesnel and his allies played an important part in reviving Richer’s ideas at the beginning of the eighteenth century.84

122 | Sacral Kingship between Disenchantment and Re-enchantment

Nevertheless, theological Augustinianism and the moral rigorism of the earlier Jansenist movement had almost become the new orthodoxy by the end of the seventeenth century. Had Louis XIV not decided to persecute the real or imagined Jansenists within the church, the movement might have petered out quietly, a victim of its own comparative success.85 However, this was not to be. The king’s attitude towards Port-Royal and the Jansenists had hardened markedly in the 1680s. From the 1690s on, the total destruction of everything associated with Jansenism became official royal policy. To some extent the king allowed himself to be drawn into ecclesiastical faction fights which he only half understood; the influence the Jesuits exercised at court was undoubtedly an important factor in the persecution of the Jansenist movement. But it could also be argued that Louis lost the courage of his own Gallican convictions after 1690. Increasingly isolated in European politics, not to say embattled, as Louis was, an alliance with the papacy (after Innocent XI’s death, the papacy had lost its temporary sympathy for Jansenism) against the perceived threat of a movement within the church that had taken the cause of reform and lay piety too far, and could therefore be construed as heretical, seemed a good way to reaffirm the religious foundations of royal authority.86 If such was the logic of royal policy, however, it misfired badly. The wholesale condemnation in 1713 by the bull Unigenitus (preceded by the slightly less radical Vineam domini in 1709) of all doctrines that could even remotely be associated with Jansenism revived a movement which had almost run out of steam in the preceding two or three decades. After 1713 Jansenist authors mounted a constitutionalist attack not only on papal supremacy within the church, but also on the crown’s ecclesiastical policy. It could be argued that the Four Articles of 1682 provided the ammunition for a battle which ultimately undermined the foundations not only of the Roman Catholic Church, but of the Ancien Régime itself.87 On this point the French historian Catherine Maire is probably right in suggesting that the Jansenists may initially have been no more than ‘la mauvaise conscience de la réussite absolutiste’ (the bad conscience of successful absolutism),88 rather as the High Anglican Tories under James II were seen as the bad conscience of an authoritarian sacral monarchy which they had supported in the recent past. What the Jansenists were fighting against after 1713–15 was, on the one hand, papal interference in internal French affairs to the detriment of both the national church and the authority of the crown, and on the other, a growing tendency, as they saw it, to reduce to mere rhetoric the sacral character of the monarchy, which gave the king a priest-like position but also imposed religious duties on him. Maire certainly goes too far in stating that after 1715 the sacral monarch became just the head of a state, conceived in mostly secular terms, and ceased to be – in any credible way – both rex and sacerdos.89 On the contrary, it could be argued that the ‘sacralization of the person of the king […] remained intact to the end’.90 Nevertheless, in the eighteenth century the sacral

In the Shadow of Versailles | 123

character of the monarchy risked being undermined by the very fact that the state dominated the church so completely. This state-governed church had lost its religious and intellectual drive and was therefore less and less able to provide the monarchy with the legitimacy it needed.91 The Jansenists tried to oppose these changes, which had been visible on the horizon during the final years of Louis XIV’s reign, but not yet present. In doing so they, like the English Tories from 1687 to 1688, combined what they saw as true loyalty to monarchy as a sacral institution with an appeal to ideas which were, at least implicitly and later increasingly also explicitly, constitutionalist. In France, the decades after 1682, the year in which the Four Articles were passed, were to demonstrate the ultimate fragility of the alliance between divine right monarchy and a national church governed less by the Pope than by bishops claiming divinely sanctioned authority as successors to the Apostles. Bishops, or in the case of France, even the lower clergy, could challenge royal authority as radically as the Pope himself in the name of ecclesiastical liberty. In the early 1680s Charles II of England forged a similar alliance with an episcopal national church, although he himself was the supreme governor and head of this church, not the Pope. His successor’s attempt to free himself from the constraints which this alliance had imposed upon him proved to be his undoing. The effect was much more dramatic, in the short term, than the repercussions of the conflicts between the king and the Jansenists and their conciliarism in eighteenth-century France. But a parallel is visible. Whatever the impact of the conflict about the régale and the Four Articles of 1682 in France itself, it certainly created a stir outside the country. It was not as great as that provoked by the expulsion of the Huguenots three years later, but considerable enough, especially in England, where both theologians and laymen closely observed the escalating conflict between Rome and Versailles.92 But the lessons that could be drawn from events in France were ambivalent, and certainly more ambiguous than Steve Pincus allows. For some it was the triumph of Catholic Erastianism and royal power over the church. This in itself could be seen as an act of tyranny or, alternatively, held up as an example for other monarchs to follow. For others, however, 1682 marked the apogee of a conciliarist tradition which extolled the authority of bishops and general councils at the expense of the Pope’s power, but also, though less obviously, of the king’s claim to control ecclesiastical policy. And again the conciliarist ecclesiastical model, which 1682 seemed to stand for, could be passionately rejected, or fervently embraced and praised. High-church theologians who opposed James II’s ecclesiastical policy after 1686 and were, in many cases, equally hostile to the political and religious settlement of 1688–9 were certainly inclined to do the latter and approve of Gallicanism as a conciliarist tradition. One of the more prominent spokesmen for this variety of Anglican churchmanship, Charles Leslie, who was to become a

124 | Sacral Kingship between Disenchantment and Re-enchantment

nonjuror after 1688,93 wrote a lengthy tract on the relationship between secular and ecclesiastical power. It took the Four Articles of 1682 as one of its main reference points. To be sure, this tract, The Case of the Regale and the Pontificat,94 was published after the Glorious Revolution, and as Leslie was a nonjuror, he wanted to assert the autonomy of the church even more strongly than before 1688. For Leslie the Four Articles were primarily an attack on the papacy and an attempt to defend the autonomy of a national church led by bishops. Leslie largely ignored the royalist elements of the Four Articles and chose only to see their origin in the conciliarist tradition. He concentrated on the subtext of the declaration, which could be read as a manifesto for a largely self-governing national church led by bishops, the sort of church Leslie envisaged for England after 1688. In Leslie’s opinion the Four Articles had removed a major obstacle to a closer union between the Church of England and the Catholic Church of France. About Louis XIV’s policy towards the Pope he wrote: ‘it was said that this was as far almost as our Henry VIII ever went for he threw off nothing of Popery but only the Pope’s supremacy, in all other things he liv’d and died a Papist’.95 At the same time, however, Leslie could argue, hardly in accordance with Louis XIV’s policy in France, that the church upon earth is describ’ed in the Scripture as militant, as a city besieg’d. Kings have been the besiegers, and may be again, and to raise the siege, we suppose one of the articles to be that Kings shall ever thereafter have the nomination of the bishops, the governours of the city and placing of the guards. This is a total giving up of the city and a betraying of their trust in the bishops whom Christ left the governours.96

From the point of view of strict Protestants, who sought to bridge the gulf between the Church of England and the dissenting denominations which had inherited the legacy of Puritanism and subscribed to the tenets of fervent anti-popery, Leslie’s tract promoted what they had always most detested in the Restoration Church of England: a church governed by prelates who insisted on exercising an independent authority in relation to the crown and who sought, eventually, to reconcile the church created by Henry VIII, Edward VI and Elizabeth I with moderate Catholicism. This tendency had already been present in a concealed form before 1688, or so it seemed to those who were suspicious of high churchmanship in all its forms. But it now became fully visible in the movement of the nonjurors, which openly showed its sympathy for Gallicanism and French-style Catholicism, as did Leslie.97 The French Catholic Church was a moderate variety within the Roman Catholic Church, extolling the authority of bishops and subjecting the Pope to the power of general councils. For some Protestants, however – those who were Presbyterian Dissenters, for example, or who espoused the idea of a latitudinarian national church – this ‘Grotian’ variety of Catholicism was no better,

In the Shadow of Versailles | 125

and perhaps even more dangerous than, traditional popery.98 Richard Baxter, in particular, one of the most prominent spokesmen of those theologians among the Dissenters who had not given up hope of finding a place within a cleansed national church after 1660, again and again attacked the pernicious tendency within the Church of England to establish some sort of ‘Grotian unity’ with Gallican Catholicism. At stake for Baxter was the independence of national churches from all foreign jurisdiction as much as from the royal supremacy. In the end, general councils claiming the right to lay down rules for the universal church represented a foreign jurisdiction as much as the Pope in Rome. And for Baxter it was the very mark of a true church that it was governed by a Christian magistrate, ideally a godly king. To deny Christian rulers the right to exercise ecclesiastical supremacy within the church was in itself some sort of popery. As Baxter put it: ‘truly Popery is founded on the degrading of Princes and states, and overthrowing true National church-bounds, to set up an absurdly pretended Universal Soveraignty instead of it, under Sacerdotal Heads[, …] whereas indeed in a church as national the prince is the chief ecclesiastical officer of Christ.’99 Here was a Presbyterian or Calvinist royalism which wanted to defend the king against his own bishops, or even against himself, to the extent that he was unable or unwilling to maintain his rights against the prelates. For Baxter the French Catholic Church had indeed tried ‘to bring down the Pope’, as its ‘late transactions’ had demonstrated.100 The attempt to subordinate the Pope to the authority of a general council and deny his supremacy over other bishops was at the heart of Gallicanism; ‘this is the French religion and who would think that this is Popery: no wonder if the Pope be more hearty for other Friends than for France’. Baxter saw the policy the bishops had pursued with Charles II’s support after 1660 as nothing but an attempt to introduce this French-style popery by stealth.101 Gallican conciliarism, for Baxter, was as great a menace to the true church as the more radical variety of popery, for ‘nothing can take down popery but restoring princes to the sacred power of bearing the sword as the officer of God and of Jesus Christ in the ministerial exercise of Christ’s kingly power by the sword’.102 For Baxter, every true Christian had to accept that kings were ‘as sacred persons as priests, tho’ no priests: they are God’s anointed, both as types and officers of Christ: they are bound to punish false deceiving prophets and priests, and therefore to know where they offend’.103 Here was an anti-Catholic Erastian Protestant with Presbyterian leanings, defending the sacral character of monarchy against the very men – the Anglican bishops – who seemed to be the great enthusiasts for divine right monarchy.104 This was certainly more than a mere political ploy. For Baxter the royal supremacy, though ideally exercised by the king in Parliament and not by the king’s prerogative alone, was not just a convenient arrangement and a mere adiaphoron, but had a necessary place in mankind’s salvation and God’s plan for his church.105 It was indispensable as a bulwark against prelatical or any other

126 | Sacral Kingship between Disenchantment and Re-enchantment

kind of clerical tyranny. The Presbyterian royalism which Baxter preached would not necessarily have imposed greater constraints on the king than the Anglican vision of divine right monarchy, whose defenders were by no means averse to telling the king – if necessary with the support of Parliament and a wider public – what he should be like. But after 1660 it remained a mere theoretical possibility and did not come into its own until the reign of William III.106 Of course, in denouncing the Gallican tendencies within the Church of England, Baxter defined Gallicanism rather narrowly. Essentially, he ignored its royalist elements and concentrated only on the conciliarist legacy. Other observers gave a more balanced account of the ecclesiastical conflicts in France. Both Baxter and Leslie, though from quite different points of view, read the Four Articles of 1682 primarily as an Episcopalian and conciliarist manifesto against the Pope, while Gilbert Burnet, the future Bishop of Salisbury, provided a more neutral version of the decisions of the French national synod and the conflict about the régale which was at the root of them. Yet, ultimately, he came to the conclusion that kings could justly claim the right to control the church and that although ‘the priestly office was a divine institution, yet the applying and suspending that Authority was a part of the civil power’.107 Burnet saw clearly enough that in the long run both king and Pope were likely to seek some sort of compromise, and that neither the anti-papal stance of the French Jesuits nor the pro-papal arguments of their Jansenist enemies were to be taken at face value (as some modern historians have done). Far from being a French equivalent of the conflict between Henry VIII of England and Pope Clement VII in the 1530s, this quarrel was unlikely to get entirely out of hand. Burnet’s opinion in the early 1680s was that in the end Louis would not revoke the Gallican articles, but would give secret instructions not to implement them. For the judges of the French parlements, on the other hand, they would remain a weapon to be used against Rome whenever they deemed it necessary: ‘the court of parliament will think it enough that the Edict is passed, and will advise the keeping of it as a perpetual terror for the Court of Rome’.108 It took both the crown and the Pope longer than Burnet had envisaged to work out this compromise, but in the end his assessment of the conflict proved to be remarkably perceptive and fully justified. Despite Burnet’s rather sober assessment of the ecclesiastical conflicts in France in the later 1680s, the Protestant critique of Louis as persecutor of the true Reformed Christians began to interact with the image of the French king as an enemy of any halfway independent ecclesiastical authority, whether Protestant or Catholic. In one of the most influential pamphlets written against Louis XIV, the Soupirs de la France esclave, published in 1689 and translated into English in the same year under the title The Sighs of France in Slavery, the French king is depicted as a tyrant who claims – unjustly – the Pope’s own place in his country: ‘The King without any shadow of pretext has render’d himself absolute master

In the Shadow of Versailles | 127

of what is most spiritual in the church. At present the Faith of the Church depends on the King’s authority […] . He submits the Pope to his Council, he deprives him of the power of excommunicating Kings, he declares that he is subject to Error.’109 Authorship of The Sighs of France in Slavery has often been attributed to the Huguenot minister and polemicist Pierre Jurieu, but it is at least equally likely that it was written by a Catholic, possibly a priest in exile in the Netherlands, Michel Le Vassor.110 It would not normally be expected that an English Protestant audience would feel much sympathy for the Catholic Church in France being persecuted by a Catholic king. But such a tract, including these passages, would hardly have been translated had it not been assumed that this sort of criticism would find some degree of approval in England. Essentially, the perception of Louis XIV as an aggressively anti-Protestant popish tyrant and his negative image as a ruler who had left true Christianity so far behind that he supported the Ottoman Empire and violated the rights of any Christian church, even his own Catholic one, could well reinforce each other, although they may have been contradictory at a merely rational level.111 However, what the author of the Soupirs de la France Esclave perceived as sacrilege and an attack on the legitimate rights of the church could also be seen in quite a different light. Steve Pincus argues that when James II came to power in England in 1685, he was influenced much more by the particular French and Gallican brand of Catholicism than by the Roman variety or by native English traditions of recusancy.112 Pincus has overstated his case, not least by identifying Gallicanism far too much with the textbook variety of absolutism which can so easily serve as a counterfoil to English liberty. But Louis XIV’s church policy in the 1680s may have provided James II with a blueprint for a Catholic Caesaropapism and a national church ruled by a secular ruler who enjoyed quasi-episcopal, if not -patriarchal, authority in ecclesiastical matters thanks to the sacredness of his office and because he himself was, in many ways, persona mixta cum sacerdote (both a secular and a spiritual person).113 As Eoin Devlin has put it recently: ‘James’s understanding of church–state relations was the product of a traditional Anglican ecclesiology, cloaked in a Catholic guise by the arguments and example provided by the French monarchy and the Gallican church.’114 Just as Louis XIV suppressed the Huguenots because he saw their existence as an obstacle to his full authority in spiritual matters, James II could grant indulgences to Dissenters and Catholics against the protests of his bishops because, ultimately, he was the highest judge of all matters ecclesiastical. There is a certain irony in the fact that a Catholic king of England should use his powers as supreme governor of the national church much more fully and ruthlessly than any of his predecessors since Henry VIII. But this policy could be seen as entirely compatible with the way Louis XIV governed his national church, at least if the conciliarist and pro-Episcopalian elements of the 1682 Articles and of Gallicanism in general are disregarded. The French church, of course, remained

128 | Sacral Kingship between Disenchantment and Re-enchantment

part of the Catholic community, despite the apparent danger of some sort of schism in the late 1680s.115 This is, however, to anticipate events which only unfolded in England after 1685.

Charles II and the Nature of Sacral Kingship In 1678, when Charles II was confronted by the panic created by the alleged Popish Plot to kill him and destroy the foundations of Protestantism in England, the Stuart monarchy faced its deepest crisis since the Restoration.116 The Popish Plot and the subsequent Exclusion Crisis revealed that the Restoration of 1660 had failed to produce a stable political settlement. But the fabric of the Restoration regime had begun to unravel even earlier. In 1670 Charles II had signed a secret treaty of alliance with Louis XIV, the Treaty of Dover. This committed him to supporting the Sun King’s efforts to subdue the Dutch Republic, but also contained a special clause which only very few of his closest advisers had any knowledge of at the time. In it, Charles promised to convert to Catholicism when political circumstances permitted. In exchange, Louis promised him financial, political and potentially even military support, if necessary even against Charles’s own Protestant subjects. The treaty remained secret at the time, but with the outbreak of another Anglo-Dutch war in 1672 when the English fleet supported France against the Protestant republic, it became all too obvious where Charles’s sympathies lay.117 The resulting tensions in England – Charles was increasingly criticized for being too subservient to the French and filling his court with Catholics, including most of his many mistresses – were further exacerbated by the Duke of York’s conversion to Catholicism. This became public knowledge in 1673, when the First Test Act was passed by Parliament to exclude both Catholics and Dissenters from public office.118 After about 1672, the Stuarts increasingly appeared to many of their English subjects as an almost foreign dynasty, committed both to Catholicism and to supporting Louis XIV’s efforts to create a lasting French hegemony in Europe, if not a new universal monarchy. What was at stake in the later 1670s in England was not just the shape of future English foreign policy, or the religious allegiance of the king; it was the nature of kingship as such. Ultimately the Restoration had failed to create a model of kingship that was consistent and sufficiently coherent. When Charles II returned to England he was confronted by a variety of largely incompatible expectations. There were the moderate Presbyterians, who had played a decisive part in reestablishing the monarchy. They clearly wanted a godly ruler who would govern in accordance with the law and preside over a broad-based and comprehensive national church, whose structure, liturgy and theology were acceptable to those who saw themselves as the heirs of early seventeenth-century Puritanism and

In the Shadow of Versailles | 129

adhered to a Calvinist tradition.119 Then there were those who had had their fill of religious fervour and detested nothing so much as the enthusiasm and narrowminded moralistic ideals of the religious militants who had dominated English politics in the 1650s. In the end, they were critical of all clerical authority, including that of the Anglican clergy, and certainly to the extent that it threatened to interfere with their lives and politics. Before 1640 it had seemed self-evident to most that church and nation were largely co-extensive, and that the secular community of ruler and subjects was in many ways identical to the ecclesiastical community of the faithful. This unity had been shattered by the breakdown of the established church in the late 1640s and the 1650s. The failure of a religious settlement that could form the basis of a truly comprehensive church in the 1660s was bound to provoke calls for toleration, and consequently for some degree of separation between church and state, however limited. From this perspective there could no longer be one church as a divinely ordained institution. Rather, there would be different, competing churches; essentially, associations created by men and women who shared the same religious convictions – a view which John Locke was to advocate in his Essay Concerning Toleration (1667) and more forcefully in his Letter Concerning Toleration (1685).120 At the same time, the authority of Revelation itself was called into question. Without depicting the decades after 1660 as a period of inexorable secularization, there can be little doubt that those who wanted to defend the full panoply of traditional Christian dogma and metaphysics against its critics faced an uphill struggle.121 By comparison with Counter-Reformation Catholicism in France, English Protestantism was little given to mysticism, so to speak of a ‘twilight of mystics’ (crépuscule des mystiques), as late seventeenth-century France has been described (see above p. 115), would be misleading in this case. But a concept of religion that was less metaphysical and more moralistic, individualistic and, it could be said, pragmatic was certainly becoming more influential and widespread in England in the late seventeenth century. Among the educated, the first signs of theological rationalism appeared at this stage, developing a tendency to reduce Christianity to a ‘providential deism’ based more on ‘natural’ religion than on scripture and its teachings.122 A rational religion of this sort left little room for traditional divine right kingship and its sacerdotal aspects, although the ruler might still play an important, possibly even providential, role as the heroic champion of spiritual freedom in the fight against prelacy, superstition and ‘priest-craft’.123 The re-established Church of England provided a bulwark against such attempts to subject faith to individual judgement and reason, and to disenchant the world in this way. But its hold on society as a whole was always somewhat tenuous, even before 1688, and it was itself at times influenced, not to say infected, by the rationalism which it claimed to combat.124 Furthermore, it was by no means an easy, let alone submissive, ally of the Restoration monarchy. After 1660 many convinced royalists had sought to re-establish close cooperation

130 | Sacral Kingship between Disenchantment and Re-enchantment

between divine right kingship and a church governed by bishops who derived their authority from God. In their opinion, only a partnership of this sort could guarantee that England would not again succumb to the forces of disorder and rebellion.125 But this alliance came at a price. The old royalists who had been forced to lie low after 1649 wanted a king who accepted the legacy his father had left him and would rule church and state accordingly. Charles I may not, after 1642, always have been entirely steadfast in his defence of the church and its bishops. But he died as a martyr not only for his own divinely ordained right to rule his subjects, but also for the Church of England. This was certainly the impression created by Eikon Basilike, his collection of autobiographical reflections and prayers, the most powerful royalist publication to come out of the English Civil War. Whoever wrote Eikon Basilike, the king himself or his chaplain John Gauden, tried to ensure that Charles I’s heir would never be able to commit himself to an alliance with the Presbyterians or other non-Anglican Protestants without betraying the memory of his father.126 The impact of Charles I’s death as a martyr, and of Eikon Basilike as the text which celebrated this martyrdom, on the Stuart monarchy after 1660 can hardly be overestimated. After 1649, Charles II was to some extent confronted with the same problem that Henry IV had faced in France after 1589. He had to restore legitimacy and an aura of sacredness to a monarchy which had been desacralized and disenchanted. But there was one crucial difference. Henry III had died suddenly, by an assassin’s knife, and was soon forgotten.127 He had no chance to stage his own death as a spiritual victory or to reflect on his imminent murder in public. The most recent ancestor Henry IV had in common with the last Valois was Saint Louis, who died in 1270, so he could easily distance himself from the more recent Valois past. In the case of England, however, Charles I had himself undertaken the task of resacralizing the monarchy and, given the weakness of his position, had been remarkably successful. But in doing so he had perpetuated the conflicts and divisions of the Civil War. Henry IV, by converting to Catholicism and committing himself, within certain limits, to the programme the League had favoured for a renewal of the Catholic Church, had at least to some extent overcome the divisions of the French civil wars (see above, pp. 27–33). Charles II, however, never managed to heal the wounds of the war in England, and even less so in Scotland and Ireland. He did make an attempt, immediately after his father’s death, to forge an alliance with the Scottish Presbyterians; if one wants to draw a parallel, this could be seen as the equivalent of Henry IV’s conversion to Catholicism in 1593. Charles II had even been crowned by the Scottish Covenanters as King of Scotland in January 1651. But this coronation hardly amounted to a resacralization of kingship of the sort that Henry IV’s coronation at Chartres in 1594 had achieved. The Covenanters, although not republicans, were sceptical about sacral monarchy; nor was Charles the right candidate for the sober and godly monarchy they wanted.128 The coronation was staged as a civil

In the Shadow of Versailles | 131

rather than religious ceremony, and the king was not physically anointed. As the minister who delivered the sermon, Robert Douglas, pointed out, ‘the anointing with grace is better than the anointing with oil’. If the king was a good Christian, Douglas said, he was truly the Lord’s anointed, and ‘it is more worth for a King to be the Anointed of the Lord with Grace than the Greatest monarch of the World’. Douglas also remarked, however, that ‘few kings are so anointed’. As for material unction with oil, he went on, it had no place in a Christian coronation. At the time of the Old Testament, kings had been anointed, but so had priests and prophets; and this act of anointing was only ‘typicall’ – that is, it prefigured the life of God’s only true anointed, Christ, and his mission. ‘Christ being now come, all these ceremonies cease. And therefore the Anoynting of Kings may not be used in the New Testament.’129 The monarch’s alliance with the Covenanters had failed to produce a new sacral foundation for kingship and ended in military disaster at the Battle of Worcester in 1651. Clearly, a justification of its version of monarchy that appealed to the judgement of providence had no credibility. After the Restoration there might have been a chance to achieve a lasting modus vivendi with the more moderate English Presbyterians who, after all, had made the Restoration possible in the first place. But any such attempts were undermined again and again by the memory of Charles I’s death on the scaffold enshrined in Eikon Basilike. Eikon Basilike worked against Charles II’s attempts to appear as a tolerant king and the ruler of all English people – and possibly even the crypto-Presbyterian Scots and Catholic Irish, regardless of their religious convictions – and not just the head of a royalist party which, after many defeats, had finally proved victorious. As Sean Kelsey puts it: ‘Eikon Basilike […] contributed powerfully to the growing crisis of representation that beset the political discourse of the age.’130 This crisis of representation haunted Charles’s kingship right from the start. When he returned to England in 1660, his coronation had re-emphasized the idea of sacral monarchy. In the printed version of the sermon he had preached at the coronation, George Morley, Bishop of Worcester, reminded the king of his grandfather, Henry IV of France. Henry had been prepared to pardon his old enemies, but refused ‘to make peace with the League’ – that is, the alliance of radical Catholics that had tried to obstruct his succession.131 Thus Charles was admonished to repudiate the republican legacy of the 1650s, though he might show clemency to individual republicans. The parallel between the Restoration and the succession of Henry IV in France was to be invoked frequently in later years. The clergy also placed great emphasis on the sacral aspects of kingship in 1660. Many sermons and pamphlets praised Charles as a biblical David who had returned to claim his kingdom,132 and Charles himself ordered that the litany which was used to celebrate Saint George’s Feast (the king was crowned on Saint George’s Day, and St George was also the patron saint of the Order of the Garter)

132 | Sacral Kingship between Disenchantment and Re-enchantment

be modified so that it was mostly based on the Psalms of David. In the Order of the Garter ceremony, ‘the panoply of chivalry becomes an aspect of biblical priest–kingship. St. George is one with King David’.133 Charles certainly did not hesitate to exercise the miraculous powers that his hereditary rights and position as an anointed ruler gave him. During his long reign he assiduously touched men and women for the scrofula. He probably healed, or tried to heal, more people than any English monarch before him. Several tens of thousands, perhaps up to one hundred thousand people flocked to court to be healed by the king.134 But the images and decorations that adorned the coronation procession in 1661 emphasized aspects of kingship that were much more secular in nature. Charles was depicted as a new Augustus, who inaugurated an age of peace and plenty, put an end to the long civil war and saw to it that those who had murdered Caesar, that is, his father, received a condign punishment.135 While the political culture of the republic was rejected, representations of monarchy nevertheless tried to appropriate certain of its elements. Cromwell may have been a regicide, but he was also a charismatic leader and military hero, and Charles II, at least initially, was depicted and praised in similar terms. As Laura Lunger Knoppers puts it: ‘Carolean panegyric does not so much ignore or erase Cromwell as appropriate and revise distinctively Cromwellian martial forms to legitimate the Stuart king [… .] Brome [a contemporary author] explicitly contrasts Charles’s new kind of heroism with the illicit victories of Cromwell.’136 It was not in itself remarkable that the language of religion did not dominate royal representations after 1660; the same might well be said about images of kingship in France at around the same time. But Louis XIV felt no need to engage with the legacy of a republican political culture, as Charles II clearly did. And although Louis XIV’s ancestors included martyrs who were important in constituting the dynastic identity of the Bourbon dynasty – in particular, Saint Louis, who died as a crusader fighting the infidels,137 and Henry IV, who had given his life for the well-being of his subjects and lasting domestic peace – there was no king who had been condemned to death by his own subjects. Henry III, the last Valois, was comparable to Charles I in that his murder was publicly justified in sermons and pamphlets, and formed part of a wider campaign against a godless monarchy driven by religious radicals. But even Henry IV had already decided largely to forget about Henry III;138 for his grandson, the Wars of Religion were no more than a distant memory. Charles II’s situation was entirely different. He could hardly be expected to forget about his father as Henry IV, let alone Louis XIV, had forgotten Henry III. While in exile, Charles II had fasted and prayed every Friday in memory of his father.139 After his return to England, however, he clearly did not want to make too much of a fuss about Charles I’s death. That would have been too divisive. The monument and mausoleum for Charles I which pious royalists wanted to erect was never built; perhaps partly for financial reasons but also because

In the Shadow of Versailles | 133

Charles II was not really keen on the idea.140 The cult of the royal martyr was an important ingredient of Anglican royalism after 1660, but it was one aspect of this royalism that Charles II did not want publicly and visibly to identify with. Of course, many sermons were preached on 30 January, the day on which Charles I had died. This was an official fast day for the Church of England, and the number and aggressiveness of these sermons increased during the Exclusion Crisis and the years of the ‘Second Restoration’ in the 1680s. But the effort of evoking the sufferings and the virtues of the royal martyr, thereby provoking a strong emotional response among the audience, presented a certain contrast to the tendency of Church of England theologians to distance themselves from the ‘enthusiasm’ of the Puritans so evident in the 1640s and 1650s. This had allegedly rejected rational, systematic, theological thought in favour of the individual believer’s religious experience conceived in terms of an emotional, subjective response to God’s call, while the established church tended to emphasize the reasonableness of Christianity;141 but was this reasonableness compatible with a full-blown martyr’s cult and all it involved? Regardless of the fact that few theologians in England attributed the capacity to intercede for his subjects in heaven to the murdered king, as Catholic theology would have done, this was doubtful. Already a potentially divisive figure at the Restoration, after the Exclusion Crisis the royal martyr became ever more the hero of a political and religious party, rather than of the people in general.142 Charles II must have been aware of the pitfalls of committing himself too much to the cult of his martyred father. He clearly felt uneasy about the more extravagant aspects of sacral monarchy and sacerdotal kingship, despite his enthusiasm for healing the scrofula. The way in which he conducted his private life, at least, could be seen as a permanent denial of the idea that the royal body was in any sense sacred. Other kings also had mistresses, of course, not least Louis XIV before 1683, but the way in which Charles II paraded the less salubrious aspects of his sex life in public was remarkable. Other monarchs would certainly have been more reluctant to share their mistresses’ favours with their courtiers, as Charles apparently did on occasion. For many critics, the royal mistresses were not much more than common whores. Although tolerant royalists such as John Dryden might praise the king as a pagan fertility god, or at least as a man who, like the Old Testament patriarchs and kings, ‘scatter[’d] his Maker’s Image through the land’ by means of polygamy and promiscuity,143 other observers were less amused. Even if they were not Puritans, they clearly felt that there was something undignified about the king’s debauchery. Some historians have argued that Charles II was keenly aware that ‘the regicide had destroyed for all time the sacred body of the king’.144 Because the sacred aura of kingship had disappeared, Charles deliberately flaunted his all too human needs and weaknesses. A king who was just like anybody else – for example, obsessed by sex and the search for pleasure – could at least win the sympathy of those who had always

134 | Sacral Kingship between Disenchantment and Re-enchantment

resented the priggish attitude of the religious enthusiasts. The libertinage rampant at Charles’s court may, in fact, be seen as a deliberate attempt to mock and ridicule the ideals that had dominated public behaviour when England had been governed by self-appointed ‘saints’ in the 1650s. In this sense the debauchery, serial fornication and culture of pornography in which some of Charles’s courtiers indulged could be seen as the strongest antidotes to religious fanaticism. Unfortunately, they also undermined what was left of the sacred aura of kingship after the regicide, and presented a version of kingship that was not easily acceptable to the Anglican royalists who provided the bedrock of support for the restored monarchy in 1660 as much as during the Exclusion Crisis of 1678 to 1681. For those who saw Louis XIV’s aggressive Catholicism and absolutism as the greatest danger to England’s liberty, Charles II, apparently entirely ruled by women and his quest for pleasure, was the effeminate counterpart to the French tyrant, who at least represented ‘a masculine king to be admired and feared’.145 As has been mentioned, matters were not improved by the fact that many of Charles’s mistresses were Catholic and two of them, Louise-Renée de Kéroualle, Duchess of Portsmouth, and Hortense Mancini, a niece of Cardinal Mazarin, were French by birth.146 With all his self-indulgence and cynicism, Charles was, on occasion, capable of appreciating the value of ceremony and state ritual for the prestige of the monarchy. Although personally easy going and affable, and no great friend of the strict ceremonial practised at other courts, especially in Spain,147 he could at times use the language of ceremony deliberately to enhance his authority and snub his opponents. This became apparent during the last years of his reign, when the king was also less accessible as stricter rules were enforced at court. Recent research has demonstrated that, at least towards the end of Charles’s reign, England had much more of a dynamic, baroque monarchy with regard to court culture than historians have often assumed.148 Yet the messages conveyed by the ceremonies, sermons, art and poetry produced at or for the court were deeply contradictory. Symbolic images of royal authority had always been ambivalent. To some extent this was part of their strength: different audiences could identify with them because they were so ambiguous.149 But at Charles II’s court the contradictions often overshadowed the image of authority itself. Libertinage and religious edification; satire and mockery of all conventions on the one hand, and solemn divine right rhetoric on the other, hardly ever created a coherent, harmonious representation of kingship.150 Significantly, Charles’s courtiers did not see heroic tragedy, with its emphasis on aristocratic and royal military virtue, as the best expression of the values they believed in. They favoured comedy, or at best tragicomedy, in clear contrast to the cultural attitudes prevailing at the French court. The royal martyr’s death had been the one great tragedy to end all tragedies; there was little material left now for heroic drama, or so many of the socalled court wits appear to have believed.151 Heroic manliness, normally closely

In the Shadow of Versailles | 135

associated with kingship, seemed to have a dangerous affinity with republican virtues. In praising such manliness, court poets often distanced themselves from godliness and moral sobriety which seemed to go hand in hand with republican values and therefore had to be repudiated, and repudiated it was by none more so than the king himself and the Restoration rakes gathering at his court.152 The weakest spot in the fabric of this new baroque monarchy was undoubtedly religion, or the specific tension between Charles’s personal attitude to the church and the religious convictions of his subjects, which were deeply in conflict with each other. After the Restoration, the problem Charles had been confronted with right from the start was how to exercise his right as supreme governor of the church. He was initially inclined to grant at least a minimum of toleration to both Dissenters and Catholics. He may have felt personal sympathy for Catholics; they were among the few people in England who had supported him steadfastly in the darkest hours of defeat after the Battle of Worcester, flocked to his colours when he was in exile and tried to recruit soldiers for his cause. Charles knew well enough that should he ever need foreign support against a domestic rebellion he would have to turn to Catholic rulers, in particular, France. The northern Netherlands were a republic governed by a monarch substitute, the Prince of Orange, who was officially no more than an office holder serving the estates (and before 1672 not even that, as the office was left vacant). He could not really be expected to wage war against English republicans who were militant Protestants. Catholic powers, and France in particular, seemed to offer the best bet should Charles ever need foreign support. It has been argued that the French alliance which the king sought in the 1670s ‘accorded with Charles’s most deeply felt personal sympathies. Throughout the whole of his life Charles strongly and consistently sought out the friendship of his cousin Louis: it can be said that this was the political principle to which he was most constantly attached’.153 Charles’s offer to become a Catholic himself in the Secret Treaty of Dover in 1670 may have been a mere diplomatic ploy to gain Louis XIV’s financial support, but it also reflected his conviction that, as a dynasty, the Stuarts could only survive as part of a wider network of great Catholic ruling houses in Europe. Also, Charles may have felt that the full splendour and magnificence of baroque monarchy in the French style was ultimately incompatible with Protestantism, or at least the more radical Protestantism embraced by a sizeable minority (and in Scotland, ­potentially a majority) of his own subjects.154 Charles’s attitude towards Protestant Dissenters was marked by a mixture of mistrust and political prudence. He was aware that he largely owed his own restoration to power to the moderate Presbyterians, and that it might be unwise to provoke the Presbyterians in England, Scotland and Ireland too much; yet he saw republicanism as a particularly Protestant vice, a view which his brother shared in an even more pronounced and radical form.155 During his brief attempt to forge an alliance with the Covenanters in Scotland in 1650–1, Charles had learnt

136 | Sacral Kingship between Disenchantment and Re-enchantment

enough about their theocratic notions of political order and had experienced their hectoring attempts to teach their king a lesson in godliness frequently enough to make him distrust, if not detest, this sort of Protestant clericalism for the rest of his life.156 The relationship with the Church of England and its bishops was probably the most complicated one for Charles II to negotiate.157 A firm alliance with the Church of England and its bishops had much to offer Charles II, and he turned to such an alliance, for good reason, after 1678, during the Exclusion Crisis. Anglicans who wanted to create or recreate a church ruled by bishops, in which there was no place for the heirs of the Puritan tradition, were the monarchy’s most reliable supporters after 1660, apart from the small Catholic community. But the bishops were rarely easy partners for the king. They had their own notions of how he should exercise his royal supremacy;158 before 1640 the high-flown notions of iure divino episcopacy to which some bishops subscribed had hardly ever been employed to undermine the royal supremacy, although critics of this form of episcopacy, such as William Prynne, had warned King Charles I early on that he might one day be undermined by his own bishops.159 During and after the Civil War, however, supporters of episcopacy and the Church of England had learnt that they might have to live without the support of an anointed monarch. Charles I had, in any case, shown that he was prepared to seek a compromise with the enemies of the church; that is, Scots Presbyterians. Theories of the royal supremacy thus underwent a profound change after the Civil War, and this could not but have a deep impact on the dominant notions of kingship and its sacral dimensions.160 Most royalist divines within the Church of England felt little reluctance in affirming the sacred nature of royal authority.161 One example of this sort of political theology is a pamphlet by Thomas Barlow, The Original of Kingly and Ecclesiastical Government, which was published almost at the end of the Exclusion Crisis.162 Barlow was a strong opponent of ‘Popery’ in all its manifestations, and in theology a strict Calvinist. But he nevertheless unreservedly supported monarchy as an institution.163 For Barlow, kings were ‘lively representations, living statues, or pictures drawn to the life of the great Deity’; the sacred nature of their office, however, was quite independent of their faith. Heathens could be anointed kings as much as true Christians, for ‘If religion make kings, there should have been of old no kings, but those of Iudah, and now no Kings but those of Christendome’. Barlow followed Lancelot Andrewes in arguing that the coronation and the unction only confirmed the king’s title to govern, but ‘confers not grace’; it ‘gives him the administration to govern, not the gift to govern well; the right of ruling, not of ruling right’.164 This argument was important because the Duke of York, who was to be excluded from the succession by the Whigs, clearly lacked the one true faith, as a Catholic, so that it was doubtful whether he would ‘rule right’. But he nevertheless remained the rightful heir. In

In the Shadow of Versailles | 137

stressing that by exercising a sacred office kings by no means possessed a special divine grace, Barlow left more than enough room for an episcopal office iure divino, which he saw as a necessary pillar of any monarchical government. He also emphasized that the attack on monarchy itself and the ceremonies which were indispensable for rendering the authority of kings visible was closely linked to the attack on the ceremonies of the church, a theme which is already found in the Laudian polemic against Puritans in the 1630s.165 The ceremonies of state (as anointing, sitting in thrones, holding of sceptres, and coronation itself ) being to be exploded now a days: and who look’d for it otherwise when the lawful and decent ceremonies of the Church were called reliques of Popery and rags of the whore of Babilon: was it otherwise to be expected, but that they would call these ceremonies of state theatrica pompa: Stage plays, toyes?166

However, both the signs and the signified things were needed: ‘may we not have the signs, and the things signified also?’ Those who denied that signs and symbols had a legitimate place in religious worship were likely also to deny the character of kingship as an image of God’s authority. But this argument could work both ways, for it might equally be claimed that a king who was not eager to defend a church which maintained these ‘lawful and decent ceremonies’ undermined the basis of his own authority and ceased to be a true king.167 Apart from such implications, Barlow’s arguments at first glance presented a fairly conventional defence of the alliance between a church governed by bishops iure divino and its ceremonies on the one hand, and monarchy on the other. Yet from the Restoration on, there were a number of divines in the Church of England who insisted much more forcefully than Barlow that the king was by no means a persona mixta, half prince half priest, and argued that he should stay well clear of matters of a purely ecclesiastical nature, such as doctrine. Mark Goldie sums up this position: ‘The temporal prince, even though the very hieroglyph of the divine economy upon earth, was never a priest: rex was not sacerdos’.168 Some divines in the past might have argued that the king was a persona mixta, but as early as 1665, in a sermon preached in the king’s presence, Bishop Laney had argued: ‘I cannot therefore think, that the King is an ecclesiastical person, who was never ordained or consecrated to be so. Therefore when some learned in our laws affirmed, that the King is supreme Ordinary, and mixta persona, it must be understood in some other sense, and for other purpose’.169 Theories which implicitly or explicitly tried to limit and constrain the royal supremacy naturally came into their own at times when relations between monarch and church were tense and marked by conflict, as after 1685–6, but also to some extent between 1667 and 1672, when Charles seemed to abandon his erstwhile Cavalier supporters and was prepared to grant some degree of toleration to Dissenters and Catholics. In 1685, for example, the Tory churchman Simon Lowth, who was to become a nonjuror after 1688, published a tract entitled Of

138 | Sacral Kingship between Disenchantment and Re-enchantment

the Subject of Church Power.170 He argued that the coronation and the rite of anointing were irrelevant for the king’s power and that he could in no way be considered a persona mixta, both priest and king. According to Lowth, those who defended an Erastian position only wanted to strengthen the power of the king in the church to take away his secular power. Their ideal was a king entirely controlled by Parliament, but relentlessly subjecting the church and its bishops to his will. This meant that ‘the Bible is put into the King’s hand, and the sceptre taken out. The King may excommunicate, but he may not govern his people and both prince and priest are in a pretty condition’.171 For Lowth, Erastians of any kind – the writings of the legal scholar John Selden, who had been a prominent parliamentarian in the 1640s, were one of his main targets – only pretended to defend the king’s authority. In reality, they were secret republicans.172 Lowth took up arguments that had been developed by Anglican theologians as early as the 1650s.173 At this stage those who remained faithful to the Church of England as it had been established before the Civil War had to survive without the crown’s support, as England was a republic. Moreover it was unclear what policy Charles II would adopt should he ever regain the crown. His temporary alliance with the Covenanters was bound to create apprehension. Moreover, the early 1650s had seen the publication of Thomas Hobbes’s Leviathan. Hobbes subordinated the church entirely to the authority of the secular ruler and in his account this ruler was potentially as much a prophet and a priest as a judge and king. Anglican royalists had fervently rejected this idea,174 which might even prove dangerously attractive to a king who could find it imprudent to ally himself irrevocably with any religious group or church given that, if restored, he would have to govern three very different countries with contrasting religious traditions, none of which was homogeneous in confessional terms.175 As early as the 1650s Peter Heylyn, one of the martyred Archbishop Laud’s most loyal supporters, had argued that the king owed his royal supremacy neither to Parliament nor to an inherent right, dormant before the Reformation, which had always been one of the attributes of sovereignty in England. Rather, Heylyn suggested, supremacy was conferred on the king by Convocation, the national council.176 Thus the defence of divine right kingship which the bishops and leading theologians of the Church of England presented after 1660 was deeply ambivalent. The power of kings was considered sacred in nature and any active resistance to an anointed ruler not just illegal but downright sacrilege. But at the same time, the king had to accept that the church was an autonomous society ruled by bishops who, although nominated by him, ultimately derived their authority from God, not the king. In practice they felt free to thwart the king’s policy whenever they wanted, if necessary with the support of Parliament. Some bishops even claimed that they could excommunicate the king should he cease to act as a true son of the church. Although he did not go quite that far, Archbishop Sheldon, the Primate of England in the 1660s and 1670s, did not hesitate on

In the Shadow of Versailles | 139

occasion to refuse the king the sacrament.177 In the hands of men such as Gilbert Sheldon or his successor, William Sancroft, theories of divine right monarchy remained a two-edged sword. They could be used to preach obedience, but also to deny the priest-like character of kingship and therefore to limit the royal supremacy in ecclesiastical matters. Personally, Charles would probably have preferred a Scottish-style episcopacy; Scottish bishops, beleaguered by militant Presbyterians, made no claim to derive their authority directly from God and saw themselves as the king’s servants. Charles had little hesitation in deposing bishops in Scotland – or forcing them to resign – when he felt like it, as he did in the case of Archbishop Burnet of Glasgow in 1669.178 In England, however, matters were more difficult, partly because even royalist Anglicans never entirely trusted the king, who seemed too lenient on Dissenters at times and showed too much sympathy for Catholicism. Was the church safe in his hands? Many Anglicans had doubts about this. The situation was clearly exacerbated by the Duke of York’s conversion to Catholicism around 1670, which became known to the public in 1673. How could the heir presumptive to the throne ever govern the Church of England as supreme head if he did not share the faith that this church preached? To some extent this situation presented a parallel to the succession crisis in France in the 1580s; and this was the meaning of Dryden’s statement, quoted above, that ‘1584 and 1684 have but a century and a sea betwixt them, to be the same’.179 The year 1584 saw the death of Henry III’s last remaining brother, the Duke of Anjou, both the last male Valois and the last Catholic prince with a reasonable claim to the crown. The formation of the Catholic League, whose extremist political theories the Whigs had partly inherited and partly reinvented, in Dryden’s opinion, had been an answer to the threat of a Protestant succession, just as the Whig opposition demanding the Duke of York’s exclusion from the succession was a reaction to the threat of a Catholic monarch destroying Protestantism in England. In France the crisis had been solved by the King of Navarre’s eventual conversion to Catholicism, although matters were somewhat more complicated than that, as has been seen. In the Stuart monarchy this option was not available, as the future Duke of York was not prepared to abandon his newfound religious convictions. In England the obvious solution would have been a stronger separation between church and state. As Charles II in many ways preferred a more secular vision of kingship, which would leave him greater leeway to seek some sort of compromise with the various churches and denominations, this option could have seemed attractive to the king. A solution of this kind was, in fact, discussed in Parliament in the 1670s and apparently favoured by Charles II’s leading minister at the time, the strictly Anglican Earl of Danby. A bill was introduced which would have given control over church appointments under James II – provided he remained a Catholic – largely to the bishops, but resistance in the House of Commons was too great.180 On the one hand, some members of Parliament

140 | Sacral Kingship between Disenchantment and Re-enchantment

distrusted the bishops, who had been all too eager to persecute Protestant Dissenters, as much as a Catholic successor; on the other, Erastianism as a tradition had been too deeply ingrained in England ever since the Reformation to be so suddenly abandoned. Some speakers argued that the royal supremacy was a power that had been inherent in the crown even before the Reformation. The Acts of the Reformation Parliament were only declaratory, so no Act of Parliament could take this power away from the king.181 Others went further and argued that the bill would create some sort of interregnum by making the bishops act independently of the crown, as if the throne were vacant. This would be highly dangerous, for ‘’Tis now a thesis amongst some churchmen, that the king is not King but by their magical unction’, and the bill would ‘set up nine mitres above the crown – monstrum horrendum’.182 Some of these arguments may have been somewhat disingenuous. Clearly, those who hoped to exclude the Duke of York, or at least to subject his power firmly to the control of Parliament, were not interested in this sort of compromise. Whereas Parliament could possibly control the king’s exercise of the royal prerogative, it would be much more difficult to subject the bishops to such a control, especially bishops who claimed to exercise their office iure divino.183 On the contrary, Sir Thomas Littleton argued, bishops thus exalted in their position would pose an even greater danger than at present: ‘The crown and they may make a bargain.’ The bishops, Littleton apparently thought, would support the king’s claim to absolute power in secular matters while the church was left to their dominion.184 Thus even if Charles II had genuinely wished to get rid of some of the more problematic aspects of the royal supremacy and delegate some of his relevant powers to the bishops – or at least have his successor restricted in this way – Parliament would have opposed such a measure. In fact, it did so in 1676–7. What most members of the Houses of Commons and Lords wanted was not a king who relinquished control over the church, but a ruler who conscientiously fulfilled his religious role as head of the national church – or churches. Unfortunately, not even Charles’s subjects in England could agree on what constituted such a godly exercise of the royal supremacy. Agreement was even more difficult in Scotland and Ireland, two countries even more deeply divided by religious divisions than England. The problem Charles II faced was that a more secular vision of kingship, which was likely to downplay the role of the king as supreme governor and head of the established church, was unacceptable even to those who mistrusted him and his brother as guardians of the Protestant faith. The danger that a monarchy which lost its authority in ecclesiastical matters by being secularized would be overshadowed by a powerful and intolerant clerical hierarchy seemed too great, unless the royal supremacy was seen exclusively as an institution in the Hobbesian mode. This subjected the clergy to a power which was ultimately indifferent to all problems of dogma.185 But it was hardly possible to emphasize the sacral elements of kingship without a firm commitment to one distinct church and confessional

In the Shadow of Versailles | 141

tradition. Presbyterians, Catholics and Anglicans all had very different ideas about what constituted the religious dimension of monarchy, not to mention the more radical Dissenters, who often rejected this dimension altogether. Charles II had long hesitated to commit himself fully to one particular religious tradition, but the Exclusion Crisis forced his hand. He could only overcome the Whig opposition to the legitimate succession by forging a firm alliance with traditional Anglican royalism and the bishops of the established church, who were as eager to promote divine right episcopacy as divine right monarchy. Even in the last years before his death, however, Charles’s commitment to this alliance was never entirely unqualified. He continued to grant Catholics and even, at times, Dissenters individual dispensations from the recusancy laws.186 And although the vision of monarchy that court art now projected had stronger and clearer religious and sacral connotations than in the past, it was somewhat unclear whether these connotations were exclusively Anglican in nature. In the years 1680 to 1682, Charles had the Royal Chapel in Windsor redecorated with a number of great frescoes. One of these showed Christ healing the sick, a clear allusion to the king’s power to heal the scrofula, an aspect of kingship that was strongly emphasized in the period 1681 to 1685, the last years of his reign.187 From an Anglican point of view, this was unobjectionable, but in the years before his death Charles also gave the go-ahead for the building of a vast new royal palace in Winchester. Had it ever been completed it would have been a sort of English Versailles. Significantly, the palace had not one but two chapels of equal size, a Protestant one for the king and a Catholic one for his wife. As Anna Keay puts it: ‘No longer was the king apologizing for his wife’s Catholicism, he was now recognizing that the king and queen of England worshipped apart as members of equally legitimate churches.’188 Given that Charles’s successor was a Catholic, the ‘popish’ chapel, had it ever been built, would in the long run have become the principal chapel royal. Charles II did not convert to Catholicism until just before his death, but some of his Anglican Tory supporters did not hesitate to affirm that Catholicism, so long as it was not too popish, might be preferable to radical Calvinism. Again, as in the proposed plans for Winchester Palace, France could serve as a model. When Dryden drew a parallel between France and the Stuart monarchy he, like other Anglican royalists, wanted to tar the Whigs with the brush of regicide and, for all their anti-popery, depict them as the real modern followers of the Jesuits. But there was more to it than this. Louis Maimbourg, author of the History of the League, had once been a Jesuit, but had been forced to leave the order because he was too critical of the papacy.189 He was clearly a firm supporter of a catholicisme d’État. In his history of the League he wanted to demonstrate that claims that the Sainte Ligue had converted Henry IV and thereby saved France were wrong, as were the claims of the Huguenots that the Bourbons had only gained the crown with their support.190 But Maimbourg, who had also written a history of

142 | Sacral Kingship between Disenchantment and Re-enchantment

Calvinism in France, could also serve as a witness against the subversive tendencies of radical Protestantism. In the postscript to his translation of Maimbourg’s History, Dryden wrote that the history of France demonstrated clearly enough what a pestilent race the Huguenots and other radical Calvinists were: ‘For whatever inforc’d obedience they pay to authority they believe their class above the King; and how they woul’d have order’d him if they had him in their power, our most gracious sovereign has sufficiently experience’d when he was in Scotland.’ In Dryden’s opinion, their ‘private spirit of interpreting scripture’ without due guidance from ecclesiastical authority meant that neither Presbyterians nor Calvinists in general could ever be good subjects.191 What Dryden proclaimed in his postscript was a message of triumphant Anglican royalism. Advocates of this strain of royalism may not have been as utterly subservient to Louis XIV as many people in England, Scotland and Ireland feared, but they felt a clear affinity with a Catholic monarchy which, though deeply intolerant, nevertheless managed to stay aloof from the papacy and its claims to universal authority. Could a ruler who subscribed to such ideas, or at least promoted their publication, ever be a creditable opponent of French political ambitions and of a king who threatened to persecute Protestants not just in France but elsewhere? This was doubtful during Charles II’s lifetime; it became even more doubtful with the accession of his brother.

The Reign of James II When James II ascended the throne, the power of the Stuart dynasty and the authority of the Church of England appeared to be more firmly established than they had ever been since 1660. The newly elected Parliament was totally dominated by Tories in 1685, and any Whigs and Dissenters who had survived the savage onslaught of the years 1681 to 1685 largely kept a low profile for the time being. In retrospect, or so it might seem, James’s real achievement was, within less than four years, to have destroyed everything his brother had built and achieved since 1678: the alliance with the Church of England hierarchy; the loyalty of the Tories; and the widespread support of all those in England and Scotland who were prepared to pay a high price to avoid another civil war. By abandoning the alliance with the Tories and the Church of England in 1687 and by imposing on the country a policy that not only granted religious liberty to Catholics and Protestant dissenters, but also gave them access to offices and positions of power (against the stipulations of the Test Acts of 1673 and 1678), he undermined his own position so effectively that he lost his throne within two years of this surprising political volte-face. James’s keenest defenders could hardly argue that he was a clever and astute politician. The question, however, is: what was his vision of kingship? Clearly

In the Shadow of Versailles | 143

this vision cannot easily be separated from his faith as a Catholic. He converted to Catholicism about fifteen years before he became king. Given that most of his future subjects outside Ireland were Protestants, and that anti-popery was such a crucial ingredient in both English and Scottish political culture, this move can only be explained as the result of deep personal conviction. James seems to have been genuinely convinced that loyalty to Rome was the only way to save his soul. His most recent biographer has written: it seems as if the Duke’s conversion was undertaken with little thought to political dogma, or to finding the religion best suited to the propagation of a foreign brand of absolutism. It was instead a uniquely individual response to a basic quest for truth and scriptural authority that was totally in keeping with James’s serious nature and rather crude conception of all human relationships.192

In a later book on James in exile, however, the same author asserts that James deliberately committed himself to a vision of sacral and, indeed, ‘theocratic kingship’ in which Catholicism and the notion of divine right monarchy became fused. Callow speaks of a ‘commitment to an explicitly Roman Catholic vision of the Stuart dynasty, which bound the theory of a divinely ordained kingship passed on from father to son to an unbreakable commitment to the Church of Rome’.193 To some extent this attempt to present himself as both king and saint was a reaction to the experience of defeat. It was motivated by a feeling of personal sinfulness, which he was now striving to overcome. Life in exile clearly gave James the chance to indulge in a religious vision of his own life and role as king which had already been present before 1688, although in a more subdued form. For many historians, this obsession with his own salvation and the religious aspects of his role as a monarch shows that James was a man governed by bigotry and quixotic ideas of kingship as a religious mission. In England, sacral monarchy had really come to an end with the execution of Charles I. Any attempt to revive it, especially if undertaken with the unmitigated fervour that James II showed – rather than the almost self-conscious irony of Charles II – could only end in failure.194 Other historians, such as Steve Pincus, take James II’s attempt to create a new model of Catholic kingship more seriously. According to Pincus, James II was not such a bad politician after all. His policies were ‘neither foolish nor unrealistic’. Rather, Pincus suggests, at their core they provided a realistic model of a sort of ‘catholic modernity’ which had found its apogee in Louis XIV’s France.195 ‘Modern’, for Pincus, means primarily rational, efficient and with the capacity to create new structures of power and authority not hampered by mere tradition. On closer examination, however, it is clear that this was not the driving force behind James’s vision of kingship and government. What really lay at the core of his self-perception, but also to some extent of his political agenda, was an ideal that had been quite alien to his brother: sincerity. James was convinced that

144 | Sacral Kingship between Disenchantment and Re-enchantment

sacral monarchy – and he certainly saw his role as a king as divinely sanctioned and similar, in some ways, to that of a priest – could only work if it was based on the personal religious commitment and piety of the ruler.196 His brother had played with the trappings of sacral monarchy. He had submitted to all the rituals that were part of this vision of kingship – the regular attendance at church and the healing of the scrofula, for example – but he continued to believe that ritual was enough and could stand on its own. As long as he did not openly disavow the teachings of the Church of England, which he was careful not to do until the very end of his life, these rituals had an innate force which did not need to be reaffirmed by displays of personal piety; in fact, leading the cheerful life of an unrepentant sinner did not, for Charles, contradict his role as a sacred monarch. But this was a model of kingship that no longer quite worked in the late seventeenth century, certainly not in England, where religious sensibilities, even outside the communities of Dissenters, had been so strongly shaped by the legacy of Puritanism. Ritual had to be founded in a sincere and visible conviction, otherwise it would lose its credibility and could all too easily be undermined and revealed as mere show and play-acting. If kings wanted to legitimize their authority, it was not enough to endow it with a specific religious aura, to observe ecclesiastical ceremonies including the coronation and elaborate funeral rites and, in France and England, to heal the scrofula. Kings had to fashion themselves as exemplary Christians, as both Louis XIII and Charles I had done, at least when they were about to die and at moments of crisis, long before. This was a lesson even Louis XIV learned in the 1680s, although his real personal piety was probably never very deep; but at least he played the role of a personally devout ruler, with a family life which (after 1683) was by and large in harmony with the teachings of the church.197 Louis XIV became more intolerant as he became more devout. This was not the case with James II. His emphasis on sincerity in religion and individual piety suggest that his commitment to toleration was largely genuine,198 although he did hope and assume that religious freedom would favour the church with the better arguments, which in his opinion was that of Rome. The real problem with James’s religious fervour and conviction that sacral kingship had to be founded in personal piety was that the personal religious commitment which was to give credibility and coherence to his role as a sacerdotal king was not Anglican but Catholic, and thus, to all intents and purposes, incompatible with the creed of the church established by law. The faith of the Church of England, with its many fudged compromises in theology and ecclesiastical structure, did not necessarily foster, or even value, the religious sincerity and straightforwardness that James so cherished. His conversion was therefore in some ways a natural consequence of his highly individualized conception of what religion was about. In putting such a high value on personal sincerity, consistent with his struggle for religious toleration, James adopted an attitude that was specifically modern, if ‘the entire world

In the Shadow of Versailles | 145

of liberal modernity can [...] usefully [be] understood in terms of the tropes of sincerity’.199 In some ways he had more in common with the Protestant sects and the Presbyterians to whom he was prepared to grant toleration (albeit with the hope that one day they would see the light, as he had done) and perhaps even with the religious sentiments of a man like Milton, who had once accused James’s father of having staged his own death as if it were a court masque, than with the average supporters of the Church of England and its hierarchy.200 He was, in some ways, a Catholic with Calvinist leanings or at least influenced by a specifically Protestant individualism. It is therefore not surprising that he showed sympathy for Jansenism, which was marked by similar tendencies, when in exile.201 But unlike Presbyterians and other Dissenters, James did care about ritual and religious ceremony. As a Catholic he believed in transubstantiation and cherished other religious rites and rituals. This combination of sincerity, which the performance of liturgical acts or the saying of set prayers (such as those used in the Church of England or the Roman Catholic Church) in a traditional religion did not necessarily demand, with ritual may even be seen as an element in James’s religious outlook that certain tendencies in nineteenth- and twentieth-century religious revivals would resemble: it can certainly be seen as a specific combination of modernity and tradition.202 In political terms, however, it provided a uniquely explosive mixture of a highly individualistic, internalized, personal religion and a political theology that was diametrically opposed to the ­secularization of political authority. When James began campaigning for religious toleration, however, he used arguments that seem to anticipate the world view of the Enlightenment, or may even appear indebted to early Enlightenment authors.203 Certainly in 1687–8, when James II decided to oust the Anglican Tories from power, some members of John Locke’s circle of friends were not as violently opposed to him as might be assumed.204 Nevertheless, at the core of James’s vision of kingship and also, strangely enough, of his idea of toleration, was the conviction that as a ruler he was both rex et sacerdos, that he possessed (almost) priestly powers and, although a Catholic, could use his position as head of the Church of England not just to appoint his clients and supporters as bishops and to transform university colleges into Catholic seminaries, but also to impose a policy of toleration without reference to parliamentary statutes. He felt entirely entitled to force Anglican clergy to comply with this policy because of his exalted, semi-sacerdotal position. Official and semi-official publications justifying his Declarations of Indulgence in 1687 and 1688 reveal much about this vision of kingship. In one of the semi-official tracts disseminated in 1687–8 to justify James’s decision to suspend all laws against recusants and Dissenters, the author argued that the ‘King of England is not only a mixt Person, but in some sence he may be termed a Spiritual Person’. The very fact that the king was not just crowned but also anointed demonstrated ‘a kind of Sacredness’. To prove this the author

146 | Sacral Kingship between Disenchantment and Re-enchantment

quoted a commentary on the Pragmatic Sanction of France (1438) – on the assumption that the kings of France and England, who were both anointed, shared the same character as more than mere laymen – and asserted, ‘if our King (as undoubtedly he is) be a spiritual person it is not improper for him to grant Indulgence in matters Spiritual’.205 If the character of the king as a spiritual person were denied, however, then ‘he could not so properly be Head of the Church in England’. What is more, as head of the church, the king must be presumed to have the same power to grant indulgences as the Pope had enjoyed before the Reformation. Thus it was up to the king alone to decide to what extent individuals or entire communities and churches should enjoy liberty of conscience.206 It is somewhat surprising to see supporters of a Catholic monarch acting as head of a Protestant church claiming the same powers for the king that some of Henry VIII’s theologians, including Cranmer, had claimed for the Tudor monarch in rebellion against Rome: that is, the capacity to act as prince and priest, and as a lay patriarch with the full panoply of powers that the Pope had enjoyed in the past. Yet it was precisely this Caesaropapism that lay at the heart of James’s concept of kingship, at least as far as his church policy was concerned. This approach may seem so self-contradictory that it was bound to fail, and fail it did. There was a vociferous minority of Anglican divines, however, who were prepared to supply the king with all the arguments he needed to underpin this sacerdotal kingship.207 Given enough time, James could promote these men within the church and make sure that they governed the more important episcopal sees. This was probably one reason why William Sancroft, as Archbishop of Canterbury, and many of his brethren raised the standard of (passive) resistance to the king in spring 1688. By refusing to read the king’s Declaration of Indulgence from the pulpits and instructing the inferior clergy to act accordingly, they were directly attacking the legitimacy of the king’s rule.208 Earlier incidents, such as the king’s habit of healing the scrofula with Catholic priests in attendance and, possibly, within the context of a pre-Reformation liturgy, had already sufficiently provoked them.209 In attacking James’s policies, the seven bishops who openly protested against the king’s reissued Declaration of Indulgence in May 1688 were attempting to stage a virtual Anglican revolution, in the sense not that James was to be replaced by another monarch, but that the king was to be forced to consult his consiliarii nati (counsellors by birthright) on matters of ecclesiastical policy. He would also be required to renew the alliance with the Tory Anglicans that had provided the basis of royal authority in the years 1681 to 1686.210 Whether Charles II was the prisoner of a party during the last years of his reign, as some historians have claimed, is debatable.211 But had James II capitulated in 1688, as he was about to do before the invasion of William III faute de mieux, rather than fled into exile, he would have become just that. Theories of an independent episcopal authority, which had been carefully developed and refined over the past twenty-five years,

In the Shadow of Versailles | 147

now came into their own. From a High Anglican point of view, the king may have been God’s anointed, but he had no real sacerdotal power and had to govern the church in accordance with the doctrines taught by its hierarchy. Otherwise he risked being confronted by a huge wave of passive disobedience, as happened in 1688.212 What undermined James’s position even further and made a compromise so difficult was the widespread perception that his policies were not just to all appearances popish and incompatible with the law, but also so pro-French that even Catholic rulers in Europe, including the Pope, disavowed him.213 Significantly, Roger Morrice, a London Dissenter, noted in his diary in April 1687 that ‘the King of France – though he rejoyces that England has a Popish King – yet will by no meanes, suffer him to be governed and to have an entire dependance upon the Pope for he knows that then the Pope will employ him to give Cheque to the said King of France’. Louis had therefore sent envoys to England to break down ‘the strength of the Pope and the Italian interest with us’ entirely, so that James now followed Louis’s lead.214 As early as October 1686 Morrice had expressed his fears that the entire kingdom would become subservient to France, and he later wrote down his observation that ‘the Church of England men of temper’ and the ‘Anti-jesuiticall Papists’ in England could not understand ‘that the King – then will be governed by a forreigne power, and therefore We are not Governed by Him but by a Stranger according to the Jesuits Notion that Govern where ever they come’.215 Right from the start, James was widely perceived as subservient to France, and not only by private citizens such as Roger Morrice.216 Steve Pincus is ultimately misguided in assuming that English (and Dutch) hostility to France had no significant religious dimension because non-Gallican Catholics in Europe outside France and most Protestants were united in their opposition to both Louis XIV and James II.217 But it is true that with his Gallican Caesaropapism and his seemingly irrational religious enthusiasm, James seemed to be both popish and an opponent of everything that was moderate and pragmatic in the Church of Rome. As such, he was criticized even by Catholics. A pamphlet written in French in 1688 and published in English the following year, which analysed European politics from a predominantly Catholic perspective, confronted James with the statement that it was his real task to set limits to French ambition and aggression: ‘France has cut out work to King James.’ It went on to argue that James would be unable to oppose the French successfully if he invested all his energy in converting his subjects to Catholicism: ‘its not time to alter and violate laws, when the enemy is at the dore. Its not allway a fit time to act the part of Converter.’ In the last resort, it was suggested, James should leave the conversion of his subjects to God himself: ‘We must not take Gods Work out of his Hands, the office of Conversion belongs to him.’218 Pope Innocent XI may well have seen matters in a similar light in 1687–8, at a time when he feared a French invasion

148 | Sacral Kingship between Disenchantment and Re-enchantment

of the Papal States.219 And later, when James II was living in exile, even French clergymen voiced doubts about his wisdom in flaunting his fervent Catholicism so blatantly while ruling a Protestant country.220 Ultimately, what proved to be James’s undoing was that Louis XIV decided to abrogate the Edict of Nantes in the same year as James came to power. At first glance this was no more than an unfortunate coincidence. But Louis’s crusade against the Protestants and James’s campaign for toleration in England were in some sense connected, as has already been pointed out. They were two sides of the same coin, not in the sense that James and Louis were both proponents of Catholic absolutism who wanted to extirpate heresy at all costs, as Pincus argues, but in a more complicated way.221 As Louis became more ostentatiously devout as a king and came to embrace a vision of sacerdotal kingship, he became more intolerant, whereas James’s vision of sacerdotal kingship founded in personal piety led to a programme of religious toleration. This was partly for the simple reason that James’s co-religionists were a hitherto persecuted religious minority, but probably also because James’s faith – after all, that of a convert – was more individualistic and less conventional than that of his French counterpart and put greater emphasis on personal religious experience. For James, the clearest expression of his power as supreme governor of the church and as a king in the tradition of David, Solomon and Constantine was his right to grant indulgences to religious minorities, while for Louis it was the opposite: his ability to unite all his subjects behind him, subscribing to one creed. Whatever way one looks at it, however, nothing undermined the policy of religious toleration that James pursued in 1687 and 1688 as radically as the revocation of the Edict of Nantes. How could a ruler who was an ally of the most intolerant Catholic king in Europe – more intolerant at times, it seemed, than the Pope himself, who had not been enthusiastic at the time about the revocation and the persecution of the Huguenots – have credibility as an advocate of toleration? James’s credibility was further undermined by his attitude towards Huguenot refugees. Although many did, in the end, find shelter in the Stuart kingdoms, James was clearly and visibly reluctant to grant them relief. Partly he seems to have considered it imprudent to offend Louis XIV. This may also have been his reason for suppressing publications which criticized the persecution and informed British readers about the anti-Protestant campaigns in France. But James also mistrusted the Huguenots who, in his opinion, frequently had republican leanings, had shown sympathy for Monmouth’s rebellion in 1685 and were in cahoots with his son-in-law, William of Orange, whom he mistrusted deeply.222 It was true that the French Protestants, including Huguenots who had emigrated in their thousands to the Dutch Republic and England (and, in smaller numbers, to Ireland), developed an increasingly hostile attitude to anything resembling absolute royal authority and divine right monarchy. This contrasted with the political theories that many Huguenots had subscribed to for almost a

In the Shadow of Versailles | 149

century, ever since Henry of Navarre had become heir presumptive to the French crown in 1584.223 In the past they had hoped that an absolute monarch would be more likely to grant them toleration than a king who was controlled by the estates or, as in France, the judges of the parlements. In the final phase of the French Wars of Religion and during the English Civil War, they had consistently tried to prove that it was not Protestants who killed or assassinated kings, but Jesuits or pseudo-Protestants, who were unwittingly implementing Jesuitical policies. But from the late 1670s on and especially during the 1680s, their attitude changed radically.224 They now seemed to realize that only the rule of law and constitutional safeguards could provide any degree of security for Protestantism in countries where the ruling monarch was a Catholic. In fact, A Letter of Several French Ministers Fled into Germany warned the Huguenots who had settled in England not to trust James for a single moment. A king who abrogated existing laws without sufficient authority was always a potential persecutor, all claims to the contrary notwithstanding.225 Huguenot refugees in England and the Netherlands provided William III with a core of fervent military and political supporters.226 Without them the Revolution of 1688 would have been much less likely to succeed, or even to start in the first place. By exporting the domestic and religious problem of France to England, they thus made a crucial contribution to James II’s downfall. In 1688 James II was replaced by a king who claimed, with sufficient plausibility in the eyes of many observers, to be a godly prince acting in the name of providence to save Protestantism and English liberty from the French tyrant and his English henchman, very much in the tradition of Elizabeth I. His vision of monarchy was definitely not a predominantly secular one, but it lacked the elements of sacerdotal kingship that had been so important to James II and were to become even more important while he lived in exile in France for the last twelve years of his life. And William III’s model of monarchy was more easily compatible with the Erastian and radically Protestant anti-clericalism that had gained ground in the 1670s and 1680s than James’s vision of sacral monarchy.227

Concluding Remarks Sacral kingship as a specific model of monarchy had developed in England in the Middle Ages largely in imitation of the images, representations and practices of kingship in France. Both the use of a holy chrism or oil – a direct gift from heaven – in the coronation ceremony and the healing of the scrofula had first been introduced in France.228 Without the Plantagenets’ and their successors’ claims to the French crown (which James II officially upheld while in exile in France after 1688, a fact graciously ignored by his host), English kingship would probably have developed differently. A close association with the political culture

150 | Sacral Kingship between Disenchantment and Re-enchantment

forming the basis of royal authority and its representation in France lay at the origin of sacral kingship in England. This association, partly real and partly a product of popular perceptions, but certainly revived by the years Charles II and his brother had spent in exile in France and the influence of their French mother on them was a major factor in undermining the Stuart dynasty in the late seventeenth century. Ultimately, James II fell not just because he was a Catholic, but also because his idea of kingship was seen as being too French and unpatriotic. However, the religious and the patriotic critiques were impossible to separate from each other. James II had tried to combine fervent Catholicism with a policy of enlightened toleration, while having recourse to an interpretation of the royal supremacy that went back to the Caesaropapism espoused by Henry VIII in his revolt against Rome, but also incorporated elements of French Gallicanism in its royalist (not the conciliarist) variety. This may seem an incongruous mixture, but it was probably not without appeal to some sections of the political nation. Nor, given that James’s opponents were deeply divided among themselves, Dissenters as much as Anglicans, was it entirely without a chance of success. What sealed James’s fate was that in the end he was seen as a deeply unpatriotic ruler, even more so than his brother, which was quite an achievement in itself. He had tried to promote an idea of English patriotism that was based on loyalty to the monarchy and the acceptance of religious plurality within England, and not on Protestantism as the core of national identity.229 But ultimately this was seen as a mere ploy to establish absolutism and make England subservient to France. The relationship between the monarchies of France and England underwent profound changes in the course of the seventeenth century. In 1603, when James I ascended the English throne, England seemed to be a much more stable country than France. The Bourbon monarchy, although a rival, was also a potential ally against Spain. Spain posed the greatest threat to England’s position as an independent Protestant power, at least in the opinion of most members of the political nation in England, though perhaps not in James’s eyes. Despite the incipient decline of Spain, Madrid still provided the most influential model of court culture in the sense of a successful cultural representation of everything that kingship stood for in Europe. Not just Catholic rulers but Protestants ones as well fell under the spell of the Spanish court. Charles I, who had visited Madrid in 1623, is the best example of this.230 But this was no longer true after 1660. The French court now provided the dominant model for courts almost everywhere in Europe. Even in countries where it was rejected, as in the Netherlands, for example, its influence was still visible. Under the rule of the later Stuarts, England for a time seemed to be on the path to becoming a client of France, in political, cultural and possibly even confessional terms. The relationship between the two monarchies, which had been more or less evenly balanced at the end of the sixteenth century and during the 1630s, now became much more one-sided. The Stuart monarchy hardly provided a model for Louis XIV, but, as has been

In the Shadow of Versailles | 151

described above, political, ecclesiastical and cultural developments in France had a profound influence on England. The ‘French connection’ was indeed of central importance for the fate of the Stuart monarchy. Yet England’s relationship to France could not be described as a mere imitation of Catholic absolutism during James II’s reign, and even less so during that of his brother. In some respects England approached the French model of government most closely during the personal rule of Charles II in the years 1681 to 1685. After many vacillations, the king finally decided to ally himself with the Anglican Church and those of its clergy who rejected all calls for toleration and any attempts to take a more comprehensive approach to church government, which would have allowed the more moderate Dissenters to find some sort of home within the Church of England. Just as Louis XIV emphasized the unity between church and crown more forcefully than ever in the 1680s, to the detriment of Protestants and the papal supremacy, Charles committed himself, though perhaps for merely tactical reasons, to a state church which stressed that loyalty to the king and allegiance to the established church were largely interchangeable and synonymous. The problem for both Louis XIV and Charles II was that such an alliance had its price. The state Catholicism that Louis XIV tried to promote was not as easily manageable as might have been assumed. And by attacking the authority of the Pope, Louis perhaps unwittingly sanctioned and reinvigorated the principles of an ecclesiastical tradition that was deeply constitutional and wedded to the legacy of conciliarism. Later, after 1690, when he found it expedient to cooperate more closely with the papacy, he, or rather, his successor, was confronted with this ecclesiastical constitutionalism that now challenged the king’s authority. Thus in the 1680s, Louis XIV forged the arms which the e­ighteenth-century Jansenists, and their allies among the judges of the parlements, were to deploy against his own successors, although initially they were really no more than the ‘bad conscience’ of absolutism.231 Admittedly, this process took a long time to get going and did not really pose a major challenge to royal a­ uthority until after 1715. In England, a similar process, which turned the king’s erstwhile ecclesiastical allies into the strongest critics of royal authority, was compressed into a much shorter time span of just a few years. Louis XIV took twenty years from the end of his open conflict with the papacy in 1693 to arrive at a position in which he appeared freely to subject France to papal authority in order to fight the Jansenists he so hated, thereby at least to some extent abandoning the Gallican positions he had espoused in the 1680s.232 James II, however, abandoned his alliance with the Church of England within two years of his accession. He tried to change the religious and the political complexion of the country by a policy of limited religious toleration based on a very exalted notion of his position as supreme authority in both temporal and spiritual matters.233 He was thus confronted by constitutional arguments emphasizing the autonomy of the church

152 | Sacral Kingship between Disenchantment and Re-enchantment

in its relations with any secular authority, which were not entirely different from the brand of constitutionalism developed by the Jansenists in France in the early eighteenth century. From the 1680s on, Louis XIV reinforced the sacral and confessional elements in the representation of the French monarchy. Being the successor of Saint Louis was now more important to him than being a modern Alexander or a new incarnation of Emperor Augustus. This tendency became ever more pronounced, to the extent that political and military victories proved to be elusive after about 1690. This reconfessionalization of the Bourbon monarchy was partly, perhaps, an imitation of Habsburg models of monarchical culture and certainly developed in competition with Vienna. It was successful enough for the time being, at least as far as domestic policy was concerned, despite the revolt of the Camisards, but it undoubtedly posed a major obstacle to any attempt to achieve an accommodation between the monarchy and a secularizing Enlightenment in the eighteenth century. Louis XIV had irrevocably committed himself to a revived model of sacral monarchy. This found it difficult to withstand the test of time after his death, but could no longer be abandoned either, without destroying the foundations of royal authority. The problems which Charles II and James II faced in the 1680s were, of course, much more acute than those of the French monarchy during the reign of Louis XIV. Apart from the wounds of the Civil War which the Restoration failed to heal, they found that the legacy of the Reformation was ever more difficult to combine with a consistent model of monarchy. On the one hand, there was the idea of the king as a new Constantine, trampling under foot not just the Pope but all lordly prelates. This essentially anti-clerical model of kingship had, in the past, been invoked to justify the rejection of the papal supremacy as much as the fight against the theocratic variety of Calvinism represented by Scottish Presbyterianism. But this model was not easily compatible with a Tory vision of church and monarchy, for which episcopacy iure divino and the autonomy of the church were so important. On the other hand there was the model of sacerdotal kingship, with the ruler to some extent playing the role of a priest–king guided by his episcopal councillors, a model inspired by the example of the saint-like Charles I (and perhaps more distant examples such as Edward the Confessor as well).234 The bishops’ role was ultimately indispensable to give credibility to this vision of monarchy, which had found iconic expression in Eikon Basilike. This model, however, imposed enormous constraints on the monarch’s freedom of action in all matters of ecclesiastical policy, not to mention that even among High Anglicans, many theologians were increasingly inclined to downplay the quasi-sacerdotal powers of a king whose support for the church was not beyond doubt. It also encountered growing resistance not only among those who preferred other varieties of Protestantism to what they saw as the popish ceremonialism of Tory Anglicans, but also among those who were increasingly sceptical

In the Shadow of Versailles | 153

about any sort of organized religion dominated by an authoritarian clergy. In the late seventeenth century the traditional anti-clericalism and Erastianism of English Protestantism was partly transformed into a more general rejection of ‘priestcraft’ and religious intolerance in any form.235 This opposition to any sort of intolerant national church and all it entailed may be considered part of a much more wide-ranging process of secularization affecting politics, society and culture; or a move towards a more individualized, subjective form of non-­doctrinal religion may be discerned. But in any case the struggle against priestcraft was not easily compatible with a vision of kingship which saw the king as an honorary member of the clergy, and certainly not as a mere layman. James II, as has been shown, tried to combine both models of kingship, the Constantinian and the sacerdotal clerical one, albeit in its Catholic version. But this combination was too inconsistent and failed to create a lasting religious foundation for monarchy. James’s flight from England largely ended the tradition of sacerdotal kingship there, although his daughter Anne continued to heal the scrofula as queen until her death in 1714. But it would be a mistake to assume that this amounted to a full-scale secularization of kingship and politics in Britain. After 1688, however, kingship in England and in France developed in opposite directions. The medieval legacy that they had shared in the past now receded further and further into the background.

Outlook and Conclusion

?

The common heritage of sacral and sacerdotal monarchy shared by France and England continued to be of central importance for the political culture of both countries well into the late seventeenth century. Because of this common heritage and a number of other factors, neither English nor French political culture was self-contained; political crises or seemingly successful modes of exercising royal authority in one country often had a profound impact on the other. Such interactions were especially strong during the first period discussed in this book, the late sixteenth and the early seventeenth centuries. At this time the French and English monarchies were both threatened by religious radicals who were attracted to theocratic models of political order and rejected the rule of a king who was not capable of demonstrating his godliness by persecuting heretics or idolaters. In the mid seventeenth century, however, the French and English monarchies went in different directions, despite their shared tradition of sacral kingship. In France, as opposed to early Stuart England, it had become increasingly difficult to articulate any principled opposition to royal authority after 1610, whether in legal or theological terms. With the breakdown of French Calvinism as a political and military force of any importance in the late 1620s, political tensions lost much of the ideological edge they had possessed in the past. This was true despite the fact that the French Catholic dévots movement, which was highly critical of Louis XIII’s and Richelieu’s foreign policy, and of the latter’s seeming lack of religious fervour, did show some parallels with the Puritan movement within the Church of England.1 In any case, the French monarchy ultimately emerged victorious from the turmoil of the late 1640s and early 1650s, whereas Charles I lost both his crown and his life in 1649. Notes for this chapter begin on page 232.

Outlook and Conclusion | 155

In England the alliance between crown and Protestantism which went back to the Henrician Reformation had proved to be an unstable one. England had been spared the deep crisis of authority which France had experienced in the late sixteenth century; but the ruler who succeeded Elizabeth I in 1603, James VI and I, had learned the craft of kingship in Scotland. Monarchy there found it difficult to deal with the threat posed by a Protestant church claiming supreme spiritual, but potentially also political, authority, and by unruly nobles resisting royal power. Whereas the world view of the Catholic League in France had threatened to over-enchant the world of politics, James in Scotland had to come to terms with a variety of Calvinist theology in which God was present only in the word and in His Church, but not in human institutions such as kingship. James VI’s emphasis on divine right monarchy, the paternal character of royal power and his own prophet-like role in interpreting God’s decrees was to counter such attacks on royal authority. His concept of kingship in many ways provided a viable strategy for reviving royal authority in Presbyterian Scotland and creating something like a royal supremacy in this rather inhospitable environment. Matters were more difficult in England. The contrast between what was seen by many as the king’s rather undignified personal behaviour at court and his claim that his office was sacred often unwittingly undermined his high-sounding rhetoric. Having made the mistake of joining in the confessional polemic of the time as an author and participant in the acrimonious exchange of theological arguments, as he did in the Oath of Allegiance controversy, the king became an object of bitter satirical attacks.2 Henry III of France had been confronted with similarly savage criticism near the end of his reign, but he was an exception in France.3 The high-blown rhetoric of divine right kingship could all too easily be deflated, if not ridiculed, in religious and political disputes. The image of himself that James tried to project certainly lent itself to such irony. His son remained much more aloof, relying on images of power more than on words and rhetoric, and never risked losing his dignity as his father did at times. Nevertheless, Charles’s attempt to reinvest the monarchy with a new sacral aura by fostering both a new religious culture that gave much greater weight to ceremonies and liturgical worship, and a court culture in harmony with such religious sensibilities, was controversial. It was linked to the drive to push radical Calvinism – though perhaps not Calvinism as such – to the margins of the Church of England or entirely out into the wilderness. The alliance between divine right monarchy and iure divino episcopacy was not without tensions either, although they did not become fully apparent until after 1642, or, indeed, 1660. A sacral monarch needed a separate spiritual authority to underwrite his claims, in England as much as in France. But bishops who saw their own authority as derived immediately from God were not always easy partners for the ­monarchy, as the period after the Restoration was to show.

156 | Sacral Kingship between Disenchantment and Re-enchantment

The history of kingship in England before the Civil War demonstrates that monarchy retained the capacity to reinvent itself and to re-enchant the world of politics in England as much as in France. But in doing so it had to conclude alliances that could potentially threaten the foundations of royal power. This was true in England, where the established church itself was rent by internal divisions and had never been quite certain which path to follow between Rome and Geneva, more than in France. The alliance with Laudianism, which Charles I made the basis of his church policy, in the end created more problems for the king than it solved. Republican ideals, more the fruit of the Civil War than its inspiration, but nevertheless potent enough in the late 1640s and the 1650s, and a theocratic and eschatological vision of politics proved to be a powerful challenge to English monarchy in the crisis of the mid seventeenth century. This also applied in a different way to Scotland, where republicanism was never a real option. As a covenanted nation, the Scots claimed to act in God’s name, if necessary against the king. Monarchy as such was not rejected, but became merely a civil institution lacking the sacral character it had traditionally claimed. As John Knox and other reformers after him argued, the coming of Christ as the only true king had disenchanted monarchy as much as other institutions of this world.4 Confronted by such opposition, Charles I was defeated in the Civil War, put on trial and executed in 1649. It was the ultimate achievement of Charles I (and his chaplain John Gauden) to turn this defeat into at least a partial victory.5 Charles proved that he remained an anointed king even on the scaffold – p ­ resenting an image of Christ – for the very reason that, having decided to embrace death and suffering, he was prepared to renounce the power and outward splendour of royalty. The cult of the martyred king gave royalism a new focus and a cause to fight for, even after the king’s death. But after the Restoration the memory of the martyred king contributed to the crisis of representation which beset the later Stuart monarchy. To celebrate Charles I as a royal saint was not easily compatible with national reconciliation. Although the restored Church of England tended to embrace the cult of Charles I more wholeheartedly than did his son, many clergy had reservations about this particular variety of political piety. In some ways it militated against any attempt to demonstrate that the faith of the Church of England, in contrast to Catholic superstition and Puritan enthusiasm, was at heart reasonable and rational, which became so important to many theologians of the re-established church. Thus the sort of divine right monarchy which Tory Anglicans envisaged after 1660 never quite overcame its internal contradictions. To some extent these may have been those of the established church itself. While it desperately tried to re-enchant monarchy, its fear of religious enthusiasm (so akin, it seemed, to Puritanism and radical Calvinism) in all its manifestations led many theologians to espouse a more rational and sober kind of theology. But this was ill suited to an attempt wholeheartedly to proclaim the mystery of divine right kingship.

Outlook and Conclusion | 157

Some supporters of iure divino episcopacy saw the murdered Archbishop Laud, not the king, as the true martyr of the Civil War. The king had by no means always been as steadfast in his support for the established church as might have been wished.6 And the attempt to resacralize monarchy by basing its claim to legitimacy on the cult of a royal saint who had died for the Church of England was even less palatable to those who rejected the entire combination of Anglican priestcraft and nostalgic royalism for which this cult stood, even when they were still prepared to accept the restored monarchy. After the Exclusion Crisis, a model of kingship based on Tory Anglicanism nevertheless seemed to triumph. It was James II’s decision to reject the alliance with the established church that finally brought down this version of monarchy and, ultimately, the Stuart dynasty itself. In many ways the French monarchy was in a much stronger position in the later seventeenth century. Not least through his sacrificial death, Henry IV had successfully reinvigorated the ancient religion royale. Radical Catholicism in the 1580s and 1590s had displayed theocratic tendencies similar to those visible in radical Calvinism. Moreover, the power of the papacy, which seemed to have been fatally weakened by the great schism of the late fourteenth century and the conciliarist movement, once again posed a real threat to monarchy in the age of confessional conflict, perhaps for the last time in European history. But the papacy gradually gave up its claims to exercise a potestas indirecta (indirect authority) in secular matters, and the theocratic ideals of the League by and large became obsolete with the end of the Wars of Religion. In France, monarchy emerged with renewed strength from the Wars of Religion. Kingship was resacralized; a rational approach to politics, the ‘rule of reason’, could be imposed on the world by a monarch whose office and authority had been re-enchanted, in a manner of speaking.7 While rejecting the theocratic ideals of the League, which had launched such a violent attack on the last Valois’s position as a sacral, priest-like king, the Bourbon monarchy did, to some extent, incorporate the world view of Counter- Reformation Catholicism into the reconstituted religion royale from which it derived much of its newfound strength. The alliance with the Catholic reform movement which Henry IV had sealed when he converted in Saint-Denis and was crowned in Chartres remained one of the essential foundations of Bourbon kingship. This was the case even when, at times, both during Henry IV’s reign and later, it turned to other, more secular, modes of representation and communication to stake its claim to supreme authority. Although some of the more zealous advocates of Catholic reform still harboured doubts about the seemingly too Machiavellian policies pursued by the crown in the 1630s and 1640s, obedience had now become a religious ideal in itself. Religion supplied an emotional language for loyalty and devotion to the monarchy; it established an emotional regime conducive to obedience.8 Not least because of these factors, a direct attack on the monarch, rather than his ministers, became increasingly difficult before the reign of Louis XIV, and even more so after 1660.

158 | Sacral Kingship between Disenchantment and Re-enchantment

After the Restoration, the seemingly unassailable authority of the French king became increasingly attractive to the Stuarts as a political model they might imitate. But those who saw English liberties threatened by popery and despotism depicted Louis XIV’s France as an embodiment of everything they most abhorred. The Huguenots and their persecutors undoubtedly had an important share in creating this negative image of France in the 1680s. Yet James II felt particularly attracted to the French Catholic Church which, in political and spiritual terms, seemed to have more to offer a king in search of personal salvation and secure foundations for his unquestioned authority than the Spanish or Italian variety of Catholicism, let alone the English tradition of recusancy. James II’s short-lived experiment with a sacral kingship that tried to re-establish a divine right monarchy, however, was based as much on the legacy of Henrician Caesaropapism as on Roman Catholicism. Despite James’s fervent Catholicism, the sacral authority that he claimed was, in many ways, transconfessional in nature, not least because for the time being, it was to be combined with a certain amount of religious pluralism. But this kind of kingship proved to be a failure. The future belonged to a reconfessionalized model of monarchy which downplayed the sacerdotal aspects of kingship while emphasizing the role of the monarch as a providential hero fighting for liberty and the one true faith; that is, Protestantism. This was certainly an image that William III adopted, but it was also projected onto James II’s son-in-law and his wife by the supporters of the Glorious Revolution.9 This particular model of kingship continued to have a significant influence on the religious culture that gave monarchy legitimacy after 1714, when the Hanoverians ruled Britain. Whatever the personal and political deficiencies of the first two Georges, they both presented themselves as emphatically and often militantly Protestant; after all, their claims to the British crown were based on confessional allegiance, and not much else.10 This is not to deny that links between the church (though not necessarily religion), on the one hand, and monarchy and political order in general, on the other, became more complicated and in some respects more tenuous after 1688. Some degree of religious toleration was granted in 1689, and the Kirk of Scotland’s structure and forms of piety and worship clearly differed from those of the Church of England after the Revolution. In the early eighteenth century the Protestantism that continued to define England as a nation and provided an important element of cohesion for Britain and the Hanoverian monarchy as a whole (including the Protestants in Ireland) was less the creed of a clearly defined religious community, let alone the dogma of a unified, homogeneous church, than a broad-based confessional culture comprising many different varieties of churchmanship, religious practice and observance or non-observance.11 Merely theological disputes now had less impact on political conflict than in the seventeenth century. And the established church as an institution and its clergy,

Outlook and Conclusion | 159

though still a highly important factor in society and politics, enjoyed less authority now than in the past. At first glance the contrast with France could not be greater. There Protestantism had been eliminated in the 1680s and the conflict between crown and papacy, which had escalated for the last time after 1682, had been patched up in the 1690s. The principle of one faith, one king had triumphed. Finally, after the turn of the century, Jansenism was suppressed. This was the last movement within the French church that could potentially provide any sort of opposition to the newly sealed alliance between the descendant of Saint Louis and the Vicar of Christ. When Louis XIV died in 1715, France seemingly offered an example of a monarchy whose ruler not only enjoyed an unquestioned aura of sacredness, but in which the highest religious authority, the papacy, also fully underwrote the king’s claim to supreme power and absolute divine right without major qualifications. This had by no means always been the case in the past. The persuasiveness of the specific model of monarchy which had emerged after the Wars of Religion and achieved its apogee under Louis XIV, however, depended to a considerable extent on the ruler’s ability convincingly to play the role assigned to him as sacerdotal king. More than in the past, the king’s personality, his character as a human being, was important for the very reason that kingship as an institution had become increasingly indistinguishable from the king’s body natural. The fact that the royal body was as subject to all sorts of deficiencies and, ultimately, as vulnerable to death as any other human being’s body, did not in itself call into question the monarch’s claim to represent God’s image on earth, if it is remembered that this God had revealed himself to man in the humanity of Christ and in His death. Not every ruler, however, was able to act out his own death and mortality as a true imitatio Christi in the way that Louis XIII had done.12 Although no great statesman, his deep personal piety had given credibility to the new religion royale that formed such an essential part of French political culture after the end of the Wars of Religion. His son and successor, at least as a young man, lacked his father’s religious fervour. But he did all he could, especially in his later years, to perform the acts of devotion required of a king who held a priest-like position. A fervent persecutor of heretics, he could at least be considered conventionally pious, and his own undisputed talent for acting the principal role in the theatre of monarchy made it easier for him to play the same part on the stage provided for him by the church. But Louis XIII and Louis XIV were, in different ways, hard acts to follow, and Louis XV conspicuously failed to keep the show on the road. This was not only a problem of personality.13 The reinvigorated religion royale that had left such a deep mark on both the idea and the image of kingship at the end of the Wars of Religion was linked to a system of religious sensibilities and practices typical of the age of Tridentine reform and Counter-Reformation. The resacralized monarchy later found it difficult to adapt to the changes in the religious climate it faced in the late seventeenth and early

160 | Sacral Kingship between Disenchantment and Re-enchantment

eighteenth centuries. In fact, Louis XIV made less effort to find a basis for sacral monarchy outside the narrow confines of a confessionalized political culture in the 1680s than he had during the earlier decades of his reign. Not just the suppression of Protestantism but also the comparative decline of representations of kingship relying on the language of pagan mythology and ancient history, at least as far as court culture was concerned,14 were part of a wider process of reconfessionalizing royal authority. Mutatis mutandis this was not completely different from what happened in England after 1688, except that Louis designed and controlled this process himself instead of becoming its victim like James II. From the mid 1680s on, the image of the king projected by court culture in France was less exclusively than before that of the victorious commander and conqueror who embodied the virtues of the mythological heroes of antiquity. Instead, the king, close to the end of his life, was often praised primarily as a devout Christian ruler who was prepared to bear the trials of political failure and military defeat with patience.15 However, the more conventionally pious and confessionally orthodox model of kingship that Louis subscribed to in his later years risked being undermined by a change in intellectual and theological culture inimical to any close association between royal and divine power. In the early and mid seventeenth century the idea that the king was God’s image on earth had still been a statement about the essential foundations of kingship, about the substance of monarchy; fifty years later it risked becoming a mere façon de parler or a metaphor. This was because the mystical or neo-Platonic world view that gave a deeper meaning to such ideas had been eroded as much by theological rationalism, which was deeply hostile to the mysticism of early seventeenth-century baroque piety, as by a more ‘­scientific’, more mechanistic approach to the interpretation of the universe.16 The specifically French tradition of sacral kingship was partly undermined by internal contradictions, as the conflict with Jansenism demonstrated. Far from disappearing without trace after Unigenitus, Jansenism became a powerful movement which was attractive to all those within the church and among the wider elite of office holders who were dissatisfied with official church policy or royal policy. After 1713 the Jansenist parlementaires insisted that the king could not be a judge on matters of faith – thereby defending the autonomy of the church – while they at the same time upheld the Gallican tradition against Rome and a monarchy that had seemingly betrayed this tradition and thereby abandoned the legacy of Henry IV and late sixteenth-century royalism.17 After all, Henry IV had only been able to obtain the crown by ignoring the sentence of excommunication that the Pope had pronounced against him (although he was later absolved). The Jansenist opposition to royal church policy was, at least to some extent, an attempt to reassert the right of the national church as an autonomous community to judge its own affairs, even on matters of faith. But this church was defined less as a hierarchical institution than as the community of all priests

Outlook and Conclusion | 161

and, ultimately, perhaps even of all the faithful. And the Pope’s claim to be the absolute and sole judge on all theological matters was rejected as strongly as the king’s claim to treat the church merely as a special part of the state he ruled in his capacity as a sacerdotal monarch.18 During the conflict between Jansenism and official church policy in the early eighteenth century it once again became glaringly obvious that, despite his apparently absolute power, the king of France found it difficult to defeat a movement within the church that had as many friends in high places as Jansenism. The French church was too much part of the general fabric of the Ancien Régime, with its patronage networks, friendship and kinship ties, complicated webs of often contradictory privileges and patrimonial offices seen by those who held them as a kind of lucrative private property.19 To expurgate such a church, to cleanse it of tendencies that were in opposition to official policy, was almost impossible in the short (and even the not so short) term. Ultimately the conflict about Jansenism called into question the sacral nature of royal power itself and its religious foundations, despite the fact that the Jansenists were not opponents of the monarchical order as such. In both England and France, the old fabric of sacral monarchy began, to all appearances, to unravel at the end of the seventeenth century. Does this leave us with the old master narrative of inexorable and uniform secularization as a process going back, ultimately, to the confessional divisions and religious wars of the sixteenth century and celebrating its triumph in the late eighteenth century? Such an interpretation of the changing relationship between religion and politics does remain influential. Reference has been made earlier to Marcel Gauchet’s account of the inexorable process of religious disenchantment, which ultimately rendered religious symbols meaningless and marked the triumph of the ‘prose of bureaucracy’ over the ‘poetry of the prince’.20 However, such an interpretation is, at best, based on half-truths. As this book has demonstrated, the crisis the Stuart monarchy faced between 1678 and 1688 initially led less to a secularization of kingship and the culture of authority in which it was embedded than to a reconfessionalization of political culture; first in the sense of a High Anglican vision of politics and then, after James II had abandoned this course and had been forced to flee to France, in the sense of a more militantly Protestant model of monarchy. There was much less room now for the role of the ruler as priest–king in the traditional sense, but politics by no means became secular and post-confessional. This is true at least for the first half of the eighteenth century in England. The situation in France was not entirely dissimilar. Monarchy was to some extent disenchanted there because of the influence of an anti-mystical, rational theology and a more mechanistic vision of the universe. But it became more than ever wedded to strictly confessional values and norms in the later decades of the Sun King’s reign. That such values generated their own conflicts and contradictions, which could ultimately undermine monarchical authority, is a different matter.

162 | Sacral Kingship between Disenchantment and Re-enchantment

France and England were not alone in witnessing processes whereby attempts to conceive of monarchical authority in broader, post-confessional or transconfessional terms were abandoned, and rulers again fully committed themselves to a vision of politics defined in narrower, confessional ways. The Holy Roman Emperor Charles VI and the Prussian King Frederick William I both offer examples of this sort of a more militant confessional attitude in the early eighteenth century, although the latter did try to overcome the division between Calvinism and Lutheranism. Thus the early eighteenth century was marked by ambiguities and contradictory tendencies. A tendency to reassert confessional allegiances went hand in hand with the diminishing influence of traditional ecclesiastical authorities and of the church as a self-governing body enjoying political power. The path towards a political order resting primarily on secular foundations – or at least on foundations that were no longer deemed to be inseparable from those of the church – was not straightforward in France, England or Europe as a whole. Nor did the Bourbon monarchy on the one hand and the late Stuart and early Hanoverian monarchies on the other take identical courses towards that ultimate outcome; quite the contrary. Secularization, however its features are defined, can never adequately be understood independently of the historical processes engendering the relevant transformation of politics, culture and society of which it may be considered to be a result. The historical narrative itself is part of what is meant by secularization.21 For the very reason that it had been so successfully re-enchanted at the end of the sixteenth and in the early seventeenth century, kingship in France was bound to lose some of its sacral aura in an age when religious sensibilities changed and religion became more a matter of personal choice and, at best, deeply held individual convictions than of obedience to the church hierarchy. In other words, when religion became more subjective and ‘voluntary’, even within the Catholic Church. But it needs to be re-emphasized that the comparative loss of plausibility which the model of sacral monarchy suffered in France at the end of the period under discussion in this book was, at this stage at least, due less to a real secularization of politics and culture than to tensions within Catholicism and the religion royale itself. As discussed above, these tensions found expression not least in the campaign against Jansenism, and the conflict between the Gallican foundations on which the Bourbon monarchy was built and the constant need to obtain papal approval for its sacral status. This conflict had existed right from the beginnings of the Bourbon monarchy, but it had been contained. Immediately after the death of Henry IV, the monarchy had already rejected an alliance with the more extreme forms of Gallicanism – in particular, their more conciliarist form, as represented by Edmond Richer and his work, for example.22 Yet the weapons which the legacy of conciliarism and the long battle for the autonomy of the French Catholic Church had provided remained at hand, ready to be used by the monarchy should the papacy threaten its authority again. It was left to Louis XIV to abandon – or at least to create the

Outlook and Conclusion | 163

impression of abandoning – the strident Gallicanism which he had reasserted vehemently in the 1680s, in the last two decades of his reign, by forming an ­alliance with the papacy against Jansenism.23 Despite or perhaps because of this, the struggle between sacerdotium and imperium, which was largely confined to the backwaters of politics in England after the early decades of the eighteenth century24 continued to haunt French politics for a long time to come. The king of France remained emphatically a persona mixta far beyond the turn of the eighteenth century; controversial as his claim to be both rex et sacerdos may often have been, it could not be abandoned without destroying the French monarchy as such. The king ruled the church as autocratically as his lay subjects, but he did so because of his quasi-sacerdotal status. It remained inconceivable that the sacerdotium would submit to a merely secular imperium before the French Revolution. Even after 1789, the civil religion which the Revolution tried to create, with its own rituals, symbols and festivals, must be seen as an attempt to fill the vacuum left by the demise of sacerdotal monarchy.25 In fact, to some extent the Bourbons had themselves anticipated this civil religion by sacralizing the office of monarchy through images and representations whose origins lay more in the state ceremonies of antiquity than in the traditional Christian religion royale; the statues which adorned so many squares in the centres of French cities in the later eighteenth century bore testimony to this ‘civic cult’ of monarchy. As long as the Ancien Régime lasted, however, this ‘cult’ was subordinate to the traditional religion royale with its confessionalized message.26 The quasi-religious character of the republican political culture which replaced the representations and rituals of kingship after 1791–2 is visible in an attenuated form in France to the present day. It has had a specific impact on relations between the French state and all churches and religious communities, especially those which find it difficult unreservedly to accept this particular brand of civil religion. Laïcité as a supreme political and constitutional principle is, in many ways, only the other side of the religious claims of the state itself, of its sacralization, which it inherited from the monarchy of the Ancien Régime.27 In England, on the other hand, 1688 marked the defeat of a vision of politics for which an alliance between a national church ruled by an episcopal hierarchy iure divino and a king who was himself both rex and sacerdos had been essential. The long conflict between sacerdotium and imperium ended with the victory of the latter. An Erastian, parliamentary model of the royal supremacy triumphed over any claims the church could make to be a truly self-governing corporation. It was significant that Convocation ceased to meet in the eighteenth century. Although the nonjurors, who represented an important aspect of English Jacobitism, rejected this total subordination of the church to a secular authority, they ended up on the losing side of history.28 The Glorious Revolution had called into question the role of the church as a divinely ordained corporation, but not necessarily the religious mandate of the

164 | Sacral Kingship between Disenchantment and Re-enchantment

monarch so as long as he exercised it in the name not of an Anglican or Catholic prelacy (as the Stuarts, in the eyes of their critics, had done), but of religious freedom and an enlightened Protestantism. For many Whigs this Protestantism proved its credentials by being at least implicitly anti-clerical. The monarchy remained an important symbol of the link between the political and social order on the one hand, and religion on the other. After 1714 the monarch may no longer have been seen as a heroic saviour and deliverer of the true faith, but his religion remained of crucial importance as that of a ‘fellow Christian who had particular duties in showing his subjects how they should lead virtuous and pious lives’.29 Until 1828, the Protestant monarchy remained a crucial impediment to the emancipation of Catholics and Dissenters. Its religious role had regained a new vitality in the late eighteenth century when political radicalism, seemingly linked to heterodox religious positions, seemed to threaten the very fabric of society.30 George III was not a sacral monarch in the way Charles I had aspired to be; but he was a strong defender of the religious settlement achieved in 1688–9 and confirmed in 1701 and 1707 (with the Act of Settlement and the Union with Scotland), and of Christian morality, a role which William III and his queen had already played under different circumstances in the 1690s.31 The French monarchy in the eighteenth century clearly lacked such a sense of moral mission, not only because French court culture was hardly conducive to a reform of manners and morals, but also because it remained wedded to older notions of what constituted the religious basis of kingship. Sacral monarchy remained linked to the ceremonies of the church, largely manifesting itself in acts of worship, rituals and pilgrimages, and the prominent role of the king and his family in such events (including the healing of the scrofula, although this went into steep decline in France after 1738, when Louis XV ceased to participate actively in the Mass and no longer received Communion), and much less in campaigns for moral improvement. This is not to deny that an internalized piety became more important in affirming the religious credentials of the monarchy than ‘ostentatious religious rituals at court’ in France as well. But after 1715, it was often left more to the king’s wife, or their sons and daughters, to demonstrate this piety than to the king himself, at least during the reign of Louis XV.32 On the whole, however, there was probably less space to express this sort of internalized piety within the religious framework of the rather conventional, if not almost petrified, court Catholicism of Versailles than within the Protestant culture of eighteenth century England. Religion as practised at court was only a part of this culture, though an important one. After 1688 England found a new religious settlement which combined Christian morality and Protestant providentialism with a certain amount of anti-clericalism and toleration. The anti-clericalism had been inherent in the English Reformation right from the start, as had been the tendency to emphasize God’s radical transcendence and therefore to call into question the capacity of

Outlook and Conclusion | 165

human institutions like monarchy to represent His authority on earth. Neither of these tendencies can therefore be considered merely the expression of a secular Enlightenment.33 While the monarch ceased to claim a quasi-sacerdotal role for himself in the traditional way in the eighteenth century (none of the Hanoverians healed the scrofula, for example), he still at moments of crisis played the role of the godly prince protecting the one true faith, a role assigned to him by the Reformation. His private piety, publicly displayed, could, as in the case of George III, be important as an inspiration for those who were determined to defend the church established by law and the existing political and social order. He embodied in his person and office the close union between Protestantism and the national culture of both England and, after 1707, Britain. That this Protestantism could mean different things to different people – for some it was not always easy to distinguish from a post-dogmatic providential deism – was nothing new. It had been typical of the history of the Church of England and the religious communities existing in its shadow ever since the Elizabethan settlement.34 Monarchy as a symbol of national identity continued to have clear religious and confessional implications, however broadly defined, far into the nineteenth if not the early twentieth century in England. One might argue of course, that the very attempts to revive organized religion in the nineteenth century and to give it a political function in combination with nationalism, monarchy or a more broadly defined political Conservatism were flawed right from the outset. Such attempts, for the very reason that they wanted to use religion as a weapon in political and cultural conflicts, often blurred the specific denominational and confessional profile of religious traditions. They treated religion as something which could be created almost at will and thereby destroyed its autonomy as a system of values and norms, as the German historian Rudolf Schlögl has recently argued.35 For Schlögl the age of the French Revolution confined religion once and for all to political and social irrelevance, although this was not immediately apparent among the frantic attempts to revive older traditions and to give them a new meaning. This is a powerful argument, though not necessarily an entirely new one, but it risks overlooking the fact that to define the radical autonomy of religion as a cultural system as a precondition for its political and social relevance may in itself represent a particularly modern and in some ways specifically Protestant view of what religion is about, as religion is identified much more with individual conviction and sincerity than with rituals, symbols and ceremonies which can gain a spiritual momentum of their own even if they are as much civic as genuinely religious in origin.36 It seems much more difficult to disentangle the social function of religion formed and shaped by social and political forces, on the one hand, and the self-perception of the individual as a believer or as a participant in religious practice, on the other, than such an approach assumes, and the latter is not necessarily always so deeply contaminated by the former that it becomes invalid as a religious experience.

166 | Sacral Kingship between Disenchantment and Re-enchantment

But even if we are to accept the assumption that secularization as a process which increasingly marginalized religion as an autonomous factor in political and social life became irreversible from the late eighteenth century onwards, at least in Europe (less so perhaps in North America), the specific form this process took bore the imprint of contingent historical conditions which varied widely from country to country in early modern Europe. In the same way in which there may be a variety of different ‘modernities’ there are different processes of secularization,37 and French laïcité, inherently hostile to the Catholic Church and organized Christian or non-Christian religion as such, is by no means the same as the religious pluralism combined with a non-dogmatic and in some ways pre-confessional state church headed by the queen as supreme governor which exists in England even today, or the coexistence of different but equally privileged religious communities acting in close cooperation with the state, which until recently was characteristic of Germany.38 It will probably be left to European unification, with its tendency to create a neutral, post-national uniformity of political culture inspired by a new kind of enlightened absolutism – a consummation devoutly desired by some and seen as a nightmare by others39 – to eradicate all traces of the very special path which each European country took to what is today defined as modernity with regard to the relations between church and state. Whether this same process of European unification will also impose a new civil religion in the mould of French republicanism on Europe, creating its own rituals, festivals and holy texts, remains to be seen. But without some element of political culture which is more than merely rational and secular in nature, it is difficult to see how a united Europe could possibly survive. And in this, perhaps limited, sense, some of the problems of the seventeenth century remain alive today.

Notes

Introduction 1. Marcel Gauchet, Le Désenchantement du monde. Une histoire politique de la religion (Paris, 1985), 285. Gauchet states further: ‘Dans cette transformation [the rise of the modern state], le pouvoir perd apparemment son rôle symbolique, comme si ses fonctions signifiantes et ses prérogatives réelles allaient en raison inverse les unes des autres’ (ibid.). For Gauchet see also Fernand Tanghe, ‘Marcel Gauchet and the End of Religion’, in Herbert de Vriese and Gary Gabor (eds), Rethinking Secularization: Philosophy and the Prophecy of a Secular Age (Newcastle upon Tyne, 2009), 153–77. For a more cautious and subtle approach to the diminishing importance of symbolic communication, both religious and non-religious, in constituting and legitimizing institutions and authority, see Karl-Siegbert Rehberg, ‘Weltrepräsentanz und Verkörperung. Institutionelle Analyse und Symboltheorien – eine Einführung in systematischer Absicht’, in Gert Melville (ed.), Institutionalität und Symbolisierung. Verstetigungen kultureller Ordnungsmuster in Vergangenheit und Gegenwart (Cologne, 2001), 3–49; and Karl-Siegbert Rehberg, ‘Präsenzmagie und Zeichenhaftigkeit. Institutionelle Formen der Symbolisierung’, in Gerd Althoff (ed.), Zeichen – Rituale – Werte (Münster, 2004), 19–26. 2. This is one of Monod’s principal arguments. See Paul Kléber Monod, The Power of Kings: Monarchy and Religion in Europe, 1589–1715 (New Haven, Conn., 1999), in particular 273–328. Skinner looks at the history of ideas from a different angle. See Quentin Skinner, ‘From the State of Princes to the Person of the State’, in idem, Visions of Politics, 3 vols (Cambridge, 2002), vol. 2: Renaissance Virtues, 368–413. See further David Bell, The Cult of the Nation in France: Inventing Nationalism, 1680–1800 (Cambridge, Mass., 2003). 3. One of the strongest critics of this approach is the historian of the eighteenth century Jonathan Clark. See his ‘The Re-enchantment of the World? Religion and Monarchy in Eighteenth-Century Europe’, in Michael Schaich (ed.), Religion and Monarchy: The Transformation of Royal Culture in Eighteenth-Century Europe (Oxford, 2007), 41–75. This is a thought-provoking essay, but also a somewhat polemical overstatement of an ultimately rather idiosyncratic view of eighteenth-century history. See also, more recently, idem, ‘Secularization and Modernization. The Failure of a “Grand Narrative”’, Historical Journal 55 (2012), 161–94. 4. Charles Taylor, A Secular Age (Cambridge, Mass., 2007), 39, cf. 221–69. For an important but far more teleological German contribution to the debate on secularisation see Rudolf Schlögl, Alter Glaube und moderne Welt. Europäisches Christentum im Umbruch, 1750–1850 (Frankurt am Main, 2013). 5. For confessionalization see the overview in John M. Headley, Hans J. Hillerbrand and Anthony J. Papalas (eds), Confessionalization in Europe, 1555–1700: Essays in Honor and

168 | Notes

Memory of Bodo Nischan (Aldershot, 2004); cf. Alain Tallon, ‘Raison d’État. Religion monarchique et religion du roi. Un aperçu de l’historiographie française et de ses évolutions’, in Philippe Büttgen and Christophe Duhamelle (eds), Religion ou confession? Un bilan franco-allemand sur l’époque moderne (XVIe–XVIIIe siècles) (Paris, 2010), 355–71. 6. See e.g. Kaspar von Greyerz (ed.), Interkonfessionalität – Transkonfessionalität – ­binnenkonfessionelle Pluralität: neue Forschungen zur Konfessionalisierungsthese (Gütersloh, 2003); cf. idem, Religion and Culture in Early Modern Europe (Oxford, 2008). 7. This is one of the principal arguments of Jonathan C.D. Clark, English Society 1660– 1832 (Cambridge, 2000). For a more cautious assessment see Andrew C. Thompson, ‘Early Eighteenth-Century Britain as a Confessional State’, in Hamish Scott and Brendan Simms (eds), Cultures of Power in Europe during the Long Eighteenth Century (Cambridge, 2007), 86–109. 8. Clarissa Campbell Orr, ‘The Late Hanoverian Court and the Christian Enlightenment’, in Schaich (ed.), Religion and Monarchy, 307–43; cf. Clark, English Society, 256–83, 300–17. 9. Dale van Kley, ‘The Religious Origins of the French Revolution’, in Peter R. Campbell (ed.), The Origins of the French Revolution (Basingstoke, 2006), 160–90, p. 187; cf. Michel Vovelle, La Révolution contre l’Église. De la Raison à l’Étre Suprême (Brussels, 1988); and Michael Burleigh, Earthly Powers: The Clash of Religion and Politics in Europe, from the French Revolution to the Great War (London, 2005), 67–112. 10. Anne McLaren, ‘Political Ideas: Two Concepts of the State’, in Susan Doran and Norman Jones (eds), The Elizabethan World (Abingdon, 2011), 92–112, pp. 107–8 on Edmund Plowden’s theory of the king’s two bodies and its application to Mary Queen of Scots and Elizabeth I. 11. ‘On verra coexister sur deux siècles, intriquées en une secrète et mortelle contradiction, une monarchie d’abstraction, œuvrant à l’impersonification de l’État, et une monarchie d’incarnation, réactivée dans sa traditionnelle identité de sang, par la neuve exigence de durée.’ Marcel Gauchet, ‘L’État au miroir de la raison d’État: La France et la chrétienté’, in Yves Charles Zarka (ed.), Raison et déraison d’État (Paris, 1994), 193–244, p. 210. 12. For the notion of histoire croisée, see Michael Werner (ed.), De la comparaison à l’histoire croisée (Paris, 2004). 13. Marc Bloch, Les rois thaumaturges (Paris, 1961). The other classical work which looks at the history of the two great monarchies in a comparative perspective is Ernst H. Kantorowicz, The King’s Two Bodies. A Study in Medieval Political Theology (Princeton, N.J., 1957). For a more recent attempt to give an overall interpretation of the history of kingship as an institution, going beyond France and England, see Bernhard Jussen (ed.), Die Macht des Königs. Herrschaft in Europa vom Frühmittelalter bis in die Neuzeit (Munich, 2005). Despite its title, however, it studiously neglects the period after 1500. 14. One might, however, take John Pocock’s study of common law, The Ancient Constitution and the Feudal Law (Cambridge, 1957), as an example of an approach which assumed the insularity of English political thought before 1640, although Pocock later moved away from this position. Pocock’s hero, Sir Edward Coke, famously quoted Vergil in 1628: ‘[toto] divisos ab orbe Britannos’. The Selected Writings of Sir Edward Coke, ed. Steve Sheppard, 3 vols (Indianapolis, Ind., 2003), vol. 3, 1232. But he and other common lawyers may have been more influenced by Roman law and continental thought than they were prepared to admit.

Notes | 169

15. It is remarkable that the most recent comprehensive work on the culture of monarchy in England between the Reformation and the early eighteenth century entirely shuns any comparative approach and does not really discuss interactions between England and the continent. See Kevin Sharpe, Selling the Tudor Monarchy. Authority and Image in Sixteenth-Century England (New Haven, Conn., 2009); and idem, Image Wars. Promoting Kings and Commonwealths in England, 1603–1660 (New Haven, Conn., 2010). 16. For this approach see Steven C.A. Pincus, 1688: The First Modern Revolution (New Haven, Conn., 2009), but similar tendencies are visible in Jonathan Scott, England’s Troubles: Seventeenth-Century English Political Instability in European Context (Cambridge, 2000). 17. For the notion of absolutism and its pitfalls see Nicholas Henshall, The Myth of Absolutism: Change and Continuity in Early Modern European Monarchy (London, 1992); Ronald G. Asch and Heinz Duchhardt (eds), Der Absolutismus – ein Mythos? (Cologne, 1996); Richard Bonney, The Limits of Absolutism in Ancien Régime France (Aldershot, 1995); Fanny Cosandey and Robert Descimon, L’Absolutisme en France. Histoire et historiographie (Paris, 2002); but also Wim Blokmans, André Holenstein and Jon Mathieu (eds), Empowering Interactions: Political Cultures and the Emergence of the State in Europe 1300– 1900 (Farnham, 2009); and, for the eighteenth century, Ronald G. Asch, ‘Absolutism and Royal Government’, in Peter H. Wilson (ed.), A Companion to Eighteenth-Century Europe (Oxford, 2008), 451–63. 18. Mark Goldie, ‘The Political Thought of the Anglican Revolution’, in R. Beddard (ed.), The Revolutions of 1688 (Oxford, 1991), 103–36, p. 111. 19. For a recent successful attempt to do so see Tony Claydon, Europe and the Making of England, 1660–1780 (Cambridge, 2007). 20. Jean-Frédéric Schaub, La France espagnole: les racines hispaniques de l’absolutisme français (Paris, 2003); and Gérard Sabatier and Margarita Torrione (eds), ¿Louis XIV espagnol? Madrid et Versailles, images et modèles (Versailles, 2009). 21. William Barlow, The Summe and Substance of the Conference (London, 1605), 75; cf. Joseph R. Tanner (ed.), Constitutional Documents of the Reign of James I, A. D. 1603– 1625 (Cambridge, 1952), 60–9. 22. Ronald G. Asch, ‘No bishop no king oder cuius regio eius religio. Die Deutung und Legitimation des fürstlichen Kirchenregiments und ihre Implikationen für die Genese des “Absolutismus” in England und im protestantischen Deutschland’, in idem and Duchhardt (eds), Der Absolutismus, 79–124, in particular 92–5. 23. Jeffrey R. Collins, The Allegiance of Thomas Hobbes (Oxford, 2007), 279. 24. Patricia Springborg (ed.), The Cambridge Companion to Hobbes’s Leviathan (Cambridge, 2007), 243–336; Hans-Dietrich Metzger, Thomas Hobbes und die englische Revolution 1640–1660 (Munich, 1991); Jon Parkin, Taming the Leviathan: The Reception of the Political and Religious Ideas of Thomas Hobbes, 1640–1700 (Cambridge, 2007); and Collins, The Allegiance of Thomas Hobbes. Quentin Skinner, Hobbes and Republican Liberty (Cambridge, 2008), takes a different approach. 25. Van Kley, ‘The Religious Origins of the French Revolution’, 169. See Edward Muir, Ritual in Early Modern Europe (Cambridge, 1997) for a subtle assessment of the relationship between Protestantism and ritual. Muir rightly emphasizes that Protestantism had its own rituals and cannot be equated with a disenchantment of the world ‘tout court’. But Protestantism placed much greater emphasis on the seeming clarity of the word as opposed to the ambiguities of visual representations, and on the faith and sincerity of

170 | Notes

the individual as a precondition for any religious act to be effective (Muir, Ritual in Early Modern Europe, 185–98). 26. Cf. below pp. 112–16 and Van Kley, ‘The Religious Origins of the French Revolution’, 172–3. 27. Ibid., 169, 187. 28. Louis Maimbourg, The History of the League Written in French by Monsieur Maimbourg, Transl. into English according to His Majesty’s Command by Mr. Dryden (London, 1684), preface (no pagination). For Maimbourg see Jean-Louis Quantin, ‘“Croisades et supercroisade?” Les Histoires de Maimbourg et la politique de Louis XIV’, in Chantal Grell and Werner Paravicini (eds), Les Princes et l’histoire du XIVe au XVIIe siècle (Bonn, 1998), 619–44. 29. For Dryden’s position see Philip Hart, Pen for a Party: Dryden’s Tory Propaganda in its Context (Princeton, N.J., 1993), ch. 5. 30. Ronald G. Asch, ‘Sacred Kingship in France and England in the Age of the Wars of Religion: From Disenchantment to Re-enchantment?’, in Charles W.A. Prior and Glenn Burgess (eds), England’s Wars of Religion Revisited (Farnham, 2011), 27–48. 31. Some of the new studies of political culture and symbolic communication which have done so much to enrich our understanding of politics in the early modern period tend, at times, to neglect the theological and religious aspects of this subject. This is true even of the excellent and admirable study of political ceremonial in the Holy Roman Empire by Barbara Stollberg-Rilinger, Des Kaisers alte Kleider. Verfassungsgeschichte und Symbolsprache des Alten Reiches (Munich, 2008). An important new publication for England which does take account of religious mentalities and theological debate is Alice Hunt, The Drama of the Coronation. Medieval Ceremony in Early Modern England (Cambridge, 2008). For France, Jean-Marie Le Gall’s inspiring study of Saint-Denis examines the theological traditions as well the liturgy and ceremonial of royal funerals associated with the monastery outside Paris, which served as a mausoleum for the kings of France. Jean-Marie Le Gall, Le Mythe de Saint Denis. Entre renaissance et révolution (Seyssel, 2007). 32. Adam B. Seligman, Robert P. Weller, Michael J. Puett and Bennett Simon, Ritual and its Consequences. An Essay on the Limits of Sincerity (Oxford, 2008), 116: ‘Authority in the ritual case lies in the acceptance of social institutions (a Catholic priesthood or society itself for some Confucians) while for sincerity it lies instead in the individual’s inner states.’ 33. Lois Potter, Secret Rites and Secret Writing. Royalist Literature 1641–1660 (Cambridge, 1989), 182–3; John Milton, The Complete Prose Works, vol. 3: 1648–1649, ed. Merritt Y. Hughes (Newhaven, Conn., 1962), p. 553: ‘it is not hard for any man, who hath a bible in his hands, to borrow good words and holy sayings in abundance. But to make them his own, is a work of grace onely from above.’ Cf. ibid., 601 and 362, and below, p. 93. 34. See Niklas Luhmann, Gesellschaftsstruktur und Semantik. Studien zur Wissenssoziologie der modernen Gesellschaft, vol. 3 (2nd edn, Frankfurt am Main, 1998), ch. 3, ‘Individuum, Individualität, Individualismus’, p. 252. 35. Clark, English Society, 68, 489. 36. Michelle Anne White, Henrietta Maria and the English Civil Wars (Aldershot, 2008). 37. Dale van Kley, The Religious Origins of the French Revolution. From Calvin to the Civil Constitution, 1560–1791 (New Haven, Conn., 1996); Wolfgang Mager, ‘Die Anzweiflung des oberhirtlichen Kirchenregiments im Widerstand des jansenistischen Lagers gegen die Anerkennung der Bulle Unigenitus (1713) in Frankreich – Ein Beitrag zur Entstehungsgeschichte des modernen Konstitutionalismus’, in Neithart Bulst (ed.),

Notes | 171

Politik und Kommunikation. Zur Geschichte des Politischen in der Vormoderne (Frankfurt am Main, 2009), 147–249. 38. Justin A. Champion, The Pillars of Priestcraft Shaken: The Church of England and its Enemies, 1160–1730 (Cambridge, 1992), 221–2 and 229: ‘Indeed, we should not confuse the radicals’ plea for rationality with the cause of secularization or liberal modernity’ and ‘if to be “secular” one must call for the abolition of sacerdotalism then these men were secularists; in these terms the Reformation itself might be seen as a secular rather than a religious revival’. For the emphasis on a purely secular republicanism reviving Roman ideals, however, see Quentin Skinner, ‘Classical Liberty, Renaissance Translation and the English Civil War’, in idem, Visions of Politics, vol. 2, 308–43. 39. Mark Goldie, ‘Civil Religion and the English Enlightenment’, in Gordon J. Schochet (ed.), Politics, Politeness and Patriotism (Washington, D.C., The Folger Institute, 1993), 31–46, p. 44.

Chapter I  The Anglo-Gallican Moment 1. ‘The French monarchy was in general too implicated in sacramental conceptions not to have taken an attack on the Mass very personally.’ Dale van Kley, The Religious Origins of the French Revolution, 23. Cf. Christopher Elwood, The Body Broken. The Calvinist Doctrine of the Eucharist and the Symbolization of Power in Sixteenth-Century France (New York, 1999). 2. For the idea of a ‘surenchantement du monde’ see Denis Crouzet, Les Guerriers de Dieu. La violence au temps des troubles de religion (vers 1525–vers 1610), 2 vols (Paris, 1990), in particular vol. 1, 143, 495; and idem, Dieu en ses royaumes. Une histoire des guerres de religion (Seyssel, 2008), 39–42, 105–32. 3. Ann W. Ramsey, Liturgy, Politics, and Salvation: The Catholic League in Paris and the Nature of Catholic Reform, 1540–1630 (Rochester, N.Y., 1999). 4. See below p. 23. 5. ‘The League’s threat to the French monarchy, in still other words, consisted above all in a sort of political Donatism – a tendency to allow the moral deficiencies of the King’s mortal body and its entourage to invalidate the sacral efficiency of his office.’ Van Kley, The Religious Origins of the French Revolution, 29. 6. For the history of the League see Mack P. Holt, The French Wars of Religion, 1562–1629 (Cambridge, 1995), 121–53; Stuart Carroll, Martyrs and Murderers: The Guise Family and the Making of Europe (Oxford, 2009); Jean-Marie Constant, La Ligue (Paris, 1996); Ramsey, Liturgy, Politics, and Salvation. 7. Claire Cross, The Royal Supremacy in the Elizabethan Church (London, 1969); Peter Lake, Moderate Puritans and the Elizabethan Church (Cambridge, 1982); Patrick Collinson, The Elizabethan Puritan Movement (London, 1967). 8. Christopher Haigh, Elizabeth I (London, 1988), 27–46; Wallace McCaffrey, Elizabeth I (London, 1993), 297–326. Cf. Patrick Collinson, ‘Windows in a Woman’s Soul: Questions about the Religion of Queen Elizabeth I’, in idem, Elizabethan Essays (London, 1994), 87–118. 9. Natalie Mears, ‘Counsel, Public Debate and Queenship: John Stubb’s The Discoverie of a Gaping Gulf, 1579’, Historical Journal 44 (2001), 629–50; Ilona Bell, ‘“Souvereaigne Lord or Lordly Lady of this Land”: Elizabeth, Stubbs and the Gaping Gulf ’, in Julia

172 | Notes

M. Walker (ed.), Dissing Elizabeth. Negative Representations of Gloriana (Durham, NC, 1998), 99–116; Peter E. McCullough, ‘Out of Egypt: Richard Fletcher’s Sermon before Elizabeth I after the Execution of Mary Queen of Scots’, in Walker (ed.), Dissing Elizabeth, 118–49. Cf. Thomas S. Freeman, ‘Providence and Prescription: The Account of Elizabeth in Foxe’s Book of Martyrs’, in idem and Susan Doran (eds), The Myth of Elizabeth (Basingstoke, 2003), 27–55. 10. Howard Nenner, The Right to Be King: The Succession to the Crown of England, 1603–1714 (Basingstoke, 1995), 13–25; Jean-Christophe Mayer (ed.), The Struggle for the Succession in Late Elizabethan England: Politics, Polemics and Cultural Representations (Montpellier, 2004). 11. Patrick Collinson, ‘The Monarchical Republic of Queen Elizabeth I’, in idem, Elizabethan Essays, 31–57; John F. McDiarmid (ed.), The Monarchical Republic of Early Modern England: Essays in Response to Patrick Collinson (Aldershot, 2007); see also Peter Lake, ‘“The Monarchical Republic of Elizabeth I” Revisited (by its Victims) as a Conspiracy’, in Barry Coward and Julian Swann (eds), Conspiracies and Conspiracy Theory in Early Modern Europe: From the Waldensians to the French Revolution (Aldershot, 2004), 87–111. 12. John Hearsey McMillan Salmon, ‘Gallicanism and Anglicanism in the Age of the Counter-Reformation’, in idem, Renaissance and Revolt. Essays in the Intellectual and Social History of Early Modern France (Cambridge, 1987), 155–88; idem, The French Religious Wars in English Political Thought (Oxford, 1959). 13. Glenn Burgess, ‘Religious War and Constitutional Defence: Justifications of Resistance in English Puritan Thought, 1590–1643’, in Robert von Friedeburg (ed.), Widerstandsrecht in der frühen Neuzeit. Erträge und Perspektiven im deutsch-britischen Vergleich (Berlin, 2001), 185–206, esp. 189–96; cf. Glenn Burgess, ‘Regicide: The Execution of Charles I and English Political Thought’, in Robert von Friedeburg (ed.), Murder and Monarchy: Regicide in European History, 1300–1800 (Basingstoke, 2004), 212–36, pp. 214–15; and, more cautious, Glenn Burgess, British Political Thought, 1500–1600 (Basingstoke, 2009), 116–17. See also John Morrill, ‘Charles I, Tyranny and the English Civil War’, in idem, The Nature of the English Revolution (London, 1993), 285–306; and Robert von Friedeburg, Self-Defence and Religious Strife in Early Modern Europe. England and Germany, 1530–1680 (Aldershot, 2002), 177–96. 14. Hartmut Kretzer, Calvinismus und französische Monarchie im 17. Jahrhundert: Die politische Lehre der Akademien Sedan und Saumur; mit besonderer Berücksichtigung von Pierre Du Moulin, Moyse Amyraut und Pierre Jurieu (Berlin, 1975). 15. Lisa Ferraro Parmelee, Good Newes from Fraunce: French Anti-League Propaganda in Late Elizabethan England (Rochester, N.Y., 1996), 97–118, see also pp. 143–62 on the strong influence of Gallican ideas on English Catholic writers who tried to demonstrate their loyalty to the Tudor and, later, Stuart monarchy, and were opposed to the Jesuits. Gallican influences were especially visible in the Archpriest controversy from 1595 on, in which secular priests in England revolted against the dominance of Jesuits and sought some sort of accommodation with the Protestant state. See Patrick Martin and John Finnis, ‘The Secret Sharers: “Anthony Rivers” and the Appelant Controversy’, Huntington Library Quarterly 69 (2006), 195–257; and T.G. Law (ed.), The Archpriest Controversy. Documents Relating to the Dissensions of the Catholic Clergy, 1597–1602, 2 vols, Camden Society, 56, 58 (London, 1896–98). See also Victor Houliston, Catholic Resistance in Elizabethan England. Robert Persons’s Jesuit Polemic, 1580–1610 (Aldershot, 2007), 117– 34. For the intellectual exchange between the two countries see also Marie Celine Daniel,

Notes | 173

‘Livre politique et politique du livre: influence de l’actualité française des guerres de religion sur l’utilisation du livre comme instrument politique en Angleterre, entre 1570 et 1610’ (Ph.D. thesis, Paris-Sorbonne University, 2009). 16. For the notion of histoire croisée see Michael Werner and Bénédicte Zimmerman, ‘Beyond Comparison: Histoire Croisée and the Challenge of Reflexivity’, History and Theory 45 (2006), 30–50. 17. See Michel Ducheine, ‘Marie Stuart – une reine française en Écosse’, in François Laroque and Franck Lessay (eds), Enfers et délices à la renaissance (Paris, 2003), 79–89; John Guy, ‘My Heart is My Own’. The Life of Mary Queen of Scots (London, 2004). 18. Alexander S. Wilkinson, Mary Queen of Scots and French Public Opinion, 1542–1600 (Basingstoke, 2004), 103–56. 19. Arlette Jouanna, La France du XVIe siècle, 1483–1598 (Paris, 1996), 579, 589. 20. Paul E.J. Hammer, Elizabeth’s Wars (Basingstoke, 2003), 175–82, 192–9. See also Penry Williams, The Later Tudors. England 1547–1603 (Oxford, 1995), 271–90, 328–49. 21. For English Catholicism see Michael A. Mullett, Catholics in Britain and Ireland, 1558– 1829 (New York, 1998); Michael Questier, Catholicism and Community in Early Modern England. Politics, Aristocratic Patronage and Religion, c.1550–1640 (Cambridge, 2006); and Ethan Howard Shagan (ed.), Catholics and the ‘Protestant Nation’: Religious Politics and Identity in Early Modern England (Manchester, 2005). For the links with France see also, more specifically, Katy Gibbons, English Catholic Exiles in Late Sixteenth-Century Paris (Rochester, 2011). 22. See Jotham Parsons, The Church in the Republic. Gallicanism and Political Ideology in Renaissance France (Washington, D.C., 2004); Alain Tallon, Conscience nationale et sentiment religieux en France au XVIe siècle (Paris, 2002); Thierry Wanegffelen, Une difficile fidélité. Catholiques malgré le concil en France, XVIe–XVIIe siècles (Paris, 1999); and Sylvie Daubresse, Le Parlement de Paris ou la voix de la raison (1559–1589) (Geneva, 2005). 23. Stefania Tutino, Thomas White and the Blackloists: Between Politics and Theology during the English Civil War (Aldershot, 2008). Tutino also looks at the influence of Gallicanism in the early seventeenth century in the aftermath of the French Wars of Religion. For a later period see also Anthony Brown, ‘Anglo-Irish Gallicanism, 1635–1685’ (Ph.D. thesis, University of Cambridge, 2004). See further Anthony F. Allison, ‘An English Gallican: Henry Holden (1596/7–1662)’, pt. 1, Recusant History 22 (1995), 319–49; and A.M.C. Forster, ‘The Real Roger Widdrington’, Recusant History 11 (1971–2), 196–205. 24. See ‘Bishop, William (c.1554–1624)’, Oxford Dictionary of National Biography (ODNB) , accessed 7 Sept. 2012; Arnold Pritchard, Catholic Loyalism in Elizabethan England (London, 1979), 120–36, 157; and William Brown Patterson, ‘William Bishop as Catholic Theologian and Polemicist’, Recusant History 28 (2006), 209–34. 25. Parmelee, Goode Newes from Fraunce, 154, 158–61; cf. ‘Watson, William (1559?–1603)’, ODNB , accessed 7 Sept. 2012. 26. Salmon, ‘Gallicanism and Anglicanism’, 175–88; cf. Hugh Trevor-Roper, ‘Laudianism and Political Power’, in idem, Catholics, Anglicans and Puritans: Seventeenth-Century Essays (London, 1987), 40–119, pp. 99–100. 27. For the Gallican attitude towards the Church of England in the late sixteenth century see Tallon, Conscience nationale et sentiment religieux, 195–211. 28. Anthony Milton, Catholic and Reformed: The Roman and Protestant Churches in English Protestant Thought, 1660–1640 (Cambridge, 1995), 265–6. Cf. below pp. 123–24.

174 | Notes

29. Anthony Milton on Richard Montagu in Milton, Catholic and Reformed, 266; and William Brown Patterson, King James VI and I and the Reunion of Christendom (Cambridge, 1997). 30. See Tallon, Conscience nationale et sentiment religieux. 31. Cf. Joël Cornette, Henri IV à Saint-Denis. De l’abjuration à la profanation (Paris, 2010), who sees the Edict of Nantes as ‘le dernier acte fondateur de la refondation sacrale de l’État royal’, as it distinguished between the political subject who owed absolute obedience to the king and the believer who, in private, could choose his own religious ­allegiance (p. 111). 32. Jean Boucher, De Iusta Henrici tertii abdicatione a Francorum regno, libri quatuor (Paris, 1589), fo. 17v. In arguing that kings depended on popular assent in exercising their office, Boucher was in many ways following older Calvinist arguments. See Kléber Monod, The Power of Kings, 49, quoting the Vindiciae contra tyrannos, 1579, from Julian H. Franklin (ed.), Constitutionalism and Resistance in the Sixteenth Century. 3 Treatises (New York, 1969), 160 ‘no one is born a king and no one is a king by nature’. 33. Boucher was later to state that because they were constituted by the people, kings could easily be replaced by new princes elected according to tradition, even if it were assumed that they had all died without issue. If all priests and bishops were to die, however, Christ would have to come down from heaven in person to consecrate new ones, as their authority depended on an unbroken apostolic succession. This argument was designed to demonstrate that the priesthood was truly divine in character, whereas kingship was human. Jean Boucher, Sermons de la simulée conversion et nullité de la prétendue absolution de Henry de Bourbon […] (Paris, 1594), 4th sermon, p. 243 (misprinted as p. 443). 34. ‘Neque ullum omnino vel inter Christianos regnum est, in quo haereditaria successio sic polleat, quin penes populum constituendum ius remaneat’, ibid. 35. Nenner, The Right to Be King, 13–25. 36. David Loades, ‘The English State and the Death of Mary, Queen of Scots’, in von Friedeburg (ed.), Murder and Monarchy, 159–75; David Cressy, ‘Binding the Nation. The Bonds of Association, 1584 and 1696’, in DeLloyd J. Guth and John W. McKenna (eds), Tudor Rule and Revolution (Cambridge, 1982), 217–34; cf. Collinson, ‘The Monarchical Republic of Queen Elizabeth I’. 37. John D. Staines, The Tragic Histories of Mary Queen of Scots, 1560–1690: Rhetoric, Passions and Political Literature (Farnham, 2009); and Wilkinson, Mary Queen of Scots. 38. See James Henderson Burns, The True Law of Kingship. Concepts of Monarchy in Early Modern Scotland (Oxford, 1996), 226, 214–15. 39. Staines, The Tragic Histories of Mary Queen of Scots, 98, quoting Robert Turner, Histoire et vie de Marie Stuart (Paris, 1589); cf. Oraison funebre de la Royne d’Ecosse sur le sujet de celle, prononcée par Monsieur de Bourges [Renaud de Beaune] (Paris, 1588), 45: ‘Doncques sur une meme hache est tombée ce iour la Maiesté de tous les rois de la terre, un mesme glaive a avallé vostre teste, et la grandeur de tous les princes du monde’. 40. David El Kenz, ‘Les usages subversifs du martyre dans la France des troubles de religion. De la parole au geste’, in Frank Lestringant (ed.), Martyrs et martyrologes, Revue des Sciences Humaines 269 (2003), 33–51, p. 46. Images depicting the death of Catholic martyrs were especially important in this respect. See Paul Arblaster, Antwerp and the World: Richard Verstegan and the International Culture of Catholic Reformation (Löwen, 2004) for Richard Verstegan’s richly illustrated Theatrum Crudelitatum haereticorum

Notes | 175

nostri temporis (Antwerp, 1587), which was immediately translated into French as Theatre de cruautez des hereticques. 41. Carroll, Martyrs and Murderers, 259, referring to Charles Hotman, Jean Boucher, Jean Prévost and Matthieu Launay. For the exile community in Paris see also Katy Gibbons, ‘“A Reserved Place”? English Catholic Exiles and Contested Space in Late SixteenthCentury Paris’, French Historical Studies 32 (2009), 33–62. 42. Caroll, Martyrs and Murderers, 257. Of the hundreds of polemical writings and books published by laymen and clergy who supported the League in the decisive years 1587–8, between 20 and 25 per cent dealt with the death of Mary Queen of Scots or the sufferings of English Catholics; see Wilkinson, Mary Queen of Scots, 110, 111–27. 43. Staines, The Tragic Histories of Mary Queen of Scots, 102; Arblaster, Antwerp and the World, 41–3; see above n. 41. 44. Wilkinson, Mary Queen of Scots, 141; see also Louis Dorléans, Premier et second advertissements des catholiques anglois aux françois catholiques et à la noblesse qui suit à présent le roy de Navarre (Paris, 1590); and idem, Apologie ou defence des catholiques unis les uns avec les autres contre les impostures des catholiques associez à ceux de la pretendue religion (n.p., 1586). For Dorléans see also Frederic J. Baumgartner, Radical Reactionaries: The Political Thought of the French Catholic League (Geneva, 1975), 67–9, 71–3, 167–8. 45. Iean de Caumont Champenois, Advertissement des advertissements au peuple tres-chrestien (n.p., 1587), 18: ‘Que si tous ceux qui portent nom de maiesté ne vengent cest opprobre à eux fait, ains à Dieu mesme; duquel ils sont lieutenants en ce nom, ils se vilennent et degradent de tout honneur: leur sceptre deviendra houe et desormais leur personne ne sera ny sacree ny inviolable, puis qu’ils portent patiemment leur consors de maiesté estre le gibbier d’un bourreau.’ 46. Michael Wintroub, ‘Words, Deeds, and a Womanly King’, French Historical Studies 28 (2005), 387–413. Cf. Mark Greengrass, Governing Passions. Peace and Reform in the French Kingdom, 1576–1586 (Oxford, 2007), 59–65; Pierre Chevallier, Henri III: Roi Shakespearen (Paris, 1985); Jacqueline Boucher, La Cour de Henri III (Rennes, 1986); eadem, Société et mentalités autour de Henri III, 4 vols (Lille, 1981); and Nicolas Le Roux, La Faveur du Roi. Mignons et courtisans au temps des derniers Valois (vers 1547–vers 1589) (Seyssel, 2000), 671–716. 47. For such attacks see David Potter, ‘Kingship in the Wars of Religion: The Reputation of Henri III of France’, European History Quarterly 25 (1995), 485–528; cf. Keith Cameron, Henri III. A Maligned or Malignant King? Aspects of the Satirical Iconography of Henri de Valois (Exeter, 1978); and David Bell, ‘Unmasking a King: The Political Uses of Popular Culture under the Catholic League, 1588–89’, Sixteenth Century Journal 20 (1989), 371–86. 48. See Anita M. Walker and Edmund H. Dickerman, ‘The King Who Would Be Man: Henri III, Gender Identity, and the Murders at Blois, 1588’, Historical Reflections 24 (1998), 253–91. 49. Mark Greengrass, ‘Regicide, Martyrs and Monarchical Authority in France in the Wars of Religion’, in von Friedeburg (ed.), Murder and Monarchy, 176–92, pp. 183–4. 50. Nicolas Le Roux, Un régicide au nom de Dieu. L’Assassinat d’Henri III, 1er août 1589 (Paris, 2006), 256. For the attitude of the feuillants see also Pierre Benoist, La Bure et le sceptre: La Congrégation des Feuillants dans l’affirmation des États et des pouvoirs princiers (vers 1560–vers 1660) (Paris, 2006). See also [Bernard de Montgailliard], Response de

176 | Notes

Domp Bernard, Doyen de l’Oratoire de Saint Bernard des Feuillans lez Paris, à une lettre à luy escrite et envoyee par Henry de Valois (Paris, 1589), 44–5. 51. Thierry Amalou, ‘Une Sorbonne régicide? Autorité, zèle et doctrine de la Faculté de théologie de Paris pendant la Ligue (1588–1593)’, in Les universités en Europe (1450– 1815), Bulletin de l’Association des Historiens modernistes des Universités française (Paris, 2013), 77–116. In January 1589 the Sorbonne had, in fact, already issued a declaration that by murdering a prince of the church (the Cardinal de Guise) the king had lost his right to the crown and the parlement had ratified this judgement. See Mario Turchetti, Tyrannie et tyrannicide de l’Antiquité à nos jours (Paris, 2001), 462. 52. The Huguenots had even destroyed royal tombs in prominent French cities such as Orléans, Bourges and Tours. See Greengrass, ‘Regicide, Martyrs and Monarchical Authority’, 188, with reference to Crouzet, Les Guerriers de religion, vol. 1, 757–8. For the Catholic attack on royal symbols see Le Roux, Un régicide au nom de Dieu, 161–5. 53. Le Roux, Un régicide au nom de Dieu, 161. 54. For the ideals of the crusade see Amalou, ‘Une Sorbonne régicide?’, 82; Luc Racaut, ‘The Polemical Use of the Albigensian Crusade during the French Wars of Religion’, French History 13 (1999), 261–79. Cf. Ariane Boltanski, Les Ducs des Nevers et l’État royal. Genèse d’un compromis (ca. 1550–ca. 1600) (Geneva, 2006), 454–60. The Duke of Nevers still hoped to persuade Henry III to lead such a crusade, whereas in 1589 the Leaguers were to pursue their project against the king. 55. Crouzet, Dieu en ses royaumes, 441, with reference to Jean de Caumont. See also ibid., 438–45; and Crouzet, Les Guerriers de religion, vol. 2, 500–1, referring to the destruction of an image of the king as founder and Grand Master of the Order of the Holy Ghost, and its replacement by a depiction of Christ at Emmaus among his disciples. Crouzet states: ‘Surtout il [le deuil] substitue au roi terrestre le Roi des rois, il place Paris sous l’unique règne spirituel du Christ-Roi’ (Les Guerriers de religion, vol. 2, 500). 56. See Amalou, ‘Une Sorbonne régicide?’, 80: ‘Autrement dit, les théologiens ligueurs auraient moins contribué à une théorie du droit de résistance qu’à une justification de circonstance du tyrannicide assise sur un projet théocratique.’ 57. In 1587, Iean de Caumont wrote in Advertissement des advertissements au peuple treschrestien that he was looking forward to a League victory. Then ‘Iesus Christ vaincra, Iesus Christ regnera, Iesus Christ sera roi de France et y aura son lieutenant, rendant sa iustice tousiours tres-Chrestien’ (p. 30). 58. Ultimately the Guise themselves seem to have thought about claiming the crown. See Jouanna, La France du XVIe siècle, 589; cf. eadem, ‘Les Guise et le sang de France’, in Yves Bellenger (ed.), Le Mécénat et l’influence des Guises (Geneva, 1997), 23–38. 59. Jouanna, La France du XVIe siècle, 601–2. 60. Le Roux, Un régicide au nom de Dieu, 254–7. 61. Crouzet, Dieu en ses royaumes, 440–5. For the idea of the assassin as a man elected by God see also Paul-Alexis Mellet, ‘L’Ange et l’assassin: les vocations extraordinaires et le régicide jusqu’a 1610’, in Marie-Luce Demonet (ed.), Hasard et providence XIVe–XVIIe siècle (2007), internet publication , accessed 13 June 2011. 62. For the figure of the vir heroicus as the perpetrator of tyrannicide see Robert von Friedeburg, ‘Bausteine widerstandsrechtlicher Argumente in der frühen Neuzeit (1523– 1668): Konfessionen, klassische Verfassungsvorbilder, Naturrecht, direkter Befehl Gottes, historische Rechte der Gemeinwesen’, in Christoph Strohm and Heinrich de Wall (eds),

Notes | 177

Konfessionalität und Jurisprudenz in der frühen Neuzeit (Berlin, 2009), 116–66, pp. 143–6. For Clément see Le Roux, Un régicide au nom de Dieu, 170. 63. Jacques Auguste de Thou, Historia sui temporis, 7 vols (London, 1733), vol. 4, book 46, section 10, pp. 767–8: ‘Siquidem postquam de regis morte Romae allatum est, ille in consistorio III. Eid. Septembr. habito praemeditatam orationem habuit, qua factum Clementis operi assumptae a Domino carnis et resurrectionis ejusdem mysterio a Habacuco vate praedicato, propter magnitudinem et rei admirationem comparat. Tum virtutem hominis, animi robor, et ferventem erga Deum amorem apud Eleazarum et Juditham multis verbis extollit; ex eoque colligit, hoc nisi certa divinae providentiae ordinatione ac auxilio confici non potuisse; neque vero ipsum crediturum fuisse, nisi fidem ad obsequium Christi flexisset, qui ratione omnem fidem superante Parisiensem civitatem liberasset, et gravissima regis peccata puniviset, tumque tam infausta morte e medio sustulisset.’ (I am grateful to Markus Voelkel for this reference.) For this incident see also Nicola M. Sutherland, Henry IV of France and the Politics of Religion, 2 vols (Bristol, 2002), vol. 1, 265. 64. ‘Addunt impii in oratione illa Romae edita facinus clementis resurrectionis mysterio comparari posse.’ [Louis Servin], Vindiciae secundum libertatem ecclesiae gallicanae et regii status Gallofrancorum, sub Henrico III (n.p., 1593; 1st edn 1590), 39. 65. As Ramsey, Liturgy, Politics, and Salvation, has put it: ‘politique texts, like politique action, depended upon the creation of boundaries between the sacred and the profane’ (p. 57), and ‘[t]he Leaguer culture of religious immanence, which required an enactment of palpable connections to the sacred, was inextricable from Leaguer expressions of political engagement, which were in turn based in a particular sacral understanding of polis and politics. In Pasquier, it is the horror of a true partisan of transcendence that underlies and motivates his satire of League devotional practices and Leaguer political engagement’ (p. 73). (Etienne Pasquier was one of the more prominent politique critics of the League.) 66. Robert Descimon and José Javier Ruiz Ibáñez, Les Ligueurs de l’exil. Le refuge catholique français après 1594 (Paris, 2005), 21–8; for a similar interpretation see Denis Crouzet, ‘Les Fondements idéologiques de la royauté d’Henri IV’, in Jacques Pérot and Pierre Tucoo-Chala (eds), Henri IV: Le Roi et la reconstruction du royaume (Pau, 1990), 165–94, pp. 174–6, 180–2. 67. Étienne Pasquier, ‘L’Antimartyr de frere Jacques Clement de l’Ordre des Jacobins’, in idem, Ecrits politiques. Textes réunis, publiés et annotés par Dorothy Thikett (Geneva, 1966), 185–246, p. 215. 68. ‘Accepto speciali mandato tanquam divini iudicii nuncius a domino missus’, and ‘tantum posse [...], ordinariae suae iurisdictionis authoritate, sine expresso dei mandato, quantum prophetae, domine specialiter et expressum iubente potuerunt’. William Barclay, De potestate papae liber posthumus eiusdem de regno et regali potestate, adversus Buchanum […] et reliquos monarchomachos, libri VI (Hanau, 1612), 140 and 143. For a discussion of the power of the Pope see Stefania Tutino, Empire of Souls: Robert Bellarmine and the Christian Commonwealth (Oxford, 2010). For the royalists or politiques and opponents of the monarchomachs see Marie-France Renoux-Zagamé, Du droit de Dieu au droit de l’homme (Paris, 2003), 296–316; eadem, ‘Du juge-prêtre au roi-idole. Droit divin et constitution de l’État dans la pensée juridique française à l’aube des temps modernes’, in Jean-Louis Thireau (ed.), Le droit entre laïcisation et néo-sacralisation (Paris, 1997), 143–86. See further Thierry Wanegffelen (ed.), De Michel de L’Hospital à l’édit de Nantes. Politique et religion face aux Églises (Clermont-Ferrand, 2002).

178 | Notes

69. Guillelmus Rossaeus, De iusta rei publicae in reges impios authoritate (Antwerp, 1592), 58, cf. 48–64. The book was first published in Paris in 1590. For Rossaeus and his identification with Reynolds see J.H.M. Salmon, ‘Catholic Resistance Theory, Ultramontanism, and the Royalist Response’, in J.H. Burns and Mark Goldie (eds), The Cambridge History of Political Thought, 1450–1700 (Cambridge, 1991), 219–53, pp. 226–8. Others, however, identify Rossaeus with the Bishop of Senlis, Guillaume Rose. See Myriam Yardeni, La Conscience nationale en France pendant les guerres de religion (1559–1598) (Louvain, 1971), 226–7. 70. Anton Haueter, ‘Die Krönungen der französischen Könige im Zeitalter des Absolutismus und in der Restauration’ (Ph.D. thesis, University of Zurich, 1975), 300–302. Cf. Jacques Krynen, L’Empire du Roi. Idées et croyances politiques en France, XIIIe–XVe siècle (Paris, 1993), 349–51. 71. Responce des vrays Catholiques françois, à l’Advertissement des catholiques anglois, pour l’exclusion du roy de Navarre de la couronne de France (n.p., 1588). This tract is sometimes attributed not to Louis Dorléans but to Denis Bouthillier, Sieur de Fouilletourte (see the catalogue of the Herzog August Bibliothek Wolfenbüttel for A:79.11.Pol). 72. ‘Il suffit que leur [the kings’] reception n’est point consommée et parfait sans çela, et que c’est le seul moyen pour en oster toute doute et pour legitimer nos rois’, Dorléans, Responce des vrays Catholiques françois, 451, but cf. 452. Only somebody who has the capacity to be crowned can be king. 73. Louis Dorléans, Advertissement, des catholiques anglois aux françois catholiques (Paris 1586), 73. 74. Against this interpretation see the following statements by Kléber Monod: ‘If Protestantism pointed towards demystifying the royal body, Counter Reformation Catholicism often did so much more boldly, by reasserting the purificatory ideal of the ascetic self ’ (The Power of Kings, 51), and: ‘Christian kings were no more divine than any other creature, and they did not exercise a priestly role’ (The Power of Kings, 53). As we have seen, this is not quite true if we look at the vision of kingship to which the League or, at least, many of its supporters subscribed. 75. Alexandre Maral, La Chapelle Royale de Versailles sous Louis XIV. Cérémonial, liturgie et musique (Sprimont, 2002), 290; Guillaume Marlot, Le Théâtre d’honneur et de magnificence préparé au sacre des roys (Reims, 1643), 143–50. 76. ‘Le pape comme prestre celebre la Messe, le Roy comme Roy chante souz luy l’evangile’. Dorléans, Responce des vrays Catholiques françois, 239. 77. Ibid., 240; see also the argument (on p. 461, misprinted as p. 401) that as the English had executed Mary Queen of Scots because she was a Catholic, the French had the right to exclude Henry of Navarre from the succession. For Gallicanism among the theologians and pamphletists of the League see also, concerning Jean Boucher, Turchetti, Tyrannie et tyrannicide, 463. 78. Turchetti, Tyrannie et tyrannicide, 162–3, 164. 79. Hubertus Morus, De sacris unctionibus libri tres, in quibus de sancta ampulla et Francorum Regum Consecratione diffuse tractatur. Authore H. Moro [Hubert Meurier] (Paris, 1593). Cf. Marc Bloch, Les rois thaumaturges, 341. 80. ‘Sacrosancta illa et caelestis unctio qua reges nostri, summo dei favore perunguntur, corpora eorum mentesque sanctificat, vires corroborat, ius regendi populum dei sanctum dat vel confirmat, authoritatem affert, benevolentiam confirmat, reverentiam inducit.’ Morus, De sacris unctionibus, 328. Cf. p. 62 where Meurier writes that

Notes | 179

David and Solomon were merely private individuals before they were crowned and anointed. 81. Ibid., 262, about Henry III: ‘ut quod sanctam suscipiens unctionem, sicut et sacram postea communionem, parum id religiose facere visus est’. 82. Ibid., 262; cf. Bloch, Les rois thaumaturges, 341. 83. Morus, De sacris unctionibus, 330, cf. 232. 84. ‘Falluntur autem hodie nonnulli [...] qui tam immodice de principibus et pontificibus sentient et loquuntur, quasi illi sub caelo, ut deus in caelo et supra caelum omnia p ­ ossint.’ Ibid., 340. 85. For the conversion see Cornette, Henri IV à Saint-Denis; Michael Wolfe, The Conversion of Henri IV. Politics, Power and Religion in Early Modern France (Cambridge, Mass., 1993), 134–58; and Ronald S. Love, Blood and Religion: The Conscience of Henri IV, 1553–1593 (Montreal, 2001). 86. ‘C’est trop jugé de l’interieur et rechercher les actions d’un Prince. De ma part je ne juge que de ce que je vois. Je le vois aller à la messe, et consequemment je croys qu’il est catholique.’ François Cromé, Dialogue d’entre le maheustre et le manant, ed. Peter M. Ascoli (Geneva, 1977), 66. 87. John J. Martin, ‘Inventing Sincerity, Refashioning Prudence: The Discovery of the Individual in Renaissance Europe’, American Historical Review 102 (1997), 1309–42; see also idem, Myths of Renaissance Individualism (Basingstoke, 2004). Martin is at present working on a history of sincerity. For the problem of hypocrisy and deception during the French Wars of Religion see also Xavier Le Person, ‘Practiques’ et ‘Practiqueurs’. La Vie politique à la fin du régne de Henri III (1584–1589) (Geneva, 2002). 88. An outward conformity to a religion imposed by the secular magistrate which one really, at heart, rejected. 89. For treachery as the ‘ethical nightmare’ of the Renaissance see also Allan Silver, ‘Friendship and Trust as Moral Ideals: An Historical Approach’, Archives Européennes de Sociologie 30 (1989), 274–97, p. 288. For enforced conformity see Frauke Volland, ‘Konfession, Konversion und soziales Drama. Ein Plädoyer für die Ablösung des Paradigmas der “konfessionellen Identität”’, in Kaspar von Greyerz (ed.), Interkonfessionalität – Transkonfessionalität – binnenkonfessionelle Pluralität. Neue Forschungen zur Konfessionalisierungthese (Gütersloh, 2003), 91–104, esp. 103; and Peter Dinzelbacher, ‘Das erzwungene Individuum. Sündenbewußtsein und Pflichtbeichte’, in Richard von Dülmen (ed.), Entdeckung des Ich (Cologne, 2001), 41–60. 90. See Luhmann, Gesellschaftsstruktur und Semantik, 252: ‘Individuum, Individualität, Individualismus’. Luhmann argues that because they did not yet see themselves as distinctive and unique individuals, most people failed to develop the sort of ‘eingeübte Selbstbeschreibung’ (well-practised self-description) that confessors and other ­representatives of the church expected them to display (see also ibid., 187–91). 91. Greengrass, Governing Passions, 303–11; cf. Chevallier, Henri III, 543–57. Cf. above, p. 22. 92. Tallon, Conscience nationale et sentiment religieux, 125–32. Henry III failed in his role as a sacerdotal king ‘voulant prendre la tête de la Réforme catholique sans comprendre son caractère clérical, s’appropriant sa spiritualité tout en gardant des réflexes d’un autre temps, celui d’un gallicanisme royal hégémonique’ (p. 131). 93. As Tallon affirms, Henry IV ‘jette les bases d’une monarchie dévote qui s’épanouit sous Louis XIII et Louis XIV’ (Conscience nationale et sentiment religieux, 135). For the

180 | Notes

king’s support of the Jesuits see also Eric Nelson, The Jesuits and the Monarchy: Catholic Reform and Political Authority in France (1590–1615) (Aldershot, 2005), esp. 97–145; and Barbara Diefendorf, ‘Henri IV, the Dévots and the Making of a French Catholic Reformation’, in Alison Forrestal and Eric Nelson (eds), Politics and Religion in Early Bourbon France (Basingstoke, 2009), 157–79. 94. Isabelle Dubail, ‘Le Sacrifice de Fontainebleau (1600)’, in Paul Mironneau and Isabelle Pébay-Clottes (eds), Paix des armes, paix des âmes. Actes du colloque international de Pau 8–11 Octobre 1998 (Paris, 2000), 395–403; Hugues Daussy, Les Huguenots et le roi. Le Combat politique de Philippe Duplessis-Mornay (1572–1600) (Geneva, 2002), 730–1; Cornette, Henri IV à Saint-Denis, 84–5; and Michael Wolfe, ‘Exegesis as Public Performance: Controversialist Debate and Politics at the Conference of Fontainebleau (1600)’, in Forrestal and Nelson (eds), Politics and Religion in Early Bourbon France, 65–85. 95. Jean Boucher, Sermons de la simulée conversion et nullité de la prétendue absolution de Henry de Bourbon, prince de Bearn, à S. Denys en France, le dimanche 25 juillet 1593 (Paris, 1594). 96. Jean Porthaise, Cinq sermons du R. P. J. Porthaise, […] théologal de l’église de Poictiers, par luy prononcez en icelle, esquels est traicté tant de la simulée conversion du Roy de Navarre que du droit de l’absolution ecclésiastique [...] (Paris, 1594), 41–2. For Porthaise see also Megan C. Armstrong, The Politics of Piety: Franciscan Preachers during the French Wars of Religion (Rochester, N.Y., 2004). 97. This side-effect of the conversion is emphasized by Cornette, Henri IV à Saint-Denis, 89–90, following Denis Crouzet. 98. For the coronation see 1594, Le Sacre d’Henri IV à Chartres. Musée des Beaux-Arts de Chartres (Chartres, 1994). 99. For this proposal by Claude Fauchet, a strongly Gallican Catholic, see Tallon, Conscience nationale et sentiment religieux, 133; and, Janet Girvan. Espiner-Scott, Claude Fauchet. Sa vie, son œuvre (Paris, 1938), 363. 100. Diefendorf, ‘Henri IV, the Dévots and the Making of a French Catholic Reformation’, 160, following Yves-Marie Bercé, ‘Henri IV et la maîtrise des opinions populaires’, in Avènement d’Henri IV, quatrième centenaire, vol. 1: Quatrième centenaire de la Bataille de Coutras (Pau, 1989), 111–24, p. 121. See also Ann W. Ramsey, ‘The Ritual Meaning of Henry IV’s 1594 Parisian Entry’, in Nicolas Russell and Hélène Visentin (eds), French Ceremonial Entries in the Sixteenth Century: Event, Image, Text (Toronto, 2007), 189–296. 101. Descimon and Ruiz Ibáñez, Les Ligueurs de l’exil, 28: ‘la recharge sacrale dont fut l’objet la personne royale’; and Cornette, Henri IV à Saint-Denis, 102. 102. For such an interpretation see e.g. Joël Cornette, ‘“Deux Soleils en la France”. L’Événement dans la théorie de l’état royal au temps de Pierre de Bérulle et de Gabriel Naudé’, in Serge Berstein and Pierre Milza (eds), Axes et méthodes de l’histoire politique (Paris, 1998), 163–200. 103. Against this assumption see the statement by Thierry Amalou in Le Lys et la mitre. Loyalisme monarchique et pouvoir episcopal pendant les guerres des religion (1580–1610) (Paris, 2007), 344: ‘Pour autant cette religion civique est tout sauf une sécularisation’ (with reference to the religious culture of Senlis and the new commitment to the Bourbon monarchy). Cf. idem, p. 472. 104. Denis Crouzet, Le Haut cœur de Catherine de Médicis (Paris, 2005), 566. Cf. Marcel Gauchet, ‘L’État au miroir de la raison d’État’, 193–244, p. 210, as quoted above, introduction, p. 3.

Notes | 181

105. For this process see also Ralph E. Giesey, Rulership in France, 15th–17th Centuries (Aldershot, 2004), in particular the chapter ‘Royal Ceremonial and the Advent of Absolutism’, 251–69, esp. 262, 264; see also the chapter ‘The Two Bodies of the French King’ in ibid., pp. 301–36. 106. Crouzet, Le Haut cœur de Catherine de Médicis, 565. 107. Or, as Denis Crouzet has put it: ‘une royauté stoïcienne se mythifie dans la personne d’un roi qui n’est autre que la réincarnation du mythique héros du renouveau du monde’. And ‘le stoïcisme fut l’élément refondateur d’une sacralité de la personne monarchique. Le roi incarne la vie, le principe de la vie qu’est la Raison. Dieu ou demi-Dieu, il ne peut mourir’. Crouzet, Dieu en ses royaumes, 455, 457. See also idem, ‘Les Fondements idéologiques de la royauté d’Henri IV’, 174–6, 180–2, 190. For the re-enchantment of kingship after 1593–4 see also Annette Finley-Crosswhite, ‘Henry IV and the Diseased Body Politic’, in Martin Gosman, Alasdair MacDonald and Arjo Vanderjagt (eds), Princes and Princely Culture, 1450–1650 (Leiden, 2003), 131–46; and Penny Roberts, ‘The Kingdom’s Two Bodies? Corporeal Rhetoric and Royal Authority during the Religious Wars’, French History 21 (2007), 147–64, pp. 159–61. 108. Lawrence M. Bryant, Ritual, Ceremony, and the Changing Monarchy in France, 1350– 1789 (Farnham, 2001), pp. 127–54; cf. Corrado Vivanti, ‘Henry IV the Gallic Hercules’, Journal of the Warburg and Courtauld Institutes 30 (1967), 176–97. For the image of Henry IV see also Paul Mironneau, ‘Images du bon roi’, in 1594, Le Sacre d’Henri IV à Chartres, 287–301. 109. Denis Crouzet, ‘Henri IV, King of Reason?’, in Keith Cameron (ed.), From Valois to Bourbon: Dynasty, State and Society in Early Modern France (Exeter, 1989), 73–106, p. 87; cf. Crouzet, Dieu en ses royaumes, 446–7. 110. [André Valladier], Labyrinthe royale de l’Hercule Gaulois triomphant […] (Avignon, 1601), 174. Cf. Edmund H. Dickerman and Anita M. Walker, ‘The Choice of Hercules: Henry IV as Hero’, Historical Journal 39 (1996), 315–37. 111. Cf. Marie-France Wagner, Les Entrées royales et solennelles du règne d’Henri IV dans les villes françaises, 2 vols (Paris, 2010). 112. Kléber Monod, The Power of Kings, 78. 113. Ramsey, ‘The Ritual Meaning of Henry IV’s 1594 Parisian Entry’, 200, 202. 114. Ramsey actually writes: ‘this ritual stance [which the Bourbon monarchy had taken in the 1590s] ultimately left the monarchy unable to negotiate the transition to the newer understandings of sign and referent in the eighteenth-century culture of popular ­skepticism about the sacrality of the person of the king.’ Ibid., 203. 115. Amalou, Le Lys et la mitre, 371–426, 468–81, and esp. 344, 469. See also Amalou’s overall assessment of the new political and religious culture: ‘En effet un véritable culte civique (autour du saint patron) alimenté par les espoirs de paix, se renforça et fusionna avec le culte monarchique’ and ‘L’élection de la ville était ainsi concomitante de l’élection divine du roi. Cette vision providentialiste facilita sans doute une migration du sacré propre de l’Église vers le roi et l’État monarchique’ (p. 477). 116. Christian Desplat, ‘La Religion d’Henri IV’, in Jacques Pérot and Pierre Tucoo-Chala (eds), Henri IV: Le Roi et la reconstruction du royaume (Pau, 1990), 223–67. According to Desplat, Henry saw himself as God’s elect; at the centre of his own faith was the ­traditional religion royale. 117. The text of the speech (in English) can be found in Eric Nelson, ‘Royal Authority and the Pursuit of a Lasting Religious Settlement’, in Forestal and Nelson (eds), Religion and

182 | Notes

Politics in Early Bourbon France, 107–31, pp. 124–7 (quotations at p. 125), but it is also quoted by Cornette in Henri IV à Saint-Denis, 111. One of the main published sources for the speech, which exists in different versions, is Pierre de L’Estoile, Mémoires-journaux 1574–1611, 12 vols (Paris, 1875–96), vol. 7, 164–8. 118. Cornette, Henri IV à Saint-Denis, 106, 111–17. 119. Sylvio Hermann De Franceschi, ‘La Genèse française du catholicisme d’État et son aboutissement au début du ministériat de Richelieu. Les catholiques zélés à l’épreuve de l’affaire Santarelli et la clôture de la controverse autour du pouvoir pontifical au temporel (1626–1627)’, Annuaire-Bulletin de la Société de l’Histoire de France 525 (2001), 19–63, p. 62; cf. Renoux-Zagamé, Du droit de Dieu au droit de l’homme, 300. 120. Pierre Benoist, La Bure et le sceptre, 277, 296; cf. 356. 121. Cornette, Henri IV à Saint-Denis, 103. 122. Jean Christian Petitfils, L’Assassinat d’Henri IV. Mystères d’un crime (Paris, 2009), esp. 248–53; cf. [Jean Boucher], Apologie pour Iehan Chastel. Parisien, executé a mort, par François de Verone Constantin (n.p., 1610). For the culture of regicide see also Roland Mousnier, L’Assassinat d’Henri IV: 14 Mai 1610 (Paris, 1979); Pierre Chevallier, Les Régicides: Clément, Ravaillac, Damiens (Paris, 1989); and Monique Cottret, Tuer le tyran: Le Tyrannicide dans l’Europe moderne (Paris, 2009). 123. [Boucher], Apologie pour Iehan Chastel, 25. 124. Descimon and Ruiz Ibáñez, Les ligueurs de l’exil, 21–5. 125. Michel Cassan, La Grande Peur de 1610: les Français et l’assassinat d’Henri IV (Seyssel, 2010). 126. François Vrevin S.J., Oraison funébre prononcée en l’eglise de Rouen aux funerailles […] de Henri IIII roy de France (Rouen, 1610), 17. For the funeral sermons see also Jacques Hennequin, Henri IV dans ses Oraisons funèbres ou la naissance d’une légende (Paris, 1977). 127. Dominique Thibaut, Oraison funebre faite et pronounce à Paris en l’eglise de Saint Germain l’Auxerrois (Paris, 1610), 10–14. 128. Matthieu d’Abbeville, Discours funebre en l’honneur de Roy Henry le Grand (Paris, 1610), 43–4; Charles de Saint-Sixt, Sermon funèbre prononcée en l’église cathédrale de Riez, au service du grand et auguste Henri IIII (Paris, 1610), 23. See also Mellet, ‘L’Ange et l’assassin’, 10: ‘Cette sacralisation aboutit à faire du régicide de 1610 un véritable sacrifice royal’. 129. After Châtel’s attempt to assassinate the king, the parlement had erected a memorial with the inscription ‘Regibus ut scires sanctius esse nihil’. Robert Descimon, ‘Chastel’s Attempted Regicide (27 December 1594) and its Subsequent Transformation into an “Affair”’, in Forrestal and Nelson (eds), Politics and Religion in Early Bourbon France, 86–104, p. 102, n. 26. The authors of the inscription were both Protestants and Catholics – united, as Descimon argues, by their rejection of papal claims to supreme authority in spiritual and secular matters and of the Council of Trent. 130. Mellet, ‘L’Ange et l’assassin’, 12: ‘Il n’existe plus, après 1610, d’homme providentiel que le roi’. 131. André Valladier, ‘Oraison funebre de Henry Le Grand’, in Guillaume du Peyrat (ed.), Les Oraisons et discours funebres […] sur les trespas de Henri le Grand (Paris, 1611), 272–360, pp. 318–21. 132. In this context Valladier expressly mentioned the effigy of the dead king to which meals were served before the funeral and the fact that the conseillers of the parlement wore their red robes of office during the funeral procession, not black. Ibid., 301.

Notes | 183

133. For this sceptical assessment of the sacrality of kingship see Alain Boureau, Le Simple corps du roi. L’Impossible sacralité des souverains français, XVe–XVIIIe siècle (Paris, 1988); Jens Ivo Engels, ‘Das “Wesen” der Monarchie? Kritische Anmerkungen zum “Sakralkönigtum” in der Geschichtswissenschaft’, Maiestas 7 (1999), 4–39; idem, Königsbilder. Sprechen, Singen und Schreiben über den französischen König in der ersten Hälfte des achtzehnten Jahrhunderts (Bonn, 2000); and idem, ‘Beyond Sacral Monarchy: A New Look at the Image of the Early Modern French Monarchy’, French History 15 (2001), 139–58. 134. Le Gall, Le Mythe de Saint Denis, 425–6, according to Marcel Reinhard, La Légende de Henri IV (St Brieuc, 1935), 112. 135. Cornette, Henri IV à Saint-Denis, 231–72. For the persistance of the sacral aura of kingship beyond 1715 see also Dale van Kley, ‘The Religious Origins of the French Revolution’: ‘Historians who deny that any desacralization of the monarchy took place in eighteenth-century France seem implicitly to be arguing that, given the chance, Frenchmen would have gladly transformed the monarchy by the grace of God into one by the will of the Nation at any point from 1715 to 1789. To the contrary, it took nothing less than a quasi-religious war under the glare of a century of lights to bring them around to that point’ (p. 187). 136. D. Harris Willson, King James VI and I (London, 1956), 279; Pauline Croft, King James (Basingstoke, 2003), 162. 137. James I, ‘A Remonstrance for the Right of Kings’, in Political Works of James I, ed. Charles Howard McIlwain (Cambridge, Mass., 1918; reprint New York, 1965), 169–268, p. 245. 138. Alan Stewart, The Cradle King. A Life of James VI and I (London, 2004), pp. ix, 7–8, 125–6, 215–29. 139. Lancelot Andrewes, ‘A Sermon Preached before the King’s Majesty, at Holdenby on the Fifth of August, A. D. MDCX’, in idem, Ninety-Six Sermons, 5 vols (Oxford, 1841), vol. 4, 43–76, p. 58. For this sermon see also Robert Zaller, ‘Breaking the Vessels: The Desacralization of Monarchy in Early Modern England’, Sixteenth Century Journal 29 (1998), 757–78, pp. 759–60. 140. Andrewes, ‘A Sermon’, 58. 141. See Glenn Burgess, ‘The Divine Right of Kings Reconsidered’, in idem, Absolute Monarchy and the Stuart Constitution (New Haven, Conn., 1996), 91–124; Johann P. Sommerville, Royalists and Patriots: Politics and Ideology in England 1603–1640 (2nd edn, London, 1999), 9–13, 109–13. 142. Natalie Mears, Queenship and Political Discourse in the Elizabethan Realms (Cambridge, 2005), 73–194; McLaren, ‘Political Ideas’; Anne McLaren, Political Culture in the Reign of Elizabeth I: Queen and Commonwealth 1558–1585 (Cambridge, 1999); Burgess, British Political Thought, 92–101. 143. See above n. 11. 144. This is a point rightly emphasized by Peter Lake in ‘“The Monarchical Republic of Queen Elizabeth I” Revisited’. 145. Carole Levin, The Heart and Stomach of a King. Elizabeth I and the Politics of Sex and Power (Philadelphia, Pa., 1994), 10–38. Cf. Sharpe, Selling the Tudor Monarchy, 358–473. 146. Louis Montrose, The Subject of Elizabeth. Authority, Gender, and Representation (Chicago, Ill., 2006), 75. 147. Sharpe, Selling the Tudor Monarchy, 427. 148. Ibid., 427, 449.

184 | Notes

149. For a critical assessment see Helen Hackett, Virgin Mother, Maiden Queen: Elizabeth I and the Cult of the Virgin Mary (Basingstoke, 1995). 150. Sharpe, Selling the Tudor Monarchy, 354, cf. 468; Hackett, Virgin Mother, Maiden Queen, 39–50. 151. Or as Kevin Sharpe has put it in regard to Elizabeth’s clothes: ‘In their symbols, colours and designs, then, Elizabeth’s clothes, like her portraits, emblem jewels and brooches, connected the intimate private female body to the public body of the realm and resolved the tensions inherent in the queen’s two bodies and in the very fact of female rule’ (Selling the Tudor Monarchy, 415). In the parallel case of Henry III of France, the occasional play with gender identities further undermined his position and was seen as something which revealed a lack of virility (see above n. [48]) – but then different standards clearly applied to a male and a female ruler. For the sometimes almost hermaphroditic representations of Elizabeth see also Levin, The Heart and Stomach of a King, 121–48. 152. P. McCullough, ‘Out of Egypt’, 140. 153. Alexandra Walsham, ‘“A Very Deborah?” The Myth of Elizabeth I as a Providential Monarch’, in Doran and Freeman (eds), The Myth of Elizabeth, 143–68. 154. For Leigh see ‘Leigh, William (1550–1639)’, ODNB, , accessed 28 Jan. 2013. 155. William Leigh, Queene Elizabeth Paralleld in her Princely Vertues with David, Iosua and Hezekia […] in Three Sermons […] (London, 1612), preface, sign. A 4 verso. 156. See above, p. 28. 157. Brad Stephan Gregory, Salvation at Stake: Christian Martyrdom in Early Modern Europe (Cambridge, Mass., 1999), 295–6. For changing ideas of martyrdom in this period see also Thomas S. Freeman, ‘“Imitatio Christi with a vengeance”. The Politicisation of Martyrdom in Early Modern England’, in idem and Thomas F. Mayer (eds), Martyrs and Martyrdom in England, c.1400–1700 (Woodbridge, 2007), 35–69; and Peter Burschel, Sterben und Unsterblichkeit. Zur Kultur des Martyriums in der Frühen Neuzeit (Munich, 2004). 158. Leigh, Queene Elizabeth Paralleld, second sermon, 88. For Elizabeth I as a prophetess see also Anne McLaren, ‘Prophecy and Providentialism in the Reign of Elizabeth I’, in Bertrand Taithe and Tim Thornton (eds), Prophecy: The Power of Inspired Language in History, 1300–2000 (Sutton, 1997), 31–50. 159. Leigh, Queene Elizabeth Paralleld, first sermon, 52–3, cf. 69. 160. Ibid., third sermon, 119. 161. For Henry III see Le Roux, La Faveur du Roi, 278–88. 162. Freeman, ‘Providence and Prescription’, 27–55; cf. Walker, Dissing Elizabeth. 163. Montrose, The Subject of Elizabeth, 113. 164. Sharpe, Selling the Tudor Monarchy, 401–2. 165. Ibid., 480. 166. See e.g. Elizabeth’s ‘Golden Speech’ of 1601, delivered to Parliament. Elizabeth I, Collected Works, eds. Leah S. Marcus, Janet Muller and Mary Beth Rose. (Chicago, Ill., 2000), 335–54. 167. Patrick Collinson, The Religion of Protestants: The Church in English Society (Oxford, 1982), ch. 6: ‘Voluntary Religion’, 242–83. 168. Burgess, British Political Thought, 117–21; Willson, King James, 123: ‘I must tell you there are two Kings and two Kingdoms in Scotland. There is Christ Jesus the King and his Kingdom the Kirk: whose subject King James the Sixth is, and of whose Kingdom

Notes | 185

not a King, nor a lord, nor a head, but a member!’ For this incident, which occurred in 1596, see Melville, The Autobiography and Diary of Mr. James Melville, ed. Robert Pitcairn (Edinburgh, 1842), pt II, 370–1. For the situation in England see Lake, ‘“The Monarchical Republic of Elizabeth I” Revisited’, 139. 169. Hackett, Virgin Mother, Maiden Queen, 204, based on William Perkins, A Reformed Catholicke (Cambridge, 1598), 248. See also William Perkins, A Warning against the Idolatrie of the Last Times (Cambridge, 1601). 170. Hackett, Virgin Mother, Maiden Queen, 206: ‘Although in these books Perkins never directly addresses the subject of praise of Elizabeth as icon, they contain much which suggests that he must have been disturbed by some of its more excessive manifestations. Yet at the same time, he leaves open possible justifications for veneration of the Queen which echo earlier Elizabethan theologians. Like them, he simultaneously separates and likens the sacred and secular spheres: praise of Elizabeth is only civil worship, not religious worship, and is therefore permissible; but at the same time Christ is a king, and monarchs are like Christ, and can therefore be addressed in similar terms.’ See also Montrose, The Subject of Elizabeth, 73–7. 171. Patrick Collinson, ‘Ecclesiastical Vitriol: Religious Satire in the 1590s and the Invention of Puritanism’, in John Guy (ed.), The Reign of Elizabeth I. Court and Culture in the Last Decade (Cambridge, 1995), 150–70; and John Guy, ‘The Elizabethan Establishment and the Ecclesiastical Polity’, in idem, The Reign of Elizabeth I, 126–49. See also Peter Lake, Anglicans and Puritans? Presbyterianism and English Conformist Thought from Whitgift to Hooker (London, 1988), 111–39. 172. John Howson, A Sermon Preached at St. Maries in Oxford, the 17th Day of November 1602 in Defence of the Festivities of the Church of England, and Namely those of Her Majesties Coronation (Oxford, 1602), sign. Dr and D 2r. Cf. Montrose, The Subject of Elizabeth, 77. 173. Peter Lake, ‘Anti-Puritanism: The Structure of a Prejudice’, in Kenneth Fincham and Peter Lake (eds), Religious Politics in Post-Reformation England. Essays in Honour of Nicholas Tyacke (Woodbridge, 2006), 89–97; see also Jenny Wormald, ‘Ecclesiastical Vitriol: The Kirk, the Puritans and the Future King of England’, in Guy (ed.), The Reign of Elizabeth I, 171–91. 174. See n. 41. 175. Peter Holmes, Resistance and Compromise: The Political Thought of the Elizabethan Catholics (Cambridge, 1982), 130: ‘The English Catholics were quickly influenced by this ideological development [the change in political attitudes after 1584, when the Duke of Anjou died] in France. For the first time in Elizabeth’s reign they found respectable continental support for political ideas of resistance.’ 176. For Parsons, see Holmes, Resistance and Compromise, 149–57; and idem, ‘The Authorship and and Early Reception of a Conference about the Next Succession to the Crown of England’, Historical Journal 23 (1980), 415–29; and Houliston, Catholic Resistance in Elizabethan England. 177. Peter Lake, ‘The King (The Queen) and the Jesuit: James Stuart’s True Law of Free Monarchies in Context/s’, Transactions of the Royal Historical Society 14 (2004), 243–60, p. 258, based on Holmes, ‘The Authorship and and Early Reception of a Conference about the Next Succession to the Crown of England’, 423. 178. Houliston, Catholic Resistance in Elizabethan England, 83; cf. Michael L. Carafiello, Robert Parsons and English Catholicism, 1580–1610 (London, 1998).

186 | Notes

179. In the Latin version Parsons even put forward the argument that the Pope was the king of England’s liege lord and England a papal fief (Holmes, Resistance and Compromise, 155). 180. R. Doleman [Robert Parsons], A Conference about the Next Succession to the Crown of England, (n.p., 1681) (this is a copy which was reprinted during the Exclusion Crisis), 91. For the importance of the coronation ceremony to Parsons see Houliston, Catholic Resistance in Elizabethan England, 81–5. For Houliston, Parsons tried to ‘redefine or reinvent monarchy’, not to undermine it, even in its Protestant forms (p. 83), but the latter argument is questionable as for Parsons only a Catholic coronation could be valid. 181. See e.g. Pierre de Belloy, Apologie Catholique contre les libelles, declarations advis […] ­publiees par les Liguez, par E. D. L. I. C. (n.p., 1586). 182. Ibid., 61–2, 84–7. 183. Doleman [Parsons], A Conference about the Next Succession to the Crown of England, 99–101, see also 51–3. 184. Lake, ‘The King (The Queen) and the Jesuit’, 258. 185. Ibid., 253; cf. Andreas Pečar, Macht der Schrift. Politischer Biblizismus in Schottland und England zwischen Reformation und Bürgerkrieg (1534–1642) (Munich, 2011), 224–30. 186. For James’s political writings see James I, King James VI and I: Political Writings, ed. Johann P. Sommerville (Cambridge, 1994), and idem, Political Works; see also Pečar, Macht der Schrift, 189–40; and Daniel Fischlin and Mark Fortier (eds), Royal Subjects: Essays on the Writings of James VI and I (Detroit, Mich., 2002). 187. Lake, ‘The King (The Queen) and the Jesuit’, 259. 188. Barclay was a Scottish law scholar born in 1546 who died in France in 1608. In 1600 he published his largest work, De Regno et Regali Potestate, in defence of the rights of kings, against Buchanan and other writers. His most famous work, De Potestate Papae, directed against the Pope’s authority over kings in temporal matters, appeared in 1609. See MarieClaude Tucker, ‘Barclay, William (1546–1608)’, ODNB, 2004 , accessed 2 Nov. 2013. 189. See Burns, The True Law of Kingship, 226; and idem, ‘George Buchanan, and the AntiMonarchomachs’, in Roger A. Mason (ed.), Scots and Britons. Scottish Political Thought and the Union of 1603 (Cambridge, 1994), 138–58, p. 149, with reference to Adam Blackwood, ‘Pro regibus apologia adversus Georgii Buchanani dialogum de iure regni apud Scotos’, in idem, Opera Omnia (Paris, 1644), 1–207, p. 9. For Blackwood the offices of king and priest were both equally sacred, and those who attacked priests were likely to attack kings as well. A royalist, Blackwood was nevertheless no open opponent of papal jurisdiction in secular matters. He did attack the theories of the League, however, in the third book of De vinculo seu conjunctione religionis et imperii (1st edn 1575), published in 1612 after the death of Henry IV (Burns, ‘George Buchanan, and the AntiMonarchomachs’, 148). 190. Pierre Grégoire had underlined that the sacre made the French king ‘operator miraculorum’ (that is, a healer of the scrofula). See Claude Collot, L’École doctrinale de droit public de Pont-à-Mousson: Pierre Grégoire de Toulouse et Guillaume Barclay (fin du XVIe siècle) (Paris, 1965), 284. 191. It remains less clear how important the unction and coronation were for James VI and I. James VI’s wife, Anne of Denmark, was anointed in 1590 when she was crowned as queen of Scotland, despite the opposition of the strict Presbyterians to this allegedly Jewish or possibly pagan ceremony. James was also anointed when he was crowned as king of

Notes | 187

England, although he seems to have had misgivings about some of the more traditional aspects of the ceremony, which might be seen as somehow ‘popish’. Apparently James objected to being anointed on the forehead with the sign of the cross. See Dougal Shaw, ‘The Coronation and Monarchical Culture in Stuart Britain and Ireland, 1603–1661’ (Ph.D. thesis, University of Cambridge, 2002), 42 and 75–6. For Anne’s coronation, see ibid., 128–30; and Maureen M. Meikle, ‘Anna of Denmark’s Coronation and Entry into Edinburgh, 1590: Cultural, Religious and Diplomatic Perspectives’, in Julian Goodare and Alisdair A. MacDonald (eds), Sixteenth-Century Scotland: Essays in Honour of Michael Lynch (Leiden, 2008), 277–94. For the Scottish coronation ceremony it was important that no adult reigning king had been crowned between 1390 and 1633 (when Charles I was crowned in Scotland), so there was no stable tradition (ibid., 123). See further Andrew Thomas, ‘Crown Imperial: Coronation Ritual and Regalia in the Reign of James V’, in ibid., 44–67. For James I’s coronation in England see Roy C. Strong, Coronation. A History of Kingship and the British Monarchy (London, 2005), 243–65. 192. François Hotman, Franco-Gallia, [nouvellement traduite de latin en françois], ed. Antoine Leca (Aix-en-Provence, 1991) 193. GuillaumeH.M. Posthumus Meyjes, ‘Jean Hotman’s English Connection’, Koninklijke Nederlandse Akademie von Wetenschappen, Mededelingen, Afdeling Letterkunde, ns, pt 55, no. 5 (1990), 165–222, in particular 202. For Hotman and his connections with James I see also Mona Garloff, ‘Reunionsprojekte des 16. und frühen 17. Jahrhunderts. Jean Hotman (1552-1636) und Friedensperspektiven im frühneuzeitlichen Europa‘, (Ph. D thesis, Frankfurt/M. University, 2013); and James VI and I, The Basilikon Doron of King James VI, ed. James Craigie, 2 vols (Edinburgh, 1944, 1950), esp. Craigie’s introduction to vol. 2. For literary exchanges between England and France see Daniel, ‘Livre politique et politique du livre’. I am grateful to Mark Greengrass for drawing my attention to this work. 194. See Anne McLaren, ‘Challenging the Monarchical Republic: James I’s Articulation of Kingship’, in McDiarmid (ed.), The Monarchical Republic, 165–80; cf. John Cramsie, ‘The Philosophy of Imperial Kingship and the Interpretation of James VI and I’, in Ralph Anthony Houlbrooke (ed.), James VI and I: Ideas, Authority, and Government (Aldershot, 2006), 43–69. 195. James I, Political Writings, 181. Speech to Parliament, 21 Mar. 1610, 179–203. 196. Ibid., 184. Cf. Paul Christianson, ‘Royal and Parliamentary Voices on the Ancient Constitution’, in Linda Levy Peck (ed.), The Mental World of the Jacobean Court (Cambridge, 1991), 71–95, in particular 76–8. On James VI and I and divine right monarchy see also Andreas Pečar, ‘Auf der Suche nach den Ursprüngen des Divine Right of Kings. Herrschaftskritik und Herrschaftslegitimation in Schottland unter Jakob VI’, in idem and Kai Trampedach (eds), Die Bibel als politisches Argument. Voraussetzungen und Folgen biblizistischer Herrschaftslegitimation in der Vormoderne, Beiheft der Historischen Zeitschrift 43 (Munich, 2007), 295–314; and further Glenn Burgess, ‘“Absolutism” and Monarchy in Early Stuart England’, in idem, Absolute Monarchy, 17–62. See also Bernard Bourdin, The Theological–Political Origins of the Modern State: The Controversy between James I of England and Cardinal Bellarmine (Washington, D.C., 2010); and Alan Cromartie, The Constitutionalist Revolution: An Essay on the History of England 1450– 1642 (Cambridge, 2006), 148–78. 197. Cf. Ronald G. Asch, Jakob I. (1566–1625). König von England und Schottland (Stuttgart, 2005), 114–32.

188 | Notes

198. The king’s answer to the House of Commons’ petition for freedom of speech, 11 Dec. 1621, in Joseph R. Tanner (ed.), Constitutional Documents of the Reign of James I (Cambridge, 1923), 283–7, p. 285. 199. Burns, The True Law of Kingship, 226–31, mainly on Blackwood, Barclay and Grégoire. 200. Arthur H. Williamson, Scottish National Consciousness in the Age of James VI (Edinburgh, 1979), 30–47, 86–96. 201. Thus James quotes Revelation 17:1–2. ‘I will show unto thee the judgment of the great whore that sitteth upon many waters; with whom the kings of the earth have committed fornication, and the inhabitants of the earth have been made drunk with the wine of her fornication.’ Only at the very end, when God’s judgement is imminent, will the kings of the earth, or at least some of them, desert Babylon or Antichrist. They ‘shall make her – the great whore – desolate and naked, and shall eat her flesh and burn her with fire’ as Revelation 17:16 puts it. James VI and I, ‘A Paraphrase upon the Revelation’, in James I, The Workes (London, 1616; reprint Hildesheim, 1971), 55. See also Ronald G. Asch, ‘The Revelation of the Revelation. Die Bedeutung der Offenbarung des Johannes für das politische Denken in England im späten 16. und frühen 17. Jahrhundert’, in Pečar and Trampedach (eds), Die Bibel als Politisches Argument, 315–31, pp. 327–9. 202. James I, The Workes, 78. 203. David George Mullan, Episcopacy in Scotland: The History of an Idea, 1560–1638 (Edinburgh, 1986), 62–3, cf. 76. 204. Patterson, King James VI and I and the Reunion of Christendom, 94–5. Cf. Sylvio Hermann De Franceschi, La Crise théologico-politique du premier âge baroque. Antiromanisme doctrinal, pouvoir pastoral et raison du prince: Le Saint-Siège face au prisme français (1607–1627) (Rome, 2009), 197, and below n. [252]. 205. See in particular James’s Premonition to All Most Mightie Monarches, Kings, Free Princes and States of Christendome in 1609 and the Apologie for the Oath of Allegiance. Both printed in James I, Political Works, 71–109 and 110–68. 206. ‘Laquelle nous doit enseigner et persuader qu’ en depit [en despoit] du pape, des anabaptistes, de tous prescheurs escervelés, […] il est absolu monarque tant au spirituel qu’au temporel, comme furent jadis les caliphes, es qu’en luy se pratique le dire du poete: rex Anyus, rex idem hominum Phoebique sacerdos’, George Marcelline, Les trophées du Roi Jacques I (à Eleutherée, 1609), 8–9. On Marcelline’s book, which tried to prove that Pope Paul V was the Antichrist but also attributed to James I a status similar to that of an Old Testament prophet or patriarch, see De Franceschi, La Crise théologico-politique du premier âge baroque, 244. 207. Lori A. Ferrell, Government by Polemic. James I, the King’s Preachers and the Rhetoric of Conformity (Stanford, Calif., 1998), 138 and 116–25. 208. Corona Regia, ed. and trans. Tyler Fyoter and Winfried Schleiner, intro. Winfried Schleiner (Geneva, 2010), 37: ‘Videbam principem, et doctorem principum atque populorum admirabar; intuebar regem, et prophetam venerabar; cernebam novum aliquem in aureo throno Salomonem.’ For the authorship see ibid., 22–3. 209. Jenny Wormald, ‘James VI and I – Two Kings or One?’, History 68 (1983), 187–209; Maurice Lee, Government by Pen: Scotland under James VI and I (Urbana, Ill., 1981). But cf. Julian Goodare and Michael Lynch (eds), The Reign of James VI (East Linton, 2000), in particular ‘Introduction’, 1–31, which is more sceptical about James’s success as king of Scotland. For the wider context see also Julian Goodare, The Government of Scotland 1560–1625 (Oxford, 2004).

Notes | 189

210. See Johann P. Sommerville, ‘James I and the Divine Right of Kings: English Politics and Continental Theory’, in Peck (ed.), The Mental World of the Jacobean Court, 55–70. Cf. Johann P. Sommerville, ‘King James VI and I and John Selden’, in Fischlin and Fortier (eds), Royal Subjects, 290–322; and Paul Christianson, Discourse on History, Law and Governance in the Public Career of John Selden, 1610–1635 (Toronto, 1996). 211. See for example the articles by Sommerville cited in the previous note. 212. James I, Political Works, 213. Speech in the Star Chamber, 20 June 1616 (204–28). For the context of this speech and James’s conflicts with Sir Edward Coke and other Common Law judges, which provoked these programmatic pronouncements, see Asch, Jakob I., 166–72. See also Allan D. Boyer (ed.), Law, Liberty and Parliament. Selected Essays on the Writings of Sir Edward Coke (Indianapolis, Ind., 2004); and Stephen White, Sir Edward Coke and the Grievances of the Commonwealth (Manchester, 1979). 213. Peter Lake, ‘Lancelot Andrewes, John Buckeridge and Avant-garde Conformity at the Court of James I’, in Peck (ed.), The Mental World of the Jacobean Court, 113–33; Lake, ‘Anti-Puritanism’; Ferrell, Government by Polemic; Anthony Milton, ‘The Creation of Laudianism. A New Approach’, in Thomas Cogswell et al. (eds), Politics, Religion and Popularity in Early Stuart Britain. Essays in Honour of Conrad Russell (Cambridge, 2002), 162–84. Cf. Charles W.A. Prior, Defining the Jacobean Church. The Politics of Religious Controversy, 1603–1625 (Cambridge, 2005); and Kenneth Fincham (ed.), The Early Stuart Church, 1603–1642 (Basingstoke, 1993). 214. Ferrell, Government by Polemic, 162–3 with reference to Andrewes’s sermon on Noli me tangere. 215. Lancelot Andrewes, ‘A Sermon Preached before the King’s Majesty, at Holdenby on the Fifth of August, A. D. MDCX’, in idem, Ninety-Six Sermons, vol. 4, 43–76, p. 58. 216. Ibid., 58; cf. 51. Peter McCullough is working on a life of Lancelot Andrewes. See also his Sermons at Court: Politics and Religion in Elizabethan and Jacobean Preaching (Cambridge, 1998), 147–55. 217. Joannes Episcopus Roffensis [John Buckeridge], De potestate Papae in rebus temporalibus […] adversus Cardinalem Bellarminum (London, 1614), 676: ‘gratia sive ecclesia non tollit quod a natura datum est’. 218. Lake, ‘‘Lancelot Andrewes, John Buckeridge and Avant-garde Conformity’, 119. C.f. above n. 139. 219. R. Malcolm Smuts, ‘Force, Love and Authority in Caroline Political Culture’, in Ian Atherton and Julie Sanders (eds), The 1630s: Interdisciplinary Essays on Culture and Politics in the Caroline Era (Manchester, 2006), 28–49, p. 36. Smuts deals primarily with the reign of Charles I, but essential clerical conformists during James’s reign had already had a similar agenda. See Ferrell, Government by Polemic, 153: ‘The Jacobean notion of the beauty of holiness was rooted in a metaphor of the monarch as builder and overseer of the church.’ 220. John Buckeridge, A Sermon Preached before His Maiestie, at Whitehall, March 22, 1617, being Passion Sunday, Touching Prostration and Kneeling in the Worship of God (London, 1618), 4, 10. 221. Ibid., 11: ‘The Iewes heard Gods voice in the Mount, their Audire was not obedire’ (on the Jews at Mount Sinai). 222. Ferrell, Government by Polemic, 146–56. For these connections see also Thomas Morton, A Defence of the Innocencie of the Three Ceremonies of the Church of England (London, 1619), 291–2: ‘For as a Civil gift ought to be taken with a civill reverence, for the hand of

190 | Notes

an earthly Soveraigne, so must a Spirituall gift, and the instruments thereof, be received with a spirituall and religious reverence as from the Maiestie of Christ.’ 223. Laura A. Stewart, ‘The Political Repercussions of the Five Articles of Perth: A Reassessment of James VI and I’s Religious Policies in Scotland’, Sixteenth Century Journal 38 (2008), 1013–36; see also Alan R. MacDonald, The Jacobean Kirk, 1567–1625: Sovereignty, Polity and Liturgy (Brookfield, Vt., 1998), 160–70; and Jenny Wormald, ‘The Headaches of Monarchy: Kingship and the Kirk in the Early Seventeenth Century’, in Goodare and MacDonald (eds), Sixteenth-Century Scotland, 365–93. 224. Barlow, The Summe and Substance of the Conference, 75. Cf. Patrick Collinson, ‘The Jacobean Religious Settlement: The Hampton Court Conference’, in Howard Tomlinson (ed.), Before the English Civil War (Basingstoke, 1983), 27–52. See also Tanner (ed.), Constitutional Documents of the Reign of James I, 60–9. 225. Sommerville, Royalists and Patriots, 196–9; see also idem, ‘The Royal Supremacy and Episcopacy “iure divino”, 1603–1640’, Journal of Ecclesiastical History 34 (1984), ­548–58; and Asch, ‘No bishop no king’. 226. Milton, Catholic and Reformed, 455–61. 227. For later developments see Anthony Milton, Laudian and Royalist Polemic in SeventeenthCentury England: The Career and Writings of Peter Heylyn (Manchester, 2007), 88, ­117–20; and below ch. III, pp. 138–9. 228. Asch, Jakob I., 151–5. 229. For a comparison of the different styles of monarchical representation see Nick Myers, ‘Hercule Gaulois, Great Britain’s Solomon – Myths of Persuasion, Styles of Authority’, in Eveline Cruickshanks (ed.), The Stuart Courts (Stroud, 2000), 29–42. 230. For James’s self-representation as a monarch in Scotland see Michael Lynch, ‘Court Ceremony and Ritual during the Personal Reign of James VI’, in Goodare and Lynch (eds), The Reign of James VI, 71–92. 231. Raymond Crawfurd, The King’s Evil (Oxford, 1911), 82–3. See also Stephen Brogan, ‘The Royal Touch as Adapted by James I’, History Today 61, 2 (2011), 46–52 and Brogan’s forthcoming study of the subject. Cf. Melville, The Autobiography and Diary of Mr. James Melville, pt II, 657–8, where James’s theologians told their Scottish brethren during a visit to England that James only healed the scrofula because the king of France would otherwise claim to be superior to him in this respect. The laying on of hands was, in any case, no more than a prayer to God to help those suffering from the scrofula. 232. Bob Scribner, ‘Reformation and Desacralization: From Sacramental World to Moralised Universe’, in idem and Ronnie Po-Chia Hsia (eds), Problems in the Historical Anthropology of Early Modern Europe (Wiesbaden, 1997), 75–92, p. 85. Cf. Zaller, ‘Breaking the Vessels’, 760, on the importance of the word and of preaching instead of the traditional rituals. See also Robert Zaller, The Discourse of Legitimacy in Early Modern England (Stanford, Calif., 2007), 6–51. 233. John King, ‘James I and King David: Jacobean Iconography and its Legacy’, in Fischlin and Fortier (eds), Royal Subjects, 421–53. 234. For the importance of Solomonic iconography in court culture see David Howarth, Images of Rule: Art and Politics in the English Renaissance, 1485–1649 (Basingstoke, 1997), 120–4, in particular on Rubens’s Banqueting Hall ceiling. See also Gregory Martin, Rubens – the Ceiling Decoration for the Banqueting Hall, 2 vols (London, 2005).

Notes | 191

235. Andreas Pečar, ‘Der König – Theologe und Prophet? Biblizistische Selbstdarstellung Jakobs VI./I. im Spiegel seiner Schriften’, Zeitschrift für Historische Forschung 35 (2008), 207–34, p. 224. 236. James I, Political Writings, 229–49. Cf. Ferrell, Government by Polemic, 163–4. 237. Jane Rickard, Authorship and Authority. The Writing of James VI and I (Manchester, 2007), 80. Cf. ibid., 90: ‘The identity as an interpreter of God’s word that James created for himself through his scriptural works underlies his other writings; as his royal status lends authority to these exegeses, so scriptural interpretation lends authority to the explicitly political works he could go on to write.’ 238. Joseph Marshall, ‘Reading and Misreading King James 1622–42: Responses to the Letter and Directions touching Preaching and Preachers’, in Fischlin and Fortier (eds), Royal Subjects, 476–511, in particular 479, 496–7. Cf. Peter Lake, ‘Constitutional Consensus and Puritan Opposition in the 1620: Thomas Scott and the Spanish Match’, Historical Journal 25 (1982), 805–25. See also Kevin Sharpe, ‘Private Conscience and Public Duty in the Writings of James VI and I’, in idem, Remapping Early Modern England: The Culture of Seventeenth-Century Politics (Cambridge, 2000), 151–71. 239. Ferrell, Government by Polemic, 116: ‘James could be manipulated with his own image, often with his own words. On the other hand, however, that image was also re-­ manipulated in those royal press releases we know as the political writings of James I.’ 240. Patterson, King James VI and I and the Reunion of Christendom, 158–81; cf. Christine Ronchail, ‘La Famille du Moulin et la monarchie anglaise de Jacques Ier à Charles II’, in Anne Dunan-Pagé and Marie-Christine Munoz-Teulié (eds), Les Huguenots dans les îles britanniques de la Renaissance aux Lumières. Écrits religieux et représentations (Paris, 2008), 105–26, pp. 109–16. 241. See Diana Newton, The Making of the Jacobean Regime: James VI and I and the Government of England, 1603–1605 (Woodbridge, 2005), 60–6. 242. Patterson, King James VI and I and the Reunion of Christendom, 31–74. 243. Ferrell, Government by Polemic, 118. 244. See Milton, Catholic and Reformed, 237–8. 245. Patterson, King James VI and I and the Reunion of Christendom, 95. 246. Ibid., 94–5. For similar positions held by Lancelot Andrewes in the Oath of Allegiance Controversy see Stefania Tutino, Law and Conscience. Catholicism in Early Modern England, 1570–1625 (Aldershot, 2007), 165–8. 247. For the wording, see Tanner (ed.), Constitutional Documents of the Reign of James I, 90–1. 248. Tutino, Law and Conscience, 133–4; cf. 117–32. For the oath, see Johann P. Sommerville, ‘Papalist Political Thought and the Controversy over the Jacobean Oath of Allegiance’, in Ethan H. Shagan (ed.), Catholics and the ‘Protestant Nation’. Religious Politics and Identity in Early Modern England (Manchester, 2005), 162–84; and Michael C. Questier, ‘Loyalty, Religion and State Power in Early Modern England. English Romanism and the Jacobean Oath of Allegiance’, Historical Journal 40 (1997), 311–29; and Bernard Bourdin, La Genèse théologico-politique de l’État moderne: la controverse de Jacques Ier d’Angleterre avec le cardinal Bellarmin (Paris, 2004). 249. Patterson, King James VI and I and the Reunion of Christendom, 79. 250. James first defended the oath in a Latin tract published anonymously, the De triplici nodo, triplex cuneus, which was subsequently published in English – under James’s name – as An Apologie for the Oath of Allegiance (both 1608). A revised version of the Apologie was published in 1609, supplemented by James’s Premonition [… ] to all Most Mightie

192 | Notes

Monarches, Kings, Free Princes and States of Christendom. See James I, Political Works, 71–168. For the Catholic response see also Stefania Tutino, Empire of Souls: Robert Bellarmine and the Christian Commonwealth (Oxford, 2010), 117–58. 251. De Franceschi, La Crise théologico-politique du premier âge baroque, 243–4, referring inter alia to Pierre du Moulin’s Defense de la foy catholique contenue au livre du très puissance et serenissme Jacque I. Roi de la Grand Bretagne et d’Irlande, contre la response de F. N. Coeffeteau (n.p., 1610). Coeffeteau was the theologian who had been asked by Henry IV before his death to refute James’s writings in the Oath of Allegiance controversy. See also ibid., 373–4 and 521–2. On the Venetian interdict, see David Wootton, Paolo Sarpi, Between Renaissance and Enlightenment (1st edn. 1983; Cambridge, 2002), 43–70; and Sylvio Hermann De Franceschi, Raison d’État et raison de l’Église. La France et l’interdit vénitien (1606–1607): aspects diplomatiques et doctrinaux (Paris, 2009). 252. Kretzer, Calvinismus und französische Monarchie im 17. Jahrhundert, 137–46 (Pierre du Moulin), 222–35 (Duplessis Mornay) and 277–8. Cf. Jacques Cappel, Les Livrees de Babel ou l’histoire du siege Romain (Sedan, 1616), in particular pp. 312–14 on the Oath of Allegiance. See also Pierre du Moulin, Bouclier de la foy (1st edn, 1619; reprint Geneva, 1635), 774–99. 253. Huguenots in the early 1620s claimed that in taking up arms they were fighting for ‘the authority of His Majesty and his edicts’. See Brian Sandberg, Warrior Pursuits. Noble Culture and Civil Conflict in Early Modern France (Baltimore, 2010), 205, quoting a Calvinist commission issued in 1621 in La Rochelle. However, Sandberg also points out that after 1598 or, indeed, 1589, Calvinists no longer challenged the king’s right to rule as the ‘prince légitime et naturel’ (ibid., 279). 254. De Franceschi, La Crise théologico-politique du premier âge baroque, 197. According to the Venetian ambassador Foscarini, Henry IV said that James I had defended the autonomy of secular rulers ‘con fondamenti de gran ragione’. Regarding James’s objectives, Henry’s ambassador in London reported: ‘En somme, il ne veut pas dire, que le pape soit l’Antéchrist, sinon en tant qu’il maintient avoir puissance de déposer les rois’ (ibid.). 255. De Franceschi, La Crise théologico-politique du premier âge baroque, 233–7. Henry IV chose the Dominican Nicolas Coëffeteau to defend the Catholic position. 256. For James’s arguments and their impact in France, see De Franceschi, La Crise théologicopolitique du premier âge baroque, 799–818. 257. Cassan, La Grande Peur de 1610. 258. De Franceschi, La Crise théologico-politique du premier âge baroque, 475–80, in particular, p. 480. 259. See ibid., 472–524, for ‘L’anglo-gallicanisme’. For the Estates General of 1614 and the First Article of the Third Estate, see James Michael Hayden, France and the Estates General of 1614 (Cambridge, 1974), 131–48. Pierre Blet S. J., ‘L’Article du tiers aux états généraux de 1614’, Revue d’histoire moderne et contemporaine 2 (1955), 81–106; idem, Le Clergé de France et la monarchie. Étude sur les assemblées générales du clergé de 1615 à 1666 (Rome, 1959), 40–82; and Eric Nelson, ‘Defining the Fundamental Laws of France: The Proposed First Article of the Third Estate at the French Estates General of 1614’, English Historical Review 115 (2000), 1216–30. 260. The essential passage of the article stipulated: ‘Le Roi sera supplié de faire arrêter en l’Assemblée de ses États, pour loi fondamentale du Royaume, qui soit inviolable et notoire à tous, que comme il est reconnu souverain en son État, ne tenant sa Couronne que de Dieu seul, il n’y a puissance en terre, quelle qu’elle soit, spirituelle ou temporelle,

Notes | 193

qui ait aucun droit sur son royaume, pour en priver les personnes sacrées de nos Rois ou absoudre leur sujets de la fidélité et obéissance qu’ils lui doivent, pour quelque cause au prétexte que ce soit.’ Blet, ‘L’article du tiers aux états généraux de 1614’, 6. 261. Parsons, The Church in the Republic, 259. 262. For Richer’s ideas and the controversy they provoked see De Franceschi, La Crise théologico-politique du premier âge baroque, 404–17, 875–80. 263. ‘Puis qu’il est venu par mer et à nagé, d’Angleterre, Car c’est le serment d’Angleterre, tout pur, excepté que celuy d’Angleterre est encore plus doux et modeste.’ Jacques Davy du Perron, ‘Harangue faite de la part de la chambre écclesiastique, en celle du tiers Estat, sur l’article du serment’, in idem, Oeuvres diverses, 2 vols (Paris, 1633; reprint Geneva, 1969), vol. 2, 593–648, pp. 634 and 641. For a similar assessment of the situation by the Pope see Edmond Richer’s account in his De potestate ecclesiae in rebus temporalibus et defensio articuli quem tertius ordo comitiorum regni Franciae pro lege fundamentali ejusdem regni defigi postulavit, anno Domini 1614 & 1615 (Cologne, 1692), 14, quoting the papal Breve of 15 February 1615: ‘cum non immerito timere possemus, evolaritne in Galliam flamma ex miserabili Anglicano incendio ad conflagrationem et destructionem’. 264. Du Perron, ‘Harangue’, 599–600, 646–7. For the speech see De Franceschi, La Crise théologico-politique du premier âge baroque, 892–7. 265. Édouard Puyol, Edmond Richer. Etude historique et critique sur la rénovation du Gallicanisme au commencement du XVIIe siècle, 2 vols (Paris, 1876). Monique Cottret, ‘Edmond Richer 1539–1631. Le Politique et le sacré’, in Henry Méchoulan (ed.), L’État baroque. Regards sur la pensée politique de la France du premier XVIIe siècle (Paris, 1985), 159–77. See also De Franceschi, La Crise théologico-politique du premier âge baroque, 317–524. 266. Richer, De potestate ecclesiae, 138 and 159. Cf. idem, Libellus de ecclesiastica et politica potestate (Paris, 1611), translated into English as A Treatise of Ecclesiastical and Political Power (London, 1612). 267. Richer, De Potestate ecclesiae, 321 and 136, where Richer affirms, ‘claret sub lege gratiae statum politicum essentialiter distinctum et separatum esse a statu sacerdotali sicut potestatem ministerialem ab absoluta potestate politica quae corporibus et temporalibus dominatur’. 268. Cf. De Franceschi, La Crise théologico-politique du premier âge baroque, 409. 269. In his last will Richer claimed that he had been – falsely – accused of subverting monarchy itself because his attacks on the spiritual monarchy of the Pope could too easily be transferred to the secular monarchy of the king. See ‘Edmundi Richerii Testamentum’, in Collectio variorum tractatuum in quibus praecipuae controversiae inter Romanum Pontificem et Ecclesiam Gallicanam de auctoritate Papae et politica potestate agitantur (Paris, 1717), 33 (pagination irregular). For the attempt to denigrate Richer and his followers as enemies of the king’s absolute authority see also De Franceschi, La Crise théologico-politique du premier âge baroque, 678, 880. De Franceschi’s work is of fundamental importance for the entire debate. 270. Du Perron, ‘Harangue’, 645; cf. André Duval, Libelli de ecclesiastica et politica potestate elenchus (Paris, 1612), 48–9. For Duval, Richer ‘monarcho-machum se prodit’ because he preferred aristocracy to monarchy. 271. C. Durand, Advis d’un docteur de Paris sur un livre intitulé de la Puissance ecclesiastique et politique (Paris, 1612), 78–9.

194 | Notes

272. Descimon and Ruiz Ibáñez, Les Ligueurs de l’exil, 32. Cf., with a somewhat different argument, De Franceschi, ‘La Genèse française du catholicisme d’état’, p. 57. See also idem, La Crise théologico-politique du premier âge baroque, esp. 679. 273. Cf. De Franceschi, La Crise théologico-politique du premier âge baroque, 685–6: ‘La force du catholicisme d’état, qui lui a permis de supplanter le gallicanisme a été d’affirmer une liaison indissoluble entre la défense de la papauté et la sécurité du prince. L’intégrité de la raison d’Église était désormais garantie par la moderne souveraineté politique tandis que le prince s’éloignait irréversiblement de ses sujets.’ 274. Published in English as Remonstrance of the Most Gratious King James I King of Great Brittaine, […] for the Right of Kings and the Independance of Their Crownes (Cambridge, 1616). 275. Asch, Jakob I., 127. For Du Moulin see above n. 56. 276. James I, ‘A Remonstrance for the Right of Kings’, 173 (preface). 277. Willson, King James VI and I, 123; Ernest R. Holloway, Andrew Melville and Humanism in Renaissance Scotland 1545–1622 (Leiden, 2011); cf. above p. 38. 278. Cf. Yann Lignereux, ‘Les “trois corps du roi”. Les entrées d’Henri IV à Lyon, 1594– 1596’, Dix-septième siècle 53 (2001), 405–17. 279. Kléber Monod, The Power of Kings, 70.

Chapter II  Kingship Transformed – Kingship Destroyed? 1. Ralph E. Giesey, ‘The Two Bodies of the French King’, in idem, Rulership in France, 301–36. 2. Aurélie du Crest, Modèle familial et pouvoir monarchique (XVIe–XVIIIe siècles) (Aix-enProvence, 2002), 47–53. The ring as a symbol of the marriage between king and kingdom was first used in 1547, when Henry II was crowned, and gained special significance in 1594 (sacre of Henry IV) and 1610 (inaugural lit de justice and sacre of Louis XIII). 3. ‘La fiction du mariage politique, directement reliée à la symbolique du sacre, exprimait l’idée de perpétuité de la Couronne à moindres frais pour le pouvoir monocratique’ and ‘La forte composante dynastique de la persona idealis du roi entre aussi en ligne de compte pour renforcer une vision naturelle-organiciste aux dépens d’une vision juridicocorporative: la distinction entre les aspects suprapersonnels de la monarchie et ses aspects personnels s’en trouve obscurcie. C’est ici que la métaphore du mariage politique acquiert toute son utilité’; Robert Descimon, ‘Les fonctions de la métaphore du mariage politique du roi et de la république. France, XVe–XVIIIe siècles’, Annales ESC 47 (1992), 1127–47, pp. 1140–1; cf. 1128: ‘La métaphore du mariage politique entre le roi et la république joua sans doute dans la France du XVIe siècle un rôle équivalent à celui de la fiction des deux corps du roi dans l’Angleterre contemporaine.’ The English coronation ceremony also used the ring, but it was merely a symbol for the king’s faith in Christ and his church. See The manner of the Coronation of King Charles the First of England at Westminster, 2 Feb 1626, Edited for the Henry Bradshaw Liturgical Text Society by Chr. Wordsworth (London, 1892) p. 41. 4. Ralph E. Giesey, ‘La Crise du cérémonial en 1610’, in idem, Cérémonial et puissance souveraine. France XVe–XVIIe siècles (Paris, 1987), 33–48, in particular, p. 46: ‘“Que Dieu nous a donné”/“construit par la politique de l’homme”, tels sont dans la pensée politique du début du XVIIe siècle, les deux destins, français/anglais, de la notion médiévale de

Notes | 195

corps mystique du roi.’ The quotations refer on the one hand to the languages used during the coronation of Louis XIII by the bishop of Laon in 1610, and on the other to the formula used by Sir Edward Coke for the king’s body politic in Calvin’s case in 1608 (cf. below n. 61). 5. See Glenn Burgess, The Politics of the Ancient Constitution (Basingstoke, 1992), and further Pocock, The Ancient Constitution and the Feudal Law. 6. Skinner, ‘Classical Liberty, Renaissance Translation and the English Civil War’. 7. Skinner, ‘From the State of Princes to the Person of the State’, 394–404. 8. See, in addition to Skinner’s writings, Markku Peltonen, Classical Republicanism and Republicanism in English Political Thought, 1570–1640 (Cambridge, 1995). 9. Christopher W. Brooks, Law, Politics and Society in Early Modern Britain (Cambridge, 2008), 191. 10. Harold A. Ellis, Boulainvilliers and the French Monarchy. Aristocratic Politics in Early Eighteenth-Century France (Ithaca, N.Y., 1988), 29–39. Cf. William F. Church, ‘The Decline of the French Jurists as Political Theorists’, French Historical Studies 5 (1967), 1–40. 11. For Coke see Cromartie, The Constitutionalist Revolution, 177–233, and above ch. I, n. 212. 12. ‘The Speech of the Lord Chancellor of England, in the Eschequer Chamber, touching the Post-Nati’ (1608), in Louis A. Knafla, Law and Politics in Jacobean England: The Tracts of Lord Chancellor Ellesmere (Cambridge, 1977), 202–53, p. 245: ‘This is a dangerous distinction between the King and the Crowne, and between the King and the kingdome: It reacheth too farre; I wish every good subject to be beware of it. It was never taught, but either by traitors, […] or by treasonable Papists […] or by seditious Sectaries and Puritans, as Buchannon [sic] De Jure Regni apud Scotos, Penry, Knox and such like.’ 13. Ibid., 246. For Calvin’s Case see also Brooks, Law, Politics and Society, 133–5. In this case the judges had to determine whether a person born in Scotland after 1603 (when James VI became king of England) enjoyed the same rights as other subjects born within the realm in England. 14. Giesey, ‘La Crise du cérémonial’, 46–7. For the theory of the king’s two bodies in England see also the classical work by Ernst H. Kantorowicz, The King’s Two Bodies, 7–23. 15. On the constitutional questions raised by the Union of the Crowns in 1603 see Andrew D. Nicholls, The Jacobean Union. A Reconsideration of British Civil Policies under the Early Stuarts (Westport, Conn., 1999); Roger A. Mason (ed.), Scots and Britons. Scottish Political Thought and the Union of 1603 (Cambridge, 1994); Brian P. Levack, The Formation of the British State: England, Scotland and the Union, 1603–1707 (Oxford, 1987); Bruce Galloway, The Union of England and Scotland, 1603–1608 (Edinburgh, 1986). 16. Conrad Russell, The Causes of the English Civil War (Oxford, 1990), 23, 158. 17. Historical writings dealing with the Wars of Religion in the seventeenth century reinforced this tendency to see disobedience as the ultimate crime. See Antoinette Gimaret, ‘La Mémoire du corps souffrant ou la question de l’horreur. Les récits du siège de Paris de Goulart à Maimbourg’, in Jacques Berchtold and Marie-Madeleine Fragonard (eds), La Mémoire des Guerres de Religion. La Concurrence des genres historiques, XVIe–XVIIIe siècles (Geneva, 2007), 193–209, esp. 204: ‘on substitue donc à une mystique d’un corps religieux unique une mystique d’un corps politique unitaire.’ 18. Arlette Jouanna, Le Devoir de révolte. La Noblesse française et la gestation de l’État moderne, 1559–1661 (Paris, 1989).

196 | Notes

19. For the medieval antecedents of the early modern religion royale and its at least implicit incompatibility with more constitutionalist ideas of a full right of resistance, see Krynen, L’Empire du roi, 360–1. 20. Christian Jouhaud, Mazarinades: La Fronde des mots (Paris, 1985), 161: ‘Tout tourne autour de la question des qualités du prince [… .] Tout est affaire de configuration morale’ (on the structure of arguments in the Mazarinades). 21. See above, p. 43. 22. Burgess, ‘The Divine Right of Kings Reconsidered’. 23. Andrew Lacey, The Cult of King Charles the Martyr (Woodbridge, 2003), 21, cf. 20–4. 24. See below p. 77 for Caussin and de Morgues. 25. Eric Gojosso, Le Concept de république en France (XVIe–XVIIIe siècle) (Aix-en-Provence, 1998). For some exceptions during the Ormée in Bordeaux see Helmut Kötting, Die Ormée (1651–1653) (Münster, 1983), 124–7. 26. Kretzer, Calvinismus und französische Monarchie, 139–83, 288–98; Jacques Solé, Le Débat entre protestants et catholiques français de 1598–1685, 4 vols (Lille, 1985), vol. 3, pp. 1437–86; idem, Les origines intellectuelles de la révocation de l’Edit de Nantes (SaintEtienne, 1997). 27. Claude Michaud, ‘D’une croisade à l’autre, ou de François de la Noue au Duc de Mercoeur’, in Jean-François Labourdette Jean-Pierre Poussou and Marie-Catherine Vignal. (eds), Le Traité de Vervins (Paris, 2000), 457–72. 28. Pierre Benoist, Le Père Joseph. L’Eminence grise de Richelieu (Paris, 2007), 129–59; Géraud Poumarède, Pour en finir avec la croisade. Mythes et réalités de la lutte contre les Turcs aux XVIe et XVIIe siècle (Paris, 2004). Cf. Robert Sauzet, Au Grand Siècle des âmes. Guerre sainte et paix chrétienne en France au XVIIe siècle (Paris, 2007), 28–80. 29. Patrick Collinson, ‘The English Conventicle’, in William J. Sheils and Diana Wood (eds), Voluntary Religion (Oxford, 1986), 223–59; cf. Collinson, The Religion of Protestants, ch. 6: ‘Voluntary Religion’. Jean-Louis Quantin, however, is sceptical about the validity of any attempt to establish parallels between Jansenism and Puritanism. According to Quantin, both Puritanism and the wider movement of ‘rigorism’ within the French Catholic Church tried to combine an elite, spiritualized piety with stricter religious discipline for the masses. But the latter tendency was much less important for Port-Royal itself (the stronghold of Jansenism) and its successors. See Jean-Louis Quantin, ‘Le Rêve de la communauté pure’, in Bernard Cottret, Monique Cottret and Marie-José Michel (eds), Jansénisme et puritanisme (Paris, 2002), 166–94, esp. 190: ‘cette entreprise d’intériorisation était menée de front avec un projet disciplinaire. Sanctifier et préserver le petit troupeau et en même temps soumettre les masses des “chrétiens de nom” à un code d’ordre et de bonnes conduites extérieures […] donne la clef des mouvements sévères des temps modernes.’ 30. Marc Fumaroli, L’Âge de l’éloquence (2nd edn, Paris, 1994; 1st edn, 1980), 645–6, p. 645: ‘l’essentiel, ce qui vivifie, et donne sens à la parole et à l’écriture, se passe au fond de l’âme, nature pour Montaigne, “cœur” pour Saint-Cyran.’ Cf. Kléber Monod, The Power of Kings, 118. 31. For reform and change in the French Church in the first half of the seventeenth century and especially on the rise of ‘rigorism’ as a reform movement see Anthony D. Wright, The Divisions of French Catholicism 1629–1645: ‘The Parting of the Ways’ (Farnham, 2011); Robin Briggs, Communities of Belief. Cultural and Social Tensions in Early Modern France (Oxford, 1995), 339–63; and Antoine Adam, Du mysticisme à la révolte. Les Jansénistes du XVIIe siècle (Paris, 1968).

Notes | 197

32. Louis Cognet, Crépuscule des mystiques, Bossuet-Fénelon, ed. JeanRobert Armogathe (2nd edn, Paris, 1991); cf. Michel de Certeau, La Fable mystique, XVIe– XVIIe siècle (Paris, 1982). 33. ‘Le saint désormais se signale plutôt par ses “états” que par ses actes. Il se reconnaît par ses écrits plus que par ses miracles.’ Robert Descimon, ‘Préface’, in Stéphane-Marie Morgain, La Théologie politique de Pierre de Bérulle (1598–1629) (Paris, 2001), 11–24, pp. 15–16. 34. Descimon, ‘Préface’, 23: ‘Les dévots se rencontraient en pensée. Ils arrivaient par un effort théorique héroïque à rendre acceptable en idée l’ordre monarchique du catholicisme royal qu’ils conciliaient avec l’héritage de la Ligue dont ils se tenaient désormais à distance.’ Cf. Benoist, La Bure et le sceptre, 277, 296 and 356. 35. Olivier Chaline, ‘Port-Royal et la gloire’, Histoire, économie, société 20 (2001), 163–75; idem, ‘De la gloire’, Littératures classiques 36 (1999), 95–108. 36. Wright, The Divisions of French Catholicism, 33–112, esp. 41. The attempt to protect ecclesiastical jurisdiction from the interference of secular courts had clear parallels in the English bishops’ attempts to defend the autonomy of their own courts against the common law courts. See Brooks, Law, Politics and Society, 210. For the attempt to regain ecclesiastical property see below n. 95 and Christopher Hill, Economic Problems of the Church. From Archbishop Whitgift to the Long Parliament (Oxford, 1956), ch. 14: ‘Archbishop Laud and the Laity’. 37. Guy, ‘The Elizabethan Establishment and the Ecclesiastical Polity’. 38. Peter Lake, ‘“A Charitable Christian Hatred”: The Godly and their Enemies in the 1630s’, in Christopher Durston and Jacqueline Eales (eds), The Culture of English Puritanism (Basingstoke, 1996), 145–83; Patrick Collinson, ‘The Cohabitation of the Faithful with the Unfaithful’, in Ole Peter Grell, Jonathan Israel and Nicholas Tyacke (eds), From Persecution to Toleration: The Glorious Revolution and Religion in England (Oxford, 1994), 51–76. 39. Thomas Brightman, Revelation of the Revelation. That is the Revelation of St. John Opened Clearly with a Logicall Resulution and Exposition. Wherein the Sense is Cleared, out of the Scripture, the Event also of Thinges Foretold is Discussed out of the Church-Historyes (2nd edn, Amsterdam, 1615), 137. For the context of Brightman’s revelation, see Robert Surridge, ‘“An English Laodicea”. The Influence of Revelation 3: 14–22 on MidSeventeenth-Century England’, in David J.B. Trim and Peter J. Balderstone (eds), Cross, Crown and Community. Religion, Government and Culture in Early Modern England, 1400–1800 (Oxford, 2004), 143–76. 40. See Patrick Collinson, ‘Lectures by Combination. Structures and Characteristics of Church Life in 17th-Century England’, in idem, Godly People: Essays on English Protestantism and Puritanism (London, 1983), 467–98. 41. For the history of Puritanism in early Stuart church policy see Peter Lake, ‘Introduction: Puritanism, Arminianism and Nicholas Tyacke’, in Kenneth Fincham and Peter Lake (eds), Religious Politics in Post-Reformation England. Essays in Honour of Nicholas Tyacke (Woodbridge, 2006), 1–15; Tom Webster, ‘Early Stuart Puritanism’, in John Coffey and Paul C.H. Lim (eds), The Cambridge Companion to Puritanism (Cambridge, 2008), 48–66; and Diarmaid McCulloch, The Later Reformation in England, 1547–1603 (Basingstoke, 1990), 87–8. 42. Peter White, Predestination, Policy and Polemic: Conflict and Consensus in the English Church from the Reformation to the Civil War (Cambridge, 1992), 223–4. Cf. ibid., 175– 202, and Ronald G. Asch, Jakob I., 151–6.

198 | Notes

43. Richard Montagu, Appello Caesarem (London, 1625), 140, 147, 149; cf. A. Milton, Catholic and Reformed, 112–17. See also White, Predestination, Policy and Polemic, 223–4. 44. Not all of them did. Père Joseph, for example, Richelieu’s right-hand man, was a notable exception. See Benoist, Le Père Joseph, 261–70, 296–308. For the affinities of the dévots movement and the cult of monarchy see also Yves Durand, ‘Mystique et politique au XVIIe siècle. L’Influence du pseudo-Denys’, Dix-septième siècle 173 (1991), 323–50. 45. Yves Durand, L’Ordre du monde. Idéal politique et valeurs sociales en France du XVIe au XVIIIe siècle (Paris, 2001), 107. 46. Benoist, La Bure et le sceptre, 277, 296. Benoist points out that obedience to the king, combined with a new ‘sainteté mystique’, now almost became part of the concept of saintliness among the religious orders, who put far less emphasis than in the past on an ‘héroïsme pénitentiel’, with all its potential political implications (pp. 296 and 358). 47. J. Leeds Barroll, Anna of Denmark. Queen of England: A Cultural Biography (Philadelphia, Pa., 2001). 48. Glyn Redworth, The Prince and the Infanta: The Cultural Politics of the Spanish Match (New Haven, Conn., 2003); Alexander Samson (ed.), The Spanish Match: Prince Charles’s Journey to Madrid, 1623 (Aldershot, 2006). 49. A providential view of the monarch’s role was not entirely alien to royalists. See Richard P. Cust, ‘Charles and Providence’, in Fincham and Lake (eds), Religious Politics in PostReformation England, 193–208. 50. Shaw, ‘The Coronation and Monarchical Culture in Stuart Britain and Ireland, 1603– 1661’, 76–182. 51. Hunt, The Drama of the Coronation; Strong, Coronation, 243–65. 52. Bishop Laud, at that time only bishop of St David, was later accused of having meddled with the coronation order and transforming the coronation into a popish ceremony. William Prynne, Canterburies Doome, or the First Part of a Compleat History of the Commitment, Charge, Tryall, Condemnation, Execution of William Laud, Late Archbishop of Canterbury (London, 1646), 69–70, 475–6; cf. William Laud, The Works, 7 vols (Oxford, 1854; reprint Hildesheim, 1977), vol. 4: History of the Troubles and Trial of Archbishop Laud, 211–19. 53. Leopold Georg Wickham Legg (ed.), English Coronation Records (London, 1901), 257. Collect for the anointing of the King: ‘And […] didest consecrate thie servant Aaron a priest, by the annoynting of oyle. […] We beseech thee almighty Father, that […] thou wilt vouchsafe to blesse and sanctifie thie servant Charles, […] that hee may imitate Aron in the service of God.’ Earlier the king had been compared to Moses, the secular ruler of Israel, but here it was Aaron as the priest whose anointing offered an example which was now to be followed; cf. Strong, Coronation, 236–7, and Laura Lunger Knoppers, Constructing Cromwell: Ceremony, Portrait, and Print 1645–1661 (Cambridge, 2000), 110. 54. Kevin Sharpe, The Personal Rule of Charles I (New Haven, Conn., 1992). 55. Julian Davies, The Caroline Captivity of the Church. Charles I and the Remoulding of Anglicanism (Oxford, 1992), 22. 56. Sharpe, Image Wars, 208–9. Cf. Karen Hearn (ed.), Van Dyck and Britain (London, 2009). 57. Davies, The Caroline Captivity of the Church, 21. 58. For this problem see Zaller, ‘Breaking the Vessels’. Cf. idem, The Discourse of Legitimacy in Early Modern England, 6–51. Alexandra Walsham, however, is sceptical about the

Notes | 199

notion of a disenchantment of the world by the Reformation. ‘The Reformation and “The Disenchantment of the World” Reassessed’, Historical Journal 51 (2008), 497–528. See also Scribner, ‘Reformation and Descralization’, 75–92. 59. Caroline Hibbard, ‘A Cosmopolitan Court in a Confessional Age: Henrietta Maria Revisited’, in Ronald Corthell, Frances E. Dolan and Christopher Highley (eds), Catholic Culture in Early Modern England (Notre Dame, Ind., 2007), 117–34. For Henrietta Maria see also Dagmar Freist, ‘Popery in Perfection? The Experience of Catholicism: Henrietta Maria between Private Practice and Public Discourse’, in Michael Braddick and David L. Smith (eds), The Experience of Revolution in Stuart Britain and Ireland (Cambridge, 2011), 33–51. 60. Caroline Hibbard, Charles I and the Popish Plot (Chapel Hill, N.C., 1983), 41–58; see also Erin Griffey (ed.), Henrietta Maria: Piety, Politics and Patronage (Aldershot, 2008). 61. Ronald Hutton, The Rise and Fall of Merry England: The Ritual Year 1400–1700 (Oxford, 1996), 252–7. Cf. David Cressy, Bonfires and Bells: National Memory and the Calendar in Elizabethan and Stuart England (Berkeley, Calif., 1989). 62. Hibbard, ‘A Cosmopolitan Court in a Confessional Age’, 121, in particular the statement: ‘while in Catholic countries the resemblance of the monarch’s gestures to those of an officiating priest was another bond between prince and people, the audience in England was very different. This disjunction was symptomatic of how little the Protestant Reformation had done for the English crown in consolidating elites and buttressing crown control over them, compared to the developments in Catholic powers after the Reformation’. Cf. Joël Cornette, La Mélancolie du pouvoir. Omer Talon et le procès de la raison d’État (Paris, 1998), 149–50, where he emphasizes how much even the simple celebration of the mass ‘associe la grandeur et l’amour de Dieu à la grandeur et à l’amour du roi’, not least when priests were employed to read out royal edicts during the service. To achieve something similar in his own kingdoms was undoubtedly one of the aims of Charles’s Church policy in the 1630s. For the Te Deum in France see also Michèle Fogel, Les cérémonies de l’information dans la France du XVIe au milieu du XVIIIe siècle (Paris, 1989), esp. 163–70 and 242–3. 63. Caroline Hibbard, ‘Henrietta Maria in the 1630s: Perspectives on the Role of Consort Queens in Ancien Régime Courts’, in Ian Atherton and Julie Sanders (eds), The 1630s: Interdisciplinary Essays on Culture and Politics in the Caroline Era (Manchester, 2006), 92–110; and Erica Veevers, Images of Love and Religion: Queen Henrietta Maria and Court Entertainments (Cambridge, 1989). 64. Kléber Monod, The Power of Kings, 107. For the cult of peace in the 1630s see also R. Malcolm Smuts, Court Culture and the Origins of a Royalist Tradition in Early Stuart England (Philadelphia, Pa., 1987), 247–53. 65. For the king as author see Kevin Sharpe, ‘The King’s Writ: Royal Authors and Royal Authority in Early Modern England’, in idem and Peter Lake (eds), Culture and Politics in Early Stuart England (Basingstoke, 1994), 117–38. 66. L. Potter, Secret Rites and Secret Writing, 158: ‘It is important to realise how completely until his death Charles I was a king of images rather than words.’ Potter emphasizes that images could express the mysterious, supra-rational aspects of sacral kingship more easily than words. 67. Kenneth Fincham and Peter Lake, ‘The Ecclesiastical Policies of James I and Charles I’, in Fincham (ed.), The Early Stuart Church, 23–50, p. 48. Cf. Sharpe, Image Wars, 144–90. 68. Richard Cust, Charles I. A Political Life (Harlow, 2005), 170.

200 | Notes

69. For news, politics and related forms of communication in early Stuart England see Joad Raymond, ‘Irrational, Impractical and Unprofitable: Reading News in SeventeenthCentury Britain’, in Kevin Sharpe and Steven N. Zwicker (eds), Reading, Society and Politics in Early Modern England (Cambridge, 2003), 185–212; Richard Cust, ‘News and Politics in Early Seventeenth-Century England’, Past and Present 112 (1986), 60–90. For France see Hélène Duccini, Faire voir, faire croire. L’Opinion publique sous Louis XIII (Paris, 2003). 70. See Andrew McRae, Literature, Satire and the Early Stuart State (Cambridge, 2004); see also Alistair Bellany, ‘Libels in Action: Ritual Subversion and the English Literary Underground, 1603–1642’, in Tim Harris (ed.), The Politics of the Excluded, c.1500– 1850 (Basingstoke, 2001), 99–124; and Alastair Bellany and Andrew McRae (eds), Early Stuart Libels: An Edition of Poetry from Manuscript Sources. Early Modern Literary Studies Text Series I (2005), , accessed 10 Sept. 2012. 71. See above n. [49]. 72. Sharpe, Image Wars, 252. 73. Davies, The Caroline Captivity of the Church, 19. 74. See A. Milton, Catholic and Reformed. 75. Smuts, ‘Force, Love and Authority in Caroline Political Culture’. 76. Ibid., 36–7. Cf. above p. 46. 77. William Laud, Seven Sermons (London, 1651), 313 (Sermon VII). Potter comments on this as follows: ‘but to see God in the king, is to see the king as an infinitely mysterious being’ (Secret Rites and Secret Writing, 159). 78. Burgess, ‘The Divine Right of Kings Reconsidered’, 110–17. 79. Cf. Richard P. Cust, The Forced Loan and English Politics, 1626–28 (Oxford, 1987). 80. John Peacock, ‘The Image of Charles I as a Roman Emperor’, in Atherton and Sanders (eds), The 1630s, 50–73, p. 55, on ‘van Dyck’s portrayal of Charles as an unusual kind of neo-Roman emperor, a hero of the inner life rather than a stern warlord’. See also Claudia Blümle, ‘Souveränität im Bild. Anthonis van Dycks Reiterporträt Karls I.’, in Horst Bredekamp and Pablo Schneider (eds), Visuelle Argumentationen: Die Mysterien der Repräsentation und die Berechenbarkeit der Welt (Munich, 2006), 79–102. 81. Martin Butler, The Stuart Court Masque and Political Culture (Cambridge, 2008), 315: ‘With his combination of imperial ambition, pious aspiration and erotic longing, Charles was Red Cross Knight in modern guise’. Cf. p. 314: ‘Crucially, in a masque in which Charles played the glorious lover, Pleasure was the anti-type to his heroically empowering eroticism’. 82. See Peter Heylyn, The Historie of the Most Famous Saint and Souldier of Christ Iesus, St. George of Cappadocia (London, 1633). 83. Sharpe, Image Wars, 242. 84. Cust, Charles I, 161: ‘This was an image of Charles as priest/king, highlighting the sacerdotal elements of his kingship in contrast to the more secular qualities emphasised by Van Dyck.’ 85. Martin Butler speaks of ‘sexualized heroism’ dominant in representations of the king as, for example, in the masque Love’s Triumph through Callipolis. Butler, The Stuart Court Masque and Political Culture, 293. The chivalric elements in court culture were seldom fully serious; playfulness and irony were rarely entirely absent. For those who wished for a more warlike king this was clearly a major problem. See also John S.A. Adamson,

Notes | 201

‘Chivalry and Political Culture in Caroline England’, in Sharpe and Lake (eds), Culture and Politics in Early Stuart England, 161–98. 86. For Laudianism in the 1630s see Nicholas Tyacke, Anti-Calvinists: The Rise of English Arminianism, c.1590–1640 (Oxford, 1987), 181–244; A. Milton, ‘The Creation of Laudianism’; and Smuts, ‘Force, Love and Authority in Caroline Political Culture’. 87. Peter Lake, ‘The Laudian Style: Order, Uniformity and the Pursuit of the Beauty of Holiness in the 1630s’, in Fincham (ed.), The Early Stuart Church, 161–86, p. 179. 88. Nicholas Tyacke, ‘Archbishop Laud’, in Fincham (ed.), Early Stuart Church, 51–70, at 59. Cf. Charles Carlton, Archbishop William Laud (London, 1987). See also Charles W.A. Prior, A Confusion of Tongues: Britain’s Wars of Reformation, 1625–1642 (Oxford, 2012). 89. Lake, ‘The Laudian Style’, 176–7. 90. Laud, The Works, vol. 4, 150–1, the sixth article of the impeachment: ‘He hath traitorously assumed to himself a papal and tyrannical power, both in ecclesiastical and temporal matters, over his Majesty’s subjects in this realm of England, and in other places, to the disherison of the Crown [… .] And the Said Archbishop claims the King’s ecclesiastical jurisdiction, as incident to his episcopal and archiepiscopal office in this kingdom and doth deny the same to be derived from the Crown of England.’ 91. William Holden Hutton, William Laud (London, 1896), 103, the case of Sir Giles Arlington. I am grateful to John Morrill for drawing my attention to this case. 92. For episcopacy iure divino see A. Milton, Laudian and Royalist Polemic, 88, 117–20; and idem, Catholic and Reformed, 454–75. See also Sommerville, ‘The Royal Supremacy and Episcopacy “iure divino”’; and Asch, ‘No bishop no king oder cuius regio eius religio’, esp. 92–101, 112–15. 93. See e.g. Matthew Wren, A Sermon Preached before the King’s Majesty on Sunday the Seventeenth of February Last (London, 1627), 27–8: Why should one obey the king? ‘Because of the image of God which is upon Kings, and that not onely a Generall Image, as they are Men; but a peculiar Image, and that (by far) more visible, as they are Kings, yea the Image of that in God, for which feare belongs to God; that Image upon the king, the lively Image of his Divine Power, and Glory both’. For this rather controversial sermon see also Cust, The Forced Loan and English Politics, 65–7. 94. Anthony Milton, ‘Anglicanism and Royalism in the 1640s’, in John Adamson (ed.), The English Civil War (Basingstoke, 2009), 61–81, pp. 71–2. Cf. idem, ‘“Vailing his Crown”: Royalist Criticism of Charles I’s Kingship in the 1650s’, in Jason McElligott and David L. Smith (eds), Royalists and Royalism during the Interregnum (Manchester, 2010), 88–105. 95. Ephraim Udall, Noli me tangere is a Thinge to be Thought on or vox carnis clamantis ab altari ad aquilam sacrilegam (London, 1642). Cf. Edward Brouncker, The Curse of Sacriledge (London, 1630). See also Ian Atherton, Ambition and Failure in Stuart England: The Career of John, First Viscount Scudamore (Manchester, 1999), 61. 96. Brouncker, The Curse of Sacriledge, 20–1, 7. 97. Prynne, Canterburies Doome. Cf. William M. Lamont, Marginal Prynne, 1600–1669 (London, 1963), 85–149. 98. D. Alan Orr, Treason and the State: Law, Politics and Ideology in the English Civil War (Cambridge, 2002), 127 on Laud’s argument that only his authority ‘in foro conscientiae’ was derived ‘from God, and from Christ, and by divine and apostolical right’. Quoted from Laud, The Works, vol. 4, p. 196. For later developments see below chapter III, pp. 138–40.

202 | Notes

99. Orr, Treason and the State, 131. 100. For the close connection between ceremonialism in the Church and court culture see Smuts, ‘Force, Love and Authority in Caroline Political Culture’, 36. Cf. above chapter I, pp. 46–8. 101. Hibbard, Charles I and the Popish Plot, 49: ‘Charles was seriously, although not urgently, interested in church reunion and willing to discuss it at some length. He aspired to a Gallican type of settlement for England’. This may, in fact, be overstating the matter somewhat, but it was clear that any possible rapprochement between Rome and Canterbury would to some extent take the position of the French Church as a model. Cf. Cust, Charles I, 146–7. 102. A. Milton, Catholic and Reformed, 265–6. ‘In the hands of Richard Montagu [a prominent Laudian] the Gallican church became not simply the possible ally of a moderate Protestant alliance as Grotius had envisaged, but the model for a reconciliation of the Church of England with Rome which would allow her to retain her independent rights of jurisdiction’ (p. 266). On Montagu, see ibid., 353–73. 103. ‘[E]stant une mienne croyance [sic], que la ceremonie du sacre, qui n’est pas sacrement, opere plus, ex opere operantis, que non pas, ex opere operato.’ André Valladier, Parenese royale, sur les ceremonies du sacre du tres-chrestien Louis XIII, Roy de France et de Navarre (Paris, 1611), 33. 104. See above, p. 14. 105. Kléber Monod, The Power of Kings, 110–21. See also Christian Bouyer, Louis XIII: La Montée de l’absolutisme (Paris, 2006); and Alanson Lloyd Moote, Louis the Thirteenth, the Just (Berkeley, Calif., 1989). 106. For Richelieu and his policies see Françoise Hildesheimer, Richelieu (Paris, 2004); eadem, Relectures de Richelieu (Paris, 2000); Joseph Bergin and Laurence Brockliss (eds), Richelieu and His Age (Oxford, 1992); Anthony Levy, Cardinal Richelieu and the Making of France (London, 2001); Michel Carmona, La France de Richelieu (Paris, 1985). 107. Jean-Louis Guez de Balzac, Le Prince (Paris, 1631), 102: ‘Sa devotion neanmoins a toujours beaucoup plus de solidité que de montre [… .] Elle n’est point corporelle, ny attachée aux objets sensibles. Elle a son siege en l’entendement, qui est parfaitement esclairé.’ Cf. William F. Church, Richelieu and Reason of State (Princeton, N.J., 1972), 237–50; and Christian Jouhaud, Les Pouvoirs de la littérature. Histoire d’un paradoxe (Paris, 2000), 332–52. In Jouhaud’s opinion, Balzac’s insistence on Louis’s role as a truly perfect ruler and human being risked being seen as ironic, because in reality Louis was clearly far from perfect as a king and as a man, as Richelieu himself pointed out on certain occasions (p. 350). 108. Guez de Balzac, Le Prince, 103, 106. 109. Françoise Bardon, Le Portrait mythologique à la cour de France sous Henri IV et Louis XIII (Paris, 1974), Plates III B, V B, VI, XXI and XLVII; and pp. 45–6, 88–9. See also Duccini, Faire voir, faire croire, 474–6; for Louis XIII as Alexander see Chantal Grell and Christian Michel, L’École des princes ou Alexandre disgracié. Essai sur la mythologie monarchique de la France absolutiste (Paris, 1988), 56 (‘Ce choix d’Alexandre si surprenant qu’il puisse paraître, car rien, il faut le reconnaître, ni dans la personnalité, ni dans l’œuvre de Louis XIII ne semble le justifier’). 110. David Parrott, Richelieu’s Army: War, Government and Society in France, 1624–1642 (Cambridge, 2001), 115, 136, 479; Peter H. Wilson, Europe’s Tragedy: A History of the Thirty Years War (London, 2009), 442, 661.

Notes | 203

111. ‘Festivals Commemorating the Defeat of Protestantism in La Rochelle’ [with contributions by Christian Jouhaud, Véronique Meyer and Marie-Claude Canova Green], in James R. Mulryne, Helen Watanabe-O’Kelly and Margaret Shewring (eds), Europa Triumphans. Court and Civic Ceremonies in Early Modern Europe, 2 vols (Aldershot, 2004), vol. 2, 119–236. 112. Grell and Michel, L’École des princes, 58: ‘Car Alexandre, on n’en peut douter, est un héros catholique.’ 113. Ibid., 61: ‘Il s’agissait en d’autres termes de justifier, au nom d’un modèle héroïque, toutes les alliances et tous les retournements de la politique royale, de créer l’unanimité autour de la personne du souverain.’ 114. Morgain, La Théologie politique de Pierre de Bérulle, 146–8. 115. Camille de Rochemonteix, Nicolas Caussin, confesseur de Louis XIII et le Cardinal Richelieu: documents inédits (Paris, 1911), 223, quoting Caussin’s letter to Richelieu justifying his actions. For Caussin’s conflict with Richelieu, who persuaded the king to dismiss Caussin and send him into internal exile in Brittany after he had tried to convince Louis XIII to abandon the war with Spain in December 1637, see Robert Bireley, The Jesuits and the Thirty Years War. Kings, Courts and Confessors (Cambridge, 2003), 189–93. According to Bireley, Caussin ‘considered himself a voice for the poor of the kingdom and the victims of the war, a prophet called by God to speak out on their behalf ’ (p. 193). For Caussin see also Sophie Conte (ed.), Nicolas Caussin: rhétorique et spiritualité à l’époque de Louis XIII (Münster, 2007). 116. Caussin justified his action at great length to the General of the Jesuits, Vitelleschi. Apparently he had said to the king ‘Haec loquor ut conscientiam tuam et meam liberem; habes immortalem animam, aliquando ad tribunal dei afferendam, vide quid ad haec judici tuo et meo sis responsurus’ (Rochemonteix, Nicolas Caussin, 217). 117. For the position of the dévots with regard to divine-right monarchy see Caroline MailletRao, ‘La Théologie politique des dévots Mathieu de Morgues et Michel de Marilllac, opposants au Cardinal de Richelieu’, Renaissance and Reformation 32 (2009), 51–77; and eadem, ‘Mathieu de Morgues (1582–1679) et Michel de Marillac (1560–1632): les dévots devant l’histoire’ (Ph.D. thesis, University of Tours, 2004), forthcoming as La Pensée politique des dévots Mathieu de Morgues et Michel de Marillac. Une opposition au ministériat (forthcoming). See also eadem, ‘Mathieu de Morgues and Michel de Marillac: The Dévots and Absolutism’, French History 25 (2011), 279–97; SeungHwi Lim, ‘Mathieu de Morgues, bon Français ou bon catholique?’, Dix-septième siècle 213 (2001), 654–72; and Donald A. Bailey, ‘Introduction’, in Nicholas Lefèvre de Lezeau, La Vie de Michel de Marillac (1560–1632), Garde des sceaux sous Louis XIII, ed. Donald A. Bailey (Quebec, 2007), iii–lxviii. For the role of the parlements see also [Mathieu de Morgues], Vrais et bons advis de francois fidele sur les calomnies et blasphemies du Sieur des Montagnes ou examen du libelle intitulé defense du roy et des ses ministres (n.p., 1631), 77, where de Morgues emphasized that the parlements were necessary ‘pour temperer en quelque façon le pouvoir absolu de leur [the kings’] Monarchie’. 118. Mathieu de Morgues, ‘La Verité defendue’, in idem, Diverses pièces pour la defence de la Royne Mère du Roy Très-Chrestien Louys XIII (Antwerp, 1643), 39: ‘Le cardinal efface les traits de l’image de Dieu qui sont en la Royauté.’ 119. See Étienne Thuau, Raison d’État et pensée politique à l’époque de Richelieu (Paris, 1966), and the works cited above in n. 166.

204 | Notes

120. ‘A resacralized state full of mysteries beyond the reach of human endeavour’ and ‘a state which belongs entirely to this world, capable of being transformed by human beings’. Cornette, ‘“Deux soleils en la France”’, 167–8. 121. Ibid., 200. 122. Joseph Bergin, Church, Society and Religious Change in France, 1580–1730 (Newhaven, Conn., 2009), 401. 123. Jörg Wollenberg, Richelieu: Staatsräson und Kircheninteresse. Zur Legitimation der Politik des Kardinalpremier (Bielefeld, 1977), 195–7. 124. For Père Joseph see Benoist, Le Père Joseph, in particular, on the dream of a new crusade, pp. 129–59. For the background of these ideas see also Poumarède, Pour en finir avec la croisade. 125. René Laurentin, Le Vœu de Louis XIII. Passé ou avenir de la France? (Paris, 2004), 89–95, and 155 for the Latin text of the original vow: ‘seipsum regnumque suum Deo primum nuncupatum, Dominae potentissimae Imperio, mancipat, Majestati consecrat, praesidio asserit’. 126. Durand, L’Ordre du monde, 114; Martha Mel Stumberg Edmunds, Piety and Politics. Imagining Divine Kingship in Louis XIV’s Chapel at Versailles (Newark, Del., 2002), 46–50; Laurentin, Le Vœu de Louis XIII, 122–8. Laurentin states: ‘Le vœu de Louis XIII fut célébré avec un éclat et une ferveur extraodinaires, largement populaire et nationale’ (p. 122). 127. Benoist, Le Père Joseph, 305: ‘A partir de 1635, l’accentuation dévote de la monarchie était le pendant nécessaire au “roi de guerre” qui, sur les champs de bataille, engageait ses troupes contre des puissances catholiques.’ Cf. pp. 296–304. 128. Barbara Gaehtgens, ‘À toutes les gloires de l’État. Richelieu, les Jésuites et le maître-autel de Saint-Louis à Paris’, in Jean-Claude Boyer, Barbara Gaehtgens and Bénédicte Gady (eds), Richelieu patron des arts (Paris, 2009), 215–49. The church of Saint-Louis to some extent replaced the Sainte-Chapelle as the centre of the cult of the crusader king during Richelieu’s ascendancy. 129. On the ambiguity of the cult of Saint Louis see Morgain, La Théologie politique de Pierre de Bérulle, 148–9; Manfred Tietz, ‘Saint Louis roi chrétien. Un mythe de la mission intérieure du XVIIe siècle’, in La Conversion au XVIIe siècle, Actes du colloque de Marseille (Marseille, 1983), 59–69; Alain Boureau, ‘Les enseignements absolutistes de Saint Louis, 1610–1630’, in Centre de Recherches sur l’Occident Moderne (ed.), La Monarchie absolutiste et l’histoire en France. Théories du pouvoir, propagandes monarchiques et mythologies nationales (Paris, 1987), 79–87; and Benoist, Le Père Joseph, 207–8. 130. Gaehtgens, ‘À toutes les gloires de l’État. Richelieu, les Jésuites et le maître-autel de SaintLouis à Paris’’, 242–4. 131. Jérémie Ferrier, Le Catholique d’Estat ou Discours politique des alliances du Roy […] (Paris, 1625), 13, 14–15. For Ferrier’s writings see also William Farr Church, Richelieu and Reason of State (Princeton, N.J., 1972), 128–35; and De Franceschi, ‘La Genèse française du catholicisme d’État’, 42, concerning Ferrier as a spokesman for Richelieu: ‘Avec une brutalité sans précédent la théologie est congédiée du politique pour mettre fin une bonne fois aux conflits de religion’. 132. Ferrier, Le Catholique d’Estat, 16: ‘David ne fit pas seulement la guerre aux infidelles, mais à ses subiets rebelles, quoy qui du peuple de dieu.’ Only the normal rules of the law of nations applied to such wars, not theological considerations. 133. ‘Les loix de l’Estat sont autres que celles des Casuistes, et les maxims de l’eschole n’ont rien commun avec la Politique’, and kings are ‘les plus glorieux instruments de la Divine

Notes | 205

providence au gouvernement du monde. Les anciens qui n’estoient point flatteurs, vous appellent, des Dieux corporels et sensibles’. Ferrier, Le Catholique d’estat, 19, and ‘Preface au Roy’, ibid., no pagination. 134. Cf. De Franceschi, ‘La Genèse française du catholicisme d’État’, 30: ‘Ferrier élabore sous l’influence du machiavélisme une théorie qui sépare strictement morale civile et principes religieux.’ This may be true, but on the whole, De Franceschi overemphasizes the extent to which politics and religion were separate spheres during Richelieu’s period in office. 135. Besian Arroy, Questions décidées, sur la iustice des armes des rois de France, sur les alliances auec les hérétiques ou infidelles, & sur la conduite de la conscience des gens de guerre (Paris, 1634). Cf. Peer Schmidt, Spanische Universalmonarchie oder ‚teutsche Libertät’: Das spanische Imperium in der Propaganda des Dreißigjährigen Krieges (Stuttgart, 2001), 217. 136. Arroy, Questions décidées, 28–36, esp. 28, 34–5. 137. Alexandri Patricii Armancani [Cornelis Jansen], Mars Gallicus, editio novissima (n.p., 1639; 1st edn, 1635), 78. It is interesting to note that the prayer which admonished the king to follow Aaron’s example was also among those elements of Charles I’s coronation in 1626 that were later criticized by opponents of William Laud and his clerical allies. See above, n. 53 and Strong, Coronation, 236. 138. Armancani [Jansen], Mars Gallicus, 29–30, 40. 139. ‘Potestas enim regum et pontificum […] non a miraculorum virtute, sanitatumque dependet, non ex prophetiae linguarumque variorum dono, non ex demonum ejectione, non ex quorumcumque mirabilium operatione religata est.’ Otherwise, ‘tota regum auctoritas nutat si a morum probitate sanitatumque patratione suspenditur’. Ibid., 65–6. 140. Ibid., 72: ‘An forte et asinis inter asines tribues praerogativas alicuius potestatis?’ See the entire passage, pp. 71–3. For the whole controversy see also Church, Richelieu and Reason of State, 384–98. 141. ‘Ita reges chistianissimi vi ac potestate inunctionis […] in sacros homines evadunt et quondam sacerdotalem dignitatem cum regia majestate conjungunt.’ [Daniel de Priezac], Vindiciae Galliae contra Alexandrum Patricium Armacanum (Paris, 1638), 39. 142. Ruth Schilling, ‘Monarchische Herrschaft und politisch-religiöse Legitimation. Die Sakralität des französichen Königs im 17. Jahrhundert’, in Matthias Pohlig et al. (eds), Säkularisierungen in der Frühen Neuzeit: Methodische Probleme und empirische Fallstudien (Berlin, 2008), 124–58, at 144–53. 143. Nicolas Forest du Chesne, Mars vere Gallicus adversus Jansenii Martem falso Gallicum (Rothomagii [Rouen], 1660) [Bibliothèque Mazarine, Paris, 2 6032 D], cols 55, cf. cols 38–41. 144. See Jean Orcibal, Saint-Cyran et le Jansénisme (Bourges, 1961), and idem, Jean Duvergier de Hauranne, abbé de Saint-Cyran et son temps (Paris, 1948). 145. Adam, Du mysticisme à la révolte, 134–45. See also Alexander Sedgwick, Jansenism in Seventeenth-Century France: Voices from the Wilderness (Charlottesville, Va., 1977), and Bergin, Church, Society and Religious Change in France, 394–423. 146. Ibid., 408, 427–8. 147. Wollenberg, Richelieu, 190. 148. For the Santarelli affair see De Franceschi, ‘La Genèse française du catholicisme d’État’. Among other things, Santarelli had stated: ‘In summo pontifice iure divino est utraque potestas spiritualis et temporalis’ and ‘ecclesia et maxime papa habet potestatem et auctoritatem vel jurisdictionem aliquam temporalem in ordine ad finem spiritualem super

206 | Notes

omnes homines et principes et reges.’ See Antonius Santarelli, Tractatus de haeresi […] et de potestate Romani pontificis (Rome, 1625), 298–9. 149. ‘Une nouvelle mystique royale est en train de parvenir à maturité. Elle est l’œuvre conjointe des catholiques d’État et des anciens zélés; en insistant sur le caractère divin de la monarchie, ils attaquent directement, pour la marginaliser davantage encore, l’une des doctrines constitutives du gallicanisme classique, qui insistait sur la nécessité de respecter l’existence d’assemblées consultatives intermédiaires dans le gouvernement du royaume.’ De Franceschi, ‘La Genèse française du catholicisme d’État’, 57; cf. idem, La Crise théologico-politique du premier âge baroque, 685–6: ‘La force du catholicisme d’État, que lui a permis de supplanter le gallicanisme a été d’affirmer une liaison indissoluble entre la défense de la papauté et la sécurité du prince. L’intégrité de la raison d’Église était désormais garantie par la moderne souveraineté politique tandis que le prince s’éloignait irréversiblement de ses sujets.’ 150. For an account of the war and its outbreak see Michael Braddick, God’s Fury, England’s Fire. A New History of the English Civil Wars (London, 2009). 151. For this interpretation see John Morrill, ‘Introduction: England’s Wars of Religion’, in idem, The Nature of the English Revolution (London, 1993), 33–44. See also idem, ‘Renaming England’s Wars of Religion’, in Charles W.A. Prior and Glenn Burgess (eds), England’s Wars of Religion Revisited (Farnham, 2011), 307–25. 152. For the National Covenant see John Morrill (ed.), The Scottish National Covenant in its British Context, 1638–1651 (Edinburgh, 1990). 153. John Coffey, Politics, Religion and the British Revolution. The Mind of Samuel Rutherford (Cambridge, 1997), 168: ‘what really motivated Rutherford was not his belief in the popular origins of royal authority but the passionate conviction that the king was obliged to defend true religion and purge the land of idolatry’. Cf. idem, ‘Samuel Rutherford and the Political Thought of the Scottish Covenanters’, in John R. Young (ed.), The Celtic Dimension of the British Civil Wars (Edinburgh, 1997), 75–96, where Coffey emphasizes Rutherford’s strong commitment to an eschatological conception of history. For the background of this conception see also Williamson, Scottish National Consciousness in the Age of James VI; Burgess, British Political Thought, 191–2; and Pečar, Macht der Schrift, 41–62. 154. Burgess, British Political Thought, 193. See also idem, ‘Was the English Civil War a War of Religion? The Evidence of Political Propaganda’, Huntington Library Quarterly 61, 2 (1999–2000), 173–201. 155. See Russell, The Causes of the English Civil War, 73–81. 156. Quentin Skinner, ‘Classical Liberty and the Coming of the English Civil War’, in Martin van Gelderen and Quentin Skinner (eds), Republicanism: A Shared European Heritage, 2 vols (Cambridge, 2002), vol. 1, 9–28. Skinner writes that Parliament was fighting less for the ‘natural rights’ of the king’s subjects than to liberate the people from ‘slavery’. However, the parliamentary declaration Skinner quotes identified the Cavaliers or Royalists as a ‘malignant party of Papists’, hardly a merely secular label for a faction (ibid., 28); see also Martin Dzelzainis, ‘Anti-Monarchism in English Republicanism’, in van Gelderen and Skinner (eds), Republicanism, vol. 2, 27–42. For the constitutional element of the struggle see Cromartie, The Constitutionalist Revolution. 157. For this aspect see John Coffey, ‘England’s Exodus: The Civil War as a War of Deliverance’, in Prior and Burgess (eds), England’s Wars of Religion Revisited, 253–80. See also John Morrill, ‘A Liberation Theology? Aspects of Puritanism in the English Revolution’, in Laura Lunger Knoppers (ed.), Puritanism and its Discontents (Cranbury, N.J., 2003), 27–48.

Notes | 207

158. See Blair Worden’s contributions to David Wootton (ed.), Republicanism, Liberty and Commercial Society, 1649–1776 (Stanford, Calif., 1994), in particular, ‘Marchamont Nedham and the Beginnings of English Republicanism, 1649–1646’, 45–81; and Burgess, British Political Thought, 336–63. 159. Quentin Skinner, ‘John Milton and the Politics of Slavery’, in idem, Visions of Politics, vol. 2, 286–307; cf. David Armitage, Armand Himy and Quentin Skinner (eds), Milton and Republicanism (Cambridge, 1995). 160. Eric Nelson, The Hebrew Republic: Jewish Sources and the Transformation of European Political Thought (Cambridge, Mass., 2010), 38–50; see also idem, ‘Talmudical Commonwealthmen and the Rise of Republican Exclusivism’, Historical Journal 50 (2007), 809–35, and Walter S.H. Lim, John Milton: Radical Politics and Biblical Republicanism (Newark, Del., 2006). 161. Pečar, Macht der Schrift, 63–123; John F. Wilson, Pulpit in Parliament. Puritanism during the English Civil Wars, 1640–1660 (Princeton, N.J., 1969). See also Paul Christianson, ‘From Expectation to Militance. Reformers and Babylon in the First Two Years of the Long Parliament’, Journal of Ecclesiastical History 24 (1973), 225–44; and Zaller, The Discourse of Legitimacy in Early Modern England, 700–6. 162. Katherine R. Firth, The Apocalyptic Tradition in Reformation Britain 1530–1645 (Oxford, 1979); Richard Bauckham, Tudor Apocalypse. Sixteenth-Century Apocalypticism, Millenarianism and the English Reformation: From John Bale to John Foxe and Thomas Brightman (Oxford, 1978); Paul Christianson, Reformers and Babylon. English Apocalyptic Visions from the Reformation to the Eve of Civil War (Toronto, 1978); Patrick Collinson, The Birthpangs of Protestant England. Religious and Cultural Change in the Sixteenth and Seventeenth Centuries (Basingstoke, 1988), 1–27. For the ambivalent notion of England as a new Israel see also Alexandra Walsham, Providence in Early Modern England (Oxford, 1999), 281–325. 163. Arthur Dent, The Ruine of Rome or an Exposition upon the Whole Revelation wherein is Plainly Shewed and Proved, that the Popish Religion, Together with all the Power and Authoritie of Rome, Shall Ebbe and Decay […] (2nd edn, London, 1603), 243–4. 164. For the identification of England with Laodicea see Brightman, Revelation of the Revelation, 164–5. Cf. n. 39 above and Theodore Dwight Bozeman, ‘Brightman, Thomas (1562–1607)’, Oxford Dictionary of National Biography, Oxford University Press, 2004 , accessed 10 Nov 2013. 165. For the Irish rebellion see Sean J. Connolly, Divided Kingdom: Ireland 1630–1800 (Oxford, 2008), 35–59; Braddick, God’s Fury, England’s Fire, 156–81. 166. Henry Burton, The Sounding of the Two Last Trumpets, the Sixth and Seventh or Meditations by Way of Paraphrase upon the 9th, 10th and 11th Chapters of the Revelation, as Containing a Prophecie of These Last Times (2nd edn, London, 1641), Preface, no pagination. 167. Ibid., 90–1, relating to chapters 17 and 18 of Revelation. 168. Thomas Goodwin, A Glimpse of Sion’s Glory, or the Churches Beautie Specified. (Published for the Good and Benefit of All Those Whose Hearts Are Raised up in the Expectation of the Glorious Liberties of the Saints) (2nd edn, London, 1641), 1 and 4. This tract is also attributed to Jeremiah Burroughs. 169. Zaller, The Discourse of Legitimacy in Early Modern Englamd, 623, with regard to Thomas Scott, a Protestant minister from Norwich and a strong critic of royal policies in the 1620s. 170. Ibid., 704.

208 | Notes

1 71. Zaller, ‘Breaking the Vessels’, 764, 767. 172. Cf. below. p. 91 on John Goodwin. 173. Pečar, Macht der Schrift, 41–5. 174. Ibid., 99, 102–3, 120–3. 175. See Jason McElligott and David L. Smith (eds), Royalists and Royalism during the English Civil Wars (Cambridge, 2007), esp. the introduction by the editors, pp. 1–15; David Scott, ‘Rethinking Royalist Politics, 1642–9’, in Adamson (ed.), The English Civil War, 36–41; and David L. Smith, Constitutional Royalism and the Search for Settlement, c.1640–1649 (Cambridge, 1994). 176. Scott, ‘Rethinking Royalist Politics’. 177. Barbara Donagan, ‘Varieties of Royalism’, in McElligott and Smith (eds), Royalists and Royalism during the English Civil Wars, 66–88, pp. 84–6. 178. See Ian Roy, ‘Royalist Reputations: The Cavalier Ideal and the Reality’, in McElligott and Smith (eds), Royalists during the Civil Wars, 89–111, and Barbara Donagan, War in England, 1642–1649 (Oxford, 2008), 225–57. 179. Sharpe, Image Wars, 341–8, but cf. A. Milton, ‘“Vailing his Crown”’. See further Elizabeth Skerpan Wheeler, ‘Eikon Basilike and the Rhetoric of Self-Representation’, in Thomas N. Corns (ed.), The Royal Image: Representations of Charles I (Cambridge, 1999), 122–40. 180. Sharpe, Image Wars, 309–10. 181. Lacey, The Cult of King Charles the Martyr, 29–32. 182. Ibid., 35–43. 183. Robert Filmer, Patriarcha and Other Writings, ed. Johann Sommerville (Cambridge, 1991). Patriarcha remained unpublished until 1680, but in 1647–8 Filmer published a number of shorter treatises which stressed that the king enjoyed absolute patriarchal authority over his subjects. 184. For Bodin’s influence in England see Ulrike Krautheim, Die Souveränitätskonzeption in den englischen Verfassungskonflikten des 17. Jahrhunderts (Frankfurt, 1977), and Sommerville, Royalists and Patriots, 141–3. 185. Cesare Cuttica, ‘Adam the Father of all Flesh. An Intellectual History of Sir Robert Filmer, 1588–1653 and his Works in European Political Thought’ (Ph.D. thesis, European University Institute, Florence, 2007; digital edition), 16–17. Authors who were of particular importance for Filmer were Pierre de Belloy and Jean Bedé de la Gormandière. The latter published a work in 1611 entitled Le Droit des roys contre le Cardinal Bellarmin. 186. Burgess, British Political Thought, 215–20, on John Maxwell and his Sacro-Santa Regum Majestas of 1644 and on various writings by Griffith Williams. 187. See A. Milton, Laudian and Royalist Polemic, 133; A. Milton, ‘Anglicanism and Royalism in the 1640s’, p. 76; and Burgess, British Political Thought, 221–4, on Michael Hudson and his Divine Right of Government (n.p., 1647), which stated: ‘Your Majesty hath formerly possessed your self of Gods Throne and acted as a God in those things, whereunto God did never by any Commission Authorize a King’ (sigs. A2–A2v), referring to the Church government that the king had allegedly usurped. Hudson was an advocate of toleration, but wrote his tract while a prisoner in the Tower, probably on behalf of those Independents in the army who wanted to reach an accommodation with the king on the basis of religious toleration granted to all Protestant congregations. 188. See for the trial Sean Kelsey, ‘The Death of Charles I’, Historical Journal 45 (2002), 727–54, and idem, ‘“A No-King or a New”. Royalists and the Succession, 1648–49’, in McElligott and Smith (eds), Royalists during the Civil Wars, 192–213; see also John

Notes | 209

Peacey (ed.), The Regicides and the Execution of Charles I (Basingstoke, 2001) and Sarah Barber, Regicide and Republicanism: Politics and Ethics in the English Revolution, 1646– 1659 (Edinburgh, 1998). 189. See John Morrill with Philip Baker, ‘Oliver Cromwell, The Regicides and the Sons of Zeruiah’, in Peacey, The Regicides, 14–35. 190. Orr, Treason and the State, 171–205. 191. Ibid., 193. 192. Burgess, British Political Thought, 243, regarding John Goodwin’s writings justifying the regicide. For Goodwin, however, see also below n. 196. 193. Burgess, ‘Regicide’, pp. 226–9; cf. Barber, Regicide and Republicanism, 102–5. 194. Jonathan Scott, Commonwealth Principles: Republican Writing of the English Revolution (Cambridge, 2004), 42. 195. Ibid., 60 and cf. p. 355: ‘We have not found in English republican writing evidence of the relentless progress of “secular” and “rational” at the expense of biblical and ecclesiastical authority, but rather a Christian reason deriving from Plato and Erasmus.’ 196. John Coffey, John Goodwin and the Puritan Revolution, Religion and Intellectual Change in Seventeenth-Century England (Woodbridge, 2006), 182, cf. 177–84. 197. For the idea of Christian martyrdom see Freeman, ‘“Imitatio Christi with a Vengeance”’. 198. Sean Kelsey, ‘The King’s Book: Eikon Basilike and the English Revolution’, in Nicholas Tyacke (ed.), The English Revolution, c.1540–1720: Politics, Religion and Communities (Manchester, 2007), 150–69, p. 163; cf. p. 164. For Eikon Basilike see also Stephen N. Zwicker, Lines of Authority: Politics and English Literary Culture, 1649–1689 (Ithaca, N.Y., 1993), 37–58. 199. Charles I, King of England, Scotland and Ireland, Eikon Basilike with Selections from Eikonoklastes, ed. Jim Daems and Holly Faith Nelson (Peterborough, Ont., 2006), 165: ‘I had rather you should be Charles le Bon, than le Grand’ (admonishing his son). 200. Ibid., 167: ‘if my captivity or death must be the price of their redemption I grudge not to pay it’. 201. Ibid., 173, cf. 172: ‘Indeed, I think, both offices, Regal and Sacerdotal might well become the same person.’ 202. Kevin Sharpe, ‘Private Conscience and Public Duty in the Writings of Charles I’, in idem, Remapping Early Modern England: The Culture of Seventeenth-Century Politics (Cambridge, 2000), 172–98, p. 193. 203. Lacey, The Cult of King Charles the Martyr, 165–6. 204. Burgess, ‘Regicide’, 231; Austin Woolrych, Britain in Revolution, 1625–1660 (Oxford, 2002), 328; and Scott, ‘Rethinking Royalist Politics’, 59. See also White, Henrietta Maria and the English Civil Wars, 181, which points out that for Henrietta Maria, her husband’s conversion to Presbyterianism would have offered a parallel to her own father’s conversion to Catholicism, which had been the basis for his victory in the French Wars of Religion. 205. Kelsey, ‘The King’s Book’, 158–63. 206. A. Milton, ‘“Vailing his Crown”’, 96–7: ‘The general thrust of Eikon Basilike encapsulates Heylyn’s complaint that Charles put his own search for virtue before his duties as a king.’ Cf. A. Milton, Laudian and Royalist Polemic, 128, 227. 207. Sharpe, Image Wars, 391–403; cf. idem, ‘“An image doting rabble”: The Failure of Republican Culture in Seventeenth-Century England’, in idem, Remapping Early Modern England, 223–65.

210 | Notes

208. Milton was alluding to a prayer that Charles – or Gauden in his stead – had borrowed from Sidney’s Arcadia, in which Pamela, a heathen, addresses a pagan god. (Zwicker, Lines of Authority, 55–6). For the Eikonoklastes see also Sharon Achinstein, ‘Milton and King Charles’, in Corns (ed.), The Royal Image, 141–61. 209. L. Potter, Secret Rites and Secret Writing, 182–3; Blair Worden, Literature and Politics in Cromwellian England: John Milton, Andrew Marvell, Marchamont Nedham (Oxford, 2007), 176. Cf. J. Milton, The Complete Prose Works, vol. 3, p. 553: ‘it is not hard for any man, who hath a bible in his hands, to borrow good words and holy sayings in abundance. But to make them his own, is a work of grace onely from above.’ Cf. ibid., 601, 362. 210. Zwicker, Lines of Authority, 51 quoting J. Milton, The Complete Prose Works, vol. 3, p. 343. 211. Zwicker, Lines of Authority, 50–8. 212. Knoppers, Constructing Cromwell, 31–68, 88, 130–1; Sharpe, Image Wars, 493–511. Cf. Sean Kelsey, Inventing a Republic: The Political Culture of the English Commonwealth, 1649–1653 (Stanford, Calif., 1997); and Sharpe, ‘“An image doting rabble”’. 213. Ralph E. Giesey, The Royal Funerary Ceremony in Renaissance France (Geneva, 1960) and the French translation, Le Roi ne meurt jamais (Paris, 1987), esp. 262–6; for the later development of the funeral ceremonies for the king himself and members of the royal family see also Frédérique Leferme-Falguières, Les Courtisans. Une société de spectacle sous l’ancien régime (Paris, 2007),143–222. 214. For the replacement of the effigy of the dead king first by the actual body of the king (immediately after the king’s death) and then by a mere symbol – his throne – see also Maral, La Chapelle Royale de Versailles sous Louis XIV, 217–19. On the royal effigy and its history see Kristin Marek, Die Körper des Königs. Effigies, Bildpolitik und Heiligkeit (Munich, 2009). 215. Françoise Hildesheimer, La Double mort du roi Louis XIII (Paris, 2007), 242. Cf. Le Gall (Le Mythe de Saint Denis, 390–1), who emphasizes, however, that during the final ceremony in Saint Denis, traditional splendour took the place of Christian humility. The coffin of the king was decorated by a ‘représentation’, which symbolized the dignity of the dead; no longer an effigy but sceptre, crown and ‘main de justice’ (the second sceptre of the French king), surrounded by the traditional insignia of the French monarchy: ‘Le cadavre est surmonté des attributs de la souverainité, qui lui ont échu par la vertu du ius sanguinis et qui ont manifesté sa majesté’ (p. 191). For the idea that the sacral character of kingship was related to the notion of self-immolation see also Denis Crouzet, ‘Désir de mort et puissance absolue, de Charles VIII à Henri IV’, Revue de Synthèse 112 (1991), 423–41. For the impact of Louis XIII’s image beyond France, see also Daniel Aznar, ‘Louis (XIII) II de Catalogne: La Construction d’un mythe royal (1641–1643)’, unpublished paper, 23–9. I am most grateful to the author for letting me see a copy of this article before publication. 216. ‘Sa mort fut sa gloire, sa sortie de la terre fut son entrée dans le ciel, cet astre ne fut iamais plus brillant que quand il volut s’esteindre, et ce roy ne parut iamais plus sainct, que quand il fut sur le point d’aller accroistre le nombre des bien-heureux. Le ciel permist que sa mort fust lente afine qu’elle en fust plus belle, et que ceux qui n’avaient pu s’instruire par ses actions Royalles, se peussent convertir par ses actions Chretiennes.’ Jean-François Senault, Harangues funebres de Louis le Iuste Roy de France et de Nauarre, et de la Royne sa mere Marie de Medicis. Prononcees dans l’Eglise Cathedrale de Sainte Croix d’Orleans, par le père Jean-François Senault, Prestre de l’Oratoire (Paris, 1643), 38.

Notes | 211

217. ‘Que la politique doit ceder à la religion et à la nature, que l’amour de son estat ne doit point combattre celuy de sa mère, qu’il pouvoit estre bon fils sans estre mauvois roy.’ Senault, Harangues funebres de Louis le Iuste Roy de France et de Nauarre,), 40. Cf. Charles François Abra de Raconis, Discours funebre, panegyrique et histoire sur la vie et vertus, la maladie et la mort du Roy tres-chretien. Prononcé le 19 et 20 juin […] (Paris, 1643), 82–3. 218. Cédric Coraillon, ‘Les deux morts de Louis XIII’, Revue d’histoire moderne et contemporaine 55 (2008), 50–73; Alexandre Y. Haran, ‘Louis le Juste à travers les oraisons funèbres. Roi-Sauveur et monarque providentiel’, in Bernard Barbiche, Jean-Pierre Poussou and Alain Tallon (eds), Pouvoirs, contestations et comportements dans l’Europe moderne. Mélanges en l’honneur du professeur Yves-Marie Bercé (Paris, 2005), 247–62, pp. 252–8; and cf. Jacques Hennequin, ‘L’Image du prince dans les oraisons funèbres de Louis XIII’, in Colloque sur l’image du roi (Strasbourg, 1984 = Travaux de Linguistique et de Littérature 22, 2), 41–55. 219. Le Gall, Le Mythe de Saint Denis, 397. Cf. Jean-Marie Le Gall, ‘La Nécropole dynastique des Bourbons à Saint-Denis ou l’impossible simple corps du roi’, Revue Historique 637 (2006), 61–80, p. 62: ‘En quoi, dans une religion où Dieu meurt en croix, mortalité et divinité seraient-elles incompatibles? Il convient donc de ne pas évacuer le simple corps du roi, mais au contraire de partir de lui pour montrer comment se constitue la religion royale.’ 220. ‘L’office est patrimonialisé et n’a plus d’autonomie par rapport au roi et à son lignage. Mais en même temps, les caractéristiques sacrées de l’office royal contaminent cette corporéité princière, qui, loin de détruire la religion royale, la consacre’. Le Gall, Le Mythe de Saint Denis, 393. 221. Le Gall, ‘La Nécropole dynastique des Bourbons à Saint-Denis’, and Claire Mazel, ‘“Ils ont préféré la croix au trône”. Les monuments funéraires des premiers Bourbons’, in Thomas W. Gaehtgens and Nicole Hochner (eds), L’Image du roi de François Ier à Louis XIV (Paris, 2006), 169–90, esp. 183. It comes as less of a surprise that Henri III received no tomb. In fact, he had an official funeral in Saint Denis in 1610, but no monument was erected. See Michael Wolfe, ‘The Strange Afterlife of Henri III. Dynastic Distortions in Early Bourbon France’, Renaissance Studies 10 (1996), 474–89. 222. David Howarth, Images of Rule: Art and Politics in the English Renaissance, 1485–1649 (Basingstoke, 1997), 166–72; Julia M. Walker, ‘Reading the Tombs of Elizabeth I’, English Literary History 26 (1996), 510–30; Peter Sherlock, ‘The Monuments of Elizabeth Tudor and Mary Stuart: King James and the Manipulation of Memory’, Journal of British Studies 46 (2007), 263–89; and François-Joseph Ruggiu, ‘Westminster, nécropole royale, ou la disparition des trois corps du roi (début du XVIIe–début du XIXe siècle)’, Revue Historique 637 (2006), 81–111. 223. ‘Ce qui prend fin à Saint-Denis, c’est moins la sacralité de la personne royale, que la vacuité de tout ce qui touche à sa représentation.’ Le Gall, Le Mythe de Saint Denis, 453. 224. Michel Pernot, La Fronde (Paris, 1994), 51–62; cf. James B. Collins, The State in Early Modern France (2nd edn, Cambridge, 2009), 82–99. For monopolies and similar devices in England see Ronald G. Asch, Der Hof Karls I. von England. Politik, Provinz und Patronage (Cologne, 1993), 322–88. 225. Pernot, La Fronde, 233. In the debates the judges of the Parisian parlement often stressed that they were loyal subjects of the crown and prepared to defend the king’s authority, while claiming for the parlement a role as a ‘dépositaire de la liberté publique’ and rejecting all accusations of acting as a ‘république dans une monarchie’. Speakers reminded the

212 | Notes

queen that the parlement had defended royal authority and the legitimate heir against the League in 1589. See Jean le Boindre, Débats du parlement de Paris pendant la minorité de Louis XIV, ed. Robert Descimon, Orest Ranum and Patricia M. Ranum (Paris, 1997), 113–14, 123–4. For the role of the parlement in the Fronde see also Cornette, La Mélancolie du pouvoir. 226. There are, admittedly, historians who see a more principled quest for liberty in the Fronde. See, for example, Jean-Marie Constant, ‘Der Adel und die Monarchie in Frankreich vom Tode Heinrichs IV bis zum Ende der Fronde (1610–1653)’, in Ronald G. Asch (ed.), Der Europäische Adel im Ancien Régime (Cologne, 2001), 129–50, pp. 143–8. Cf. Jean-Marie Constant, ‘La Troisième Fronde: les gentilshommes et les libertés nobiliaires’, ­Dix-septième siècle 145 (1984), 341–54; and idem, La Folle liberté des baroques 1600–1661 (Paris, 2007), 224–39. 227. Jouhaud, Mazarinades, 155–73. Cf. Hubert Carrier, Le Labyrinthe de l’État. Essai sur le débat politique en France au temps de la Fronde (1648–1653) (Paris, 2004); and idem, Les Mazarinades. La Presse de la Fronde, 2 vols (Geneva, 1989–91). 228. There were, admittedly, some more radical voices and office holders who could envisage a state in which the Estates presented a real counterweight to the monarchy. See Jouhaud, Mazarinades, 358–9 for Claude Joly. 229. In January 1649 Mazarin confronted the parlement with the question of whether it really wanted to impose limitations on royal authority; the judges were careful to avoid any clear answer to this question. Retz, the coadjutor of the Archbishop of Paris and his successor designate, commented on this in his memoirs, pointing out that by giving a clear affirmative answer, the parlement would have torn to pieces the veil protecting the monarchy: ‘elle dechirait le voile qui couvre le mystère de l’État. Chaque monarchie a le sien. Celui de la France consiste dans cet espèce de silence religieux et sacré dans lequel on ensevelit, en obéissant presque toujours aveuglément aux rois, le droit que l’on ne veut croire avoir de s’en dispenser.’ Jean-François-Paul de Gondi Cardinal de Retz, Mémoires, ed. Michel Pernot (Paris, 2003), 185. 230. Ibid., 254: ‘Voilà le sort de M. du Maine, chef d’un parti formé pour la défense de la religion, cimenté par le sang de MM. de Guise, tenus universellement pour les Machabées de leur temps.’ For Condé’s attitude see Katia Béguin, Les Princes de Condé. Rebelles, courtisans et mécènes dans la France du Grand Siècle (Seyssel, 1999), 102–31. 231. For this aspect of the English Civil War see John Adamson, The Noble Revolt: The Overthrow of Charles I (London, 2007). 232. Yves-Marie Bercé, La Naissance dramatique de l’absolutisme, 1598–1661, Nouvelle Histoire de la France Moderne, vol. 3 (Paris, 1992), 179–81; Jean-Marie Constant, ‘L’Assemblée de la noblesse de 1651: une autre conception de la monarchie française’, in Roger Duchêne and Pierre Ronzeaud (eds), La Fronde en questions (Marseille, 1989), 277–86; Constant, ‘La Troisième Fronde’; and Jouanna, Le Devoir de révolte, 262–73. 233. Religious symbolism, however, did play a certain part in the polemical writings of the Fronde and popular protest in general. Individual authors of pamphlets took a more radical, even eschatological, stance during the Fronde, although this remained unusual. See Moshe Sluhovsky, ‘La Mobilisation des saints dans la Fronde Parisienne d’après les mazarinades’, Annales HSS 54 (1999), 353–74, esp. 357. Cf. Kötting, Die Ormée, 215–20, on the writings of the radical Protestant frondeur François Davenne, who was clearly inspired by the debates of the later sixteenth century, but also by events in England.

Notes | 213

234. Pernot, La Fronde, 89–90. Cf. Richard M. Golden, The Godly Rebellion: Parisian Curés and the Religious Fronde, 1652–1662 (Chapel Hill, N.C., 1981). And for the role the dévots played in politics see also Alain Tallon, La Compagnie du Saint-Sacrement (1629– 1667): spiritualité et société (Paris, 1990). 235. Kretzer, Calvinismus und französische Monarchie im 17. Jahrhundert, 299–363. Cf. Christophe Tournu, ‘Le Débat Milton/Saumaise: droit des rois face aux rois des peuples’, in Anne Dunan-Pagé and Marie-Christine Munoz-Teulié (eds), Les Huguenots dans les îles britanniques de la Renaissance aux Lumières. Écrits religieux et représentations (Paris, 2008), 135–74. 236. For the Fronde in Bordeaux see Kötting, Die Ormée; and Eckart Birnstiel, Die Fronde in Bordeaux (1648–1653) (Frankfurt am Main, 1985). 237. Philip Knachel, England and the Fronde. The Impact of the English Civil War and Revolution in France (Ithaca, N.Y., 1967), 88–97; Gojosso, Le Concept de république en France, 237–54. 238. Antoine Aubery, L’Histoire du Cardinal Mazarin, 2 vols (Amsterdam, 1695), vol. 1, 580–2. 239. Jouhaud, Mazarinades, 163: ‘La révolution anglaise l’intéresse, car elle est un exemple parlant, intrinsèquement vociférant, susceptible de fonctionner comme menace.’ Mazarin himself tried to demonstrate to the regent that Charles I had lost his crown and life before he had betrayed his most loyal servant, Strafford, in 1641, thereby suggesting that she might suffer a similar fate should she dismiss and abandon him. See Georges Ascoli, La Grande Bretagne devant l’opinion française au XVIIe siècle, 2 vols (Paris, 1930), vol. 1, 97. 240. Hubert Carrier (ed.), La Fronde. Contestation démocratique et misère paysanne, 52 Mazarinades, 2 vols (Paris, 1982), vol. 1, no.16, Avis à la Reyne d’Angleterre et à la France, 1650. 241. Knachel, England and the Fronde, 64–8. 242. François de Marsys, Les memoires du feu roy de la Grand’ Bretagne Charles Premier: escrits de sa propre main dans sa prison: ou il est monstré que le livre intitule Portrait du Roy de la Grand’ Bretagne, est un liure aposté & diffamatoire. Traduits de l’Anglois en nostre langue, par le sieur de Marsys, et enrichis d’annotations, & de renuois tres-necessaire pour l’intelligence de l’ouurage, Preface du Traducteur (Paris, 1649), sign. A iii and ‘Advertissement ou il est monstré que le livre intitulé Portrait du Roy de la Grand Bretagne est aposté et diffamatoire’, in particular sign. E iiv. and E iii. The ‘Advertissement’ was directed against a translation of Eikon Basilike by a Protestant, Jean Baptiste Porrée. Earlier, in 1646, De Marsys had written a history of the persecution of Catholics in England. See Ascoli, La Grande Bretagne, vol. 1, 65. 243. Marsys, Les memoires du feu roy de la Grand’ Bretagne Charles Premier, sign. A iir. 244. See e.g. [Mathieu de Morgues], Le Genie demasqué (Paris, 1632), which charged Richelieu with having usurped God’s place by claiming that the cardinal had made the king rule: ‘faict regner le Roy […] il est donc Dieu, qui a dict je fais regner les Roys’ (p. 14). 245. Cornette, La Mélancolie du pouvoir, 143–61. 246. Joël Cornette, ‘Figures politiques du Grand Siècle. Roi-État ou État-roi?’, in idem (ed.), La Monarchie entre Renaissance et Révolution, 1515–1792 (Paris, 2000), 137–278, pp. 213–15; Jay M. Smith, The Culture of Merit: Nobility, Royal Service, and the Making of Absolute Monarchy in France 1600–1789 (Ann Arbor, Mich., 1996), 9. 247. Aubery, L’Histoire du Cardinal Mazarin, vol. 2, 370–83, esp. 376 with an explicit reference to the English Revolution. Cf. R. Schilling, ‘Monarchische Herrschaft und

214 | Notes

politisch-religiöse Legitimation’, 153–7; and Benno Stiefelhagen, ‘Die Bedeutung der französischen Königskrönung von Heinrich IV. bis zum Sacre Ludwigs XIV.’ (Ph.D. thesis, University of Bonn, 1988), 256–72. 248. Ralph E. Giesey, ‘La Societé de cour’, in idem, Cérémonial et puissance souveraine, 67–86, esp. 72–5. Cf. Fogel, Les céremonies de l’information, 198–245. 249. René de Ceriziers, Discours sur le sacre du Roi (Paris, 1654), 15: ‘Les seuls monarches François se peuvent glorifier d’estre les oints du seigneur, puis qu’il n’y a qu’eux qui retiennent l’image du sacerdoce conioint à la royauté.’ Cf. p. 14 on the king as ‘roy spirituel’. Ceriziers was aumonier du roi. 250. Cornette, La Mélancolie du pouvoir, 160. 251. Sharpe, Image Wars, 398. Sharpe continues: ‘But what the Eikon Basilike effects is a larger resolution, a reconnection of the personal and public that made it requisite for any subsequent authority to effect the same if it was to claim legitimacy and gain support.’ 252. The Eikon Basilike reonciled ‘the need for utterance in a public sphere with the mystery of silence’ (ibid.). 253. Pierre de Bérulle, Œuvres complètes, vol. 3, parts 1 and 2: Discours de l’état et des grandeurs de Jésus, ed. Michel Join-Lamberg and Rémi Lescot (Paris 1996), 8 (Narré, Au Roi): ‘Il est donc roi et en sa naissance et en sa mort. Roi faisant office de roi et exerçant par lui-même sa royauté [... .] Roi faisant publier sa royauté, et par des rois en sa naissance, et par ses juges en sa mort’. 254. It might be argued that an imago dei rhetoric which focused more on Christ than on God the father could enhance the sacrality of kingship because it was actually compatible with the king’s human nature. See Michel Senellart, Les arts de gouverner. Du regimen médiéval au concept de gouvernement (Paris, 1995), 150: ‘Dès lors qu’il [the king] représente la divinité incarnée du Christ, c’est sa propre nature, individuelle et corruptible qui se trouve magnifiée par l’éclat de sa fonction.’ 255. See Peter Hersche‚ ‘“Klassizistischer” Katholizismus. Der konfessionsgeschichtliche Sonderfall Frankreich’, Historische Zeitschrift 262 (1996), 357–89. 256. Olivier Christin, Une révolution symbolique. L’Iconoclasme Huguenot et la reconstruction catholique (Paris, 1991). 257. See below pp. 147–9.

Chapter III  In the Shadow of Versailles 1. See e.g. John R. Western, Monarchy and Revolution. The English State in the 1680s (Basingstoke, 1985); Grant Tapsell, The Personal Rule of Charles II, 1681–85 (Woodbridge, 2007). 2. Asch and Duchhardt (eds), Der Absolutismus – ein Mythos?; Bonney, The Limits of Absolutism en Ancien Régime France; Cosandey and Descimon, L’Absolutisme en France; J.B. Collins, The State in Early Modern France. See also Hervé Drévillon, Les rois absolus: 1629–1715 (Paris, 2011). 3. Olivier Chaline, Le Règne de Louis XIV (Paris, 2005), 143–7; see also Elisabeth Labrousse, La Révocation de l’Edit de Nantes: une foi, une loi, un roi? (Paris, 1990); Janine Garrisson, L’Edit de Nantes et sa révocation: histoire d’une intolérance (Paris, 1985). 4. Jeroen K. Duindam, Vienna and Versailles: The Courts of Europe’s Dynastic Rivals 1550– 1780 (Cambridge, 2003), 97–103; William Beik, A Social and Cultural History of Early

Notes | 215

Modern France (Cambridge, 2009), 333–6; Cornette, ‘Figures politiques du Grand Siècle’, 243–74; Leonhard Horowski, ‘Das Erbe des Favoriten: Minister, Mätressen und Günstlinge am Hof Ludwigs XIV’, in Jan Hirschbiegel and Werner Paravicini (eds), Der Fall des Günstlings. Hofparteien in Europa vom 13. bis zum 17. Jahrhundert (Ostfildern, 2004), 77–126; and idem, Die Belagerung des Thrones. Machtstrukturen und Karrieremechanismen am Hof von Frankreich 1661–1789 (Ostfildern, 2012). 5. For the justices of the peace see Lionel K.J. Glassey, Politics and the Appointment of Justices of the Peace, 1675–1720 (Oxford, 1979), 89–90; for local government see Victor L. Stater, Noble Government. The Stuart Lord Lieutenancy and the Transformation of English Politics (Athens, Ga., 1994), 141–79. 6. For the purchase of offices in France see most recently Jean Nagle, Un orgueil français. La Vénalité des offices sous l’Ancien Régime (Paris, 2008); Beik, A Social and Cultural History of Early Modern France, 134–63. 7. For the idea of a second restoration see Gary S. De Krey, Restoration and Revolution in Britain. A Political History of the Era of Charles II and the Glorious Revolution (Basingstoke, 2007), 202–10; Hart, Pen for a Party, ch. 5. 8. See above ch. II, p. 63. 9. Hart, Pen for a Party, 189–94, 229–30. 10. Dryden, The History of the League Written in French, preface, no pagination. For Maimbourg, the original French author, see Quantin, ‘“Croisades et supercroisade?”’; for Dryden’s position, see also Annabel Patterson, ‘John Dryden and Political Allegiance’, in Steven N. Zwicker (ed.), The Cambridge Companion to John Dryden (Cambridge, 2004), 221–36. 11. For Ireland in the later seventeenth century see Connolly, Divided Kingdom, 119–72. 12. For Eikon Basilike, which promoted this image, see above, pp. 91–2 and below, p. 130. For Charles’s position see also Ronald Hutton, ‘The Religion of Charles II’, in R.  Malcolm Smuts (ed.), The Stuart Courts and Europe: Essays in Politics and Political Culture (Cambridge, 1995), 228–46. 13. For the impact of Hobbes’s work see J.R. Collins, The Allegiance of Thomas Hobbes; and Parkin, Taming the Leviathan. 14. Mark Goldie, Roger Morrice and the Puritan Whigs (= idem (ed.), The Entering Book of Roger Morrice, 1677–1691, vol. 1), (Woodbridge 2007), 154–61. 15. Mark Goldie, ‘The Huguenot Experience and the Problem of Toleration in Restoration England’, in Edric Caldicott, Hugh Gough and Jean-Paul Pittion (eds), The Huguenots and Ireland. Anatomy of an Emigration (Dublin, 1987), 175–203, pp. 179–83. 16. Jonathan Scott, Algernon Sidney and the English Republic, 1623–1677 (Cambridge, 1988), 233–4; for Sidney cf. John Carswell, The Porcupine: The Life of Algernon Sidney (London, 1989). 17. Steve C.A. Pincus, ‘From Butterboxes to Wooden Shoes: The Shift in English Popular Sentiment from Anti-Dutch to Anti-French in the 1670s’, Historical Journal 38 (1995), 333–61, argues: ‘The public outcry against the third Anglo-Dutch war did represent a fundamental turning point in the fortunes of the restored monarchy. Its significance lay not in the revival of fear of Roman Catholicism, but rather in the conviction that only an English parliament could protect the nation from French universal dominion and a French style of government’ (p. 361). 18. Pincus, 1688, 118–78. 19. Scott, England’s Troubles, 65.

216 | Notes

20. Ibid., 179. 21. Claydon, Europe and the Making of England, 160. 22. Ibid., 363. 23. For the controversial notion of absolutism see above n. 2 and Henshall, The Myth of Absolutism; Cornette, ‘Figures politiques du Grand Siècle’, 253–74; J.B. Collins, The State in Early Modern France, 180–8; and, more generally, Blokmans et al. (eds), Empowering Interactions. 24. Parrott, Richelieu’s Army; and Guy Rowlands, The Dynastic State and the Army under Louis XIV: Royal Service and Private Interest, 1661–1701 (Cambridge, 2002). 25. Guy Rowlands, ‘Louis XIV, Aristocratic Power and the Elite Units of the French Army’, French History 13 (1999), 303–31; see also Duindam, Viena and Versailles, 261–72; and Ronald G. Asch, ‘Hof, Adel und Monarchie. Norbert Elias’ Höfische Gesellschaft im Lichte der neueren Forschung’, in Claudia Opitz (ed.), Höfische Gesellschaft und Zivilisationsprozeß. Norbert Elias’ Werk in Kulturwissenschaftlicher Perspektive (Cologne, 2005), 119–42. 26. Horowski, ‘Das Erbe des Favoriten’. See also more recently Thierry Sarmant and Mathieu Stoll, Régner et gouverner. Louis XIV et ses ministres (Paris, 2010), esp. 129–39. 27. For the role of the noblesse de robe see Franklin L. Ford, Robe and Sword: The Regrouping of the French Aristocracy after Louis XIV (Cambridge, Mass., 1953); Albert N. Hamscher, The Parlement of Paris after the Fronde (1653–1673) (Pittsburgh, Pa., 1975); J.B. Collins, The State in Early Modern France, 167–75; and, more in line with traditional ideas of absolutism, John J. Hurt, Louis XIV and the Parlements: The Assertion of Royal Authority (Manchester, 2002). See also Robert Descimon, ‘Nobles de lignage et noblesse de service. Sociogenèses comparées de l’épée et de la robe (XVe–XVIIIe siècle)’, in idem and Élie Haddad (eds), Épreuves de Noblesse. Les experiences nobiliaires de la haute robe parisienne (XVIe–XVIIe siècle) (Paris, 2010), 277–303; and Mark Potter, Corps and Clienteles: Public Finance and Political Change in France, 1688–1715 (Aldershot, 2003). 28. Bernard Barbiche, ‘Agents de la monarchie’, in Lucien Bély (ed.), Dictionnaire de l’Ancien Régime (Paris, 1996), 38–40. For a provincial perspective see William Beik, Absolutism and Society in Seventeenth-Century France. State Power and Aristocracy in Languedoc (Cambridge, 1985), 303–26. 29. See Gauthier Aubert and Olivier Chaline (eds), Les parlements de Louis XIV. Opposition, coopération, autonomisation? (Rennes, 2010), in particular, Michel Figeac, ‘“Le roi est mort! Vive les parlements!” ou la justice du Roi-Soleil revisitée par le chancelier d’Aguesseau’, in ibid., 19–32. 30. J.B. Collins, The State in Early Modern France, 209–24. 31. Cornette, ‘Figures politiques du Grand Siècle’, 229–35; Pierre Zoberman, Les panégyriques du roi (Paris, 1991); Peter Burke, The Fabrication of Louis XIV (New Haven, Conn., 1992), 61–106; and for the image of the king as military leader, Joël Cornette, Le Roi de guerre. Essai sur la souveraineté dans la France du Grand Siècle (Paris, 2000), 231–48. Cf. also Louis Marin, The Portrait of the King (London, 1988); and Jean-Marie Apostolidès, Le Roi-machine: Spectacle et politique au temps de Louis XIV (Paris, 1981). 32. Hendrik Ziegler, Der Sonnenkönig und seine Feinde. Die Bildpropaganda Ludwigs XIV. in der Kritik (Petersberg, 2010). 33. For Leopold I see Jutta Schumann, Die andere Sonne. Kaiserbild und Medienstrategien im Zeitalter Leopolds I (Berlin, 2003); and Maria Goloubeva, The Glorification of Emperor Leopold I in Image, Spectacle and Text (Mainz, 2000); and for the early eighteenth century

Notes | 217

Andreas Pečar, Die Ökonomie der Ehre. Höfischer Adel am Kaiserhof Karls VI. (Darmstadt, 2003). 34. Fogel, Les cérémonies de l’information (Paris, 1989), 198–205. 35. ‘Toute gémellité des deux corps a disparu. Tout l’État, toute la monarchie, tous les principes d’autorité, d’ordre, de souveraineté, d’unicité, sont contenus dans ce corps de ce roi.’ Gérard Sabatier, Versailles ou la figure du roi (Paris, 1999), 565. 36. Ibid., 565: ‘Et effectivement, dans cette figure de roi produite à Versailles et à Paris à la fin du XVIIe siècle, siècle de foi, qui a aussi été celui du début du désenchantement du monde, nulle sacralité de nature religieuse ne s’aperçoit. Mais elle resplendit dans ce qui est devenu le politique – soit, dans sa version d’alors, l’absolutisme fantasmé.’ 37. Bernard Hours, ‘De la piété personnelle de Louis XIV’, in Gérard Sabatier and Margarita Torrione (eds), ¿Louis XIV espagnol? Madrid et Versailles, images et modèles (Versailles, 2009), 237–54. 38. Georgia J. Cowart, The Triumph of Pleasure. Louis XIV and the Politics of Spectacle (Chicago, Ill., 2008); see further Sabatier, Versailles, 47–242. For the ballet de cour see also Marie-Françoise Christout, Le Ballet de cour de Louis XIV: 1643–72 (2nd edn., Paris, 1972); Kathryn Hoffmann, Society of Pleasures. Interdisciplinary Readings in Pleasure and Power during the Reign of Louis XIV (New York, 1997); and Jean-Pierre Néraudau, L’Olympe du roi-soleil. Mythologie et idéologie royale au Grand Siècle (Paris, 1986), 119–34. 39. Nicolas Milanovic, Du Louvre à Versailles. Lecture des grands décors monarchiques (Paris, 2005), 179. See also Alexandre Maral, Le Roi-Soleil et Dieu (Paris, 2012), who comes to the conclusion that Louis XIV relied so much on ancient mythology in court art to reject the Calvinist and rationalist idea that there was no place in this world for the visible presence of the divine (see in particular p. 189). See also Nicolas Milanovic and Alexandre Maral (eds), Louis XIV, l’homme et le roi (Paris, 2009). 40. Gérard Sabatier, ‘Imagerie héroïque et sacralité monarchique’, in Alain Boureau (ed.), La Royauté sacréé dans le monde chrétien (Paris, 1995), 115–28, p. 118; for the heroic image of the king cf. Joël Cornette, ‘La Tente de Darius’, in idem and Henry Mchoulan (eds), L’État classique 1652–1715. Regards sur la pensée politique dans la France dans la seconde moitié du XVIIe siècle (Paris, 1996), 9–42; and Thomas Kirchner, Der epische Held. Historienmalerei und Kunstpolitik im Frankreich des 17. Jahrhunderts (Munich, 2001), 103–17, 272–317. 41. Chaline, Le Règne de Louis XIV, 107, and cf. 226; cf. Joan E. DeJean, Ancients against Moderns. Culture Wars and the Making of a Fin de Siècle (Chicago, Ill., 1997); and Christian Michel, ‘Les enjeux historiographiques de la querelle des anciens et des modernes’, in Centre de Recherches sur l’Occident Mmoderne (ed.), La Monarchie absolutiste et l’histoire en France. Theories du pouvoir, propagandes monarchiques et mythologies nationales (Paris, 1987), 129–54. 42. Chaline, Le Règne de Louis XIV, 229; Chaline continues: ‘Divinités et héros ne sont là que pour orner les haut faits du règne. Ils n’en sont plus les modèles.’ 43. Sabatier, Versailles, 547–66; Burke, The Fabrication of Louis XIV, 125–35. See also Kirchner, Der epische Held, 431–5. 44. See Sabatier, Versailles, 560: ‘on ne croit plus au système des ressemblances, des analogies, des similitudes, qu’on ne croit plus à une substance idéelle du pouvoir qui s’incarnerait temporairement, une substance qui serait forcément plus réelle, dans son éternité, que son éphémère apparence charnelle. On ne croit plus aux deux corps du roi. Du moins ne les montre-t-on pas.’

218 | Notes

45. Joseph Klaits, Printed Propaganda under Louis XIV. Absolute Monarchy and Public Opinion (Princeton, N.J., 1976), 26: ‘the combination of objections, formulated in books, pamphlets and periodicals, comprised a critique impossible to answer in visual imagery, by religious ritual or with panegyrics. If the critics were to be refuted, it would have to be on their own field of argument and externally at least, on their own terms.’ See also p. 291. 46. Stumberg Edmunds, Piety and Politics, 229: ‘indeed, the architecture and decoration of the chapel are evidence of the undiminished strength of the concept of sacerdotal kingship at the end of Louis XIV’s reign’. For the role of the chapel cf. Maral, La Chapelle Royale de Versailles sous Louis XIV; and see also idem, Le Roi-Soleil et Dieu, 189–90. 47. Milanovic, Du Louvre à Versailles, 230–1; cf. Burke, The Fabrication of Louis XIV, 125–31. 48. Pierre Jurieu, in La Religion des Jesuites (The Hague, 1689), 6, had emphasized that in the presence of God, kings were no more than mere shadows (‘que le personnage qu’ils jouent sur la terre n’est qu’un roolle [sic] de Comédie’), and strongly rejected the idolatry that he saw in the veneration of the Sun King. On Louis’s attempts to counter the charge of idolatry by stressing his role as a Christian king, serving God and the Church, see also Maral, Le Roi-Soleil et Dieu, 214–19. 49. Ziegler, Der Sonnenkönig und seine Feinde, 101–3. Cf. François Lemée, Traité des statues (Paris, 1688), 422–5, against the Protestant Pierre Moulin’s Iconomachus seu De imaginibus et earum cultu (Sedan, 1635). 50. Quoted in Sabatier, Versailles, 429. See Jacques-Bénigne Bossuet, Politique tirée des propres parole de l’écriture sainte, ed. Jacques Le Brun (Geneva, 1967), 178. Bossuet had written the first draft of the Politique in the late 1670s, but did not complete the work until shortly before his death in 1704. For Bossuet see Lothar Schilling, ‘Bossuet, die Bibel und der “Absolutismus”’, in Andreas Pečar and Kai Trampedach, Die Bibel als politisches Argument, Historische Zeitschrift, Beiheft 43 (Munich, 2007), 349–70. 51. Bossuet, Politique, 65. 52. Y. Durand, L’Ordre du monde, 136–7; cf. Louis XIV, Mémoires suivis de manière de montrer les jardins de Versailles, ed. Joël Cornette (Paris, 2007), 172. See also Y. Durand, ‘Mystique et politique au XVIIe siècle’, 344–5. 53. For the attack on Pseudo-Dionysios and Dionysian mysticism see Y. Durand, L’Ordre du monde, 135–6 and, much more extensively, Le Gall, Le Mythe de Saint Denis, 205–314, in particular pp. 216–29. See also Cognet, Crépuscule des mystiques. 54. ‘[I]l y a dans le même temps une disparition ou plutôt une dissolution du portrait du roi, qui peut être également interprétée dans le contexte de l’impossibilité d’une véritable sacralité du roi dans les monarchies occidentales: Le souverain n’y est pas divinisé, il tient seulement une position intermédiaire entre ses sujets et Dieu.’ Milanovic, Du Louvre à Versailles, 229. 55. Kléber Monod, The Power of Kings, 216. Cf. ibid.: ‘Jean-Pierre Néraudau has perceived in such public performances a “devaluation of the word”, a deliberate avoidance of verbal expression so that language would not be seen to encompass the person of the king’. See Néraudau, L’Olympe du roi-soleil, 80–4. 56. Stumberg Edmunds, Piety and Politics, 228: ‘Like the close association between Louis XIV and the theme of the battle against heresy, the theme of martyrdom repeated throughout the chapel corresponds to arguments developed by royal preachers that the king’s misfortunes were an earthly martyrdom that would lead to his salvation.’ 57. ‘Voici, Messieurs, un êvenement de plus capable d’exercer et d’étonner votre foi, c’est la disposition de Dieu sur le saint roi Josias. Jamais prince n’avait eu un zèle plus éclatant

Notes | 219

pour la religion de ses pères. Touts ces profanes monuments que les rois ses prédécesseurs avaient érigés à l’impiété, avaient été renversés par ses soins, Il voulait rétablir partout les anciennes cérémonies, rammener tous ses sujects à la pureté de la loi.’ Jacques-Paul de Migne (ed.), Collection intégrale et universelle des orateurs sacrés, du premier ordre, vol. 28 (Paris, 1847), sermon by Charles de la Rue SJ, Second Sunday in Advent 1690, cols. 301 ff., 301. 58. ‘La piété détrônnée, fugitive, abandonnée, la révolte au contraire et la perfidie couronnées’, ibid. 314. For the impact in France of James II’s life as a penitent sinner and his death see also Migne (ed.), Collection intégrale et universelle des orateurs sacrés, vol. 21, cols. 179–204, sermon on the death of James II by Père Antoine Anselme, 8 Nov. 1702. Cf. John Callow, King in Exile. James II: Warrior, King and Saint (Stroud, 2004), 378–84. 59. It should not be assumed that James slavishly tried to copy Louis’s style of self-­ representation and even less, after 1685, his style of government. As John Callow has rightly pointed out, there were more than enough Protestant princes in Europe, including William III of Orange, who tried to emulate Versailles; nevertheless, within an English context the influence of French culture and political ideas on both Charles II and his brother must have been seen by many as disturbing. See John Callow, The Making of King James II. The Formative Years of a Fallen King (Stroud, 2000), 134–5. See also below 142–9. 60. ‘En dépôt à l’ombre des épines de celle de Jésus-Christ’, Migne (ed.), Collection intégrale et universelle des orateurs sacrés, vol. 28, col. 243, sermon by Charles de la Rue, Tous les Saints 1709. De la Rue addressed the king in the following words: ‘Oui Sire, de tous ceux, qui depuis quatre cent ans, vous ont précédé sur le trône, il n’y en presque pas un qui ne l’ait senti, assaillé par des orages plus violents que celui qui semble aujourd’hui le menacer. […] Regardez, Sire, les disgrâces qui vous font maintenant courber sous le bras de Dieu, comme un hommage que tous nos rois doivent une fois en leur vie à sa souveraine Majesté, ou plutôt, comme un privilége héréditaire depuis Saint Louis à tous ceux de votre sang, d’avoir leure couronne en dépôt à l’ombre des épines de celle de Jésus-Christ’ (ibid.). 61. Cf. Jean Orcibal, ‘Les “supercroisades” de Louis XIV (1683–1689)’, in Janet van Bavel and Martijn Schrama (eds), Jansénius et le Jansénisme dans les Pays-Bas (Louvain, 1982), 138–47. 62. For the War of the Spanish Succession’s strong religious dimensions, see e.g. David González Cruz, Une guerre de religion entre princes catholiques. La succession de Charles II dans l’Empire espagnol (Paris, 2006). 63. For the impact of the Spanish connection on France see Schaub, La France espagnole, and Sabatier and Torrione (eds), ¿Louis XIV espagnol?. For these aspects see also Emmanuel Le Roy Ladurie, L’Ancien Régime, vol. 1: 1610–1715 (Paris, 1991), 305–6. 64. Maral, Le Roi-Soleil et Dieu, 197–8. 65. Antoine Arnauld, ‘Apologie pour les catholiques contre les faussetés et les calumnies d’un Livre intitulé La Politique du clergé de France’, in idem, Oeuvres, 42 vols (Paris, 1775– 81), vol. 14, 281–887. The Apologie was originally published in 1681 in Liège, where Arnauld was living in exile at that time. In this work Arnauld rejected Pierre Jurieu’s criticism of Catholicism as subversive of government and dedicated several chapters to the Exclusion Crisis and the Popish Plot in England (ibid., 358–64, and 366–590 for the Popish Plot). Cf. Philippe-Joseph Salazar, ‘L’Apologie pour les Catholiques d’Angleterre d’Antoine Arnauld: éloquence, controverse, tradition’, in Christopher Smith and Elfrieda

220 | Notes

Dubois (eds), France et Grande-Bretagne de la chute de Charles Ier à celle de Jacques II (1649–1688) (Norwich, 1990), 115–28. 66. Jean-Robert Armogathe, L’Église catholique et la révocation de l’édit de Nantes (Paris, 1985), 83; according to Armogathe, Monmouth’s rebellion was the decisive factor which persuaded Louis to abandon the somewhat softer approach favoured by Archbishop Harlay in Paris, seen by Armogathe as a sort of ‘semi-anglicanisme’, as he puts it, and to follow the harder line on which Le Tellier urged him to base his policy. Cf. Jean Orcibal, ‘Louis XIV et l’édit de Nantes’, in idem, Études d’histoire et de littérature religieuses: XVIe–XVIIIe siècles, ed. Jacques Le Brun (Paris, 1997), 847–67, p. 858: ‘Les nouvelles qui avaient traversé la Manche en juin [of Monmouth’s rebellion] étaient bien faites pour lui faire préférer l’orthodoxie rigide de Le Tellier au semi-anglicanisme, désormais anachronique de M. de Paris.’ See also Charles-Edouard Levillain, ‘London Besieged? The City’s Vulnerability during the Glorious Revolution’, in Jason McElligott (ed.), Fear, Exclusion and Revolution. Roger Morrice and Britain in the 1680s (Aldershot, 2006), 91–107, p. 95. According to Levillain, the English ambassador in Paris, Henry Savile, saw the growing oppression of Protestants in France in 1679 as a reaction to the Popish Plot in England. 67. Jean Orcibal, Louis XIV et les protestants (Paris, 1951), 107. 68. See Hours, ‘De la piété personelle de Louis XIV’, who sees the conspicuous piety of the aging king as no more than a pose. See also, however, Sylvène Édouard, ‘Le Messianisme de Louis XIV: un modèle espagnol?’, in Sabatier and Torrione (eds), ¿Louis XIV espagnol?, 255–70; Maral, Le Roi-Soleil et Dieu, 227–32; and Sébastien Gaudelus, ‘La Mise en spectacle de la religion royale: recherches sur la dévotion de Louis XIV’, Histoire, économie et société 19 (2000), 513–26. 69. For the conciliarist tradition see, most recently, Francis Oakley, The Conciliarist Tradition. Constitutionalism in the Catholic Church, 1300–1870 (Oxford, 2003). See also above ch. I, p. 56. 70. Bruno Neveu, ‘Culture religieuse et aspirations réformistes à la cour d’Innocent XI’, in idem, Érudition et religion aux XVIIe et XVIIIe siècles (Paris, 1994), 235–76. 71. Briggs, Communities of Belief, 221–2, 349. 72. For the conflict over the régale see Joseph Bergin, Crown, Church and Episcopate under Louis XIV (New Haven, Conn., 2004), 232–60; and Pierre Blet S.J., Les assemblées du clergé et Louis XIV de 1670 à 1693 (Rome, 1972), 117–268. 73. Aimé-Georges Martimort, Le Gallicanisme de Bossuet (Paris, 1953), 464–77; Jean Orcibal, Louis XIV contre Innocent XI. Les appels au futur concile de 1688 et l’opinion française (Paris, 1949); and Chaline, Le Règne de Louis XIV, 157–9. 74. ‘In fidei quoque quaestionibus praecripuas summi pontificis esse partes, ejusque decreta ad omnia et singulas ecclesias pertinere, nec tamen irreformabile esse judicium nisi ecclesiae consensus accesserit.’ Martimort, Le Gallicanisme de Bossuet, 471. 75. Ibid., 232–3, 472. 76. Bergin, Crown, Church and Episcopate under Louis XIV, 238–45. 77. ‘Sed, ne in re tam aperta tempus teramus, id unum ab eis peto, qui docent potestatem regiam aeque a deo institutam fuisse ac spiritualem, et unicuique Regum potestatem Regiam immediate a Divino numine conferri, quondam sit sacramentum, quo potestas illa traditur, ubi, a quo, quando, et quomodo institutum.’ M. C. [Antoine Charlas], Tractatus de Libertatibus ecclesiae Gallicanae (Liège, 1684), 170. See also ibid., ‘Praefatio’ (with reference to Du Perron) and p. 157: ‘Distinctas esse potestates Regum

Notes | 221

et pontificum nemo Catholicus negat: sed major esset necessitas Regiam ad suos limites revocandi, quam pontificiam intra suos concludendi.’ Charlas expressly supported the right of resistance and the right of the Pope to absolve subjects from their oath of allegiance towards the prince (p. 211; cf. p. 21 art. 10). 78. ‘Denique ritus consecrandi sacerdotes omnino divinus […] at regum consecratio neque a Deo est universim instituta, neque huic officio absolute necessaria, sive […] essentialis est.’ Jacques-Bénigne Bossuet, Defensio declarationis conventus cleri Gallicani, an. 1682 de eccl. potestate, 2 vols (Mainz, 1788), vol. 1, 126. 79. Blet, Les assemblées du clergé et Louis XIV de 1670 à 1693, 545–80; Maral, Le Roi-Soleil et Dieu, 141–2. 80. On the Jansenists and Gallicanism see Jacques Gres-Gayer, ‘Le Gallicanisme d’Antoine Arnauld: éléments d’une enquête’, Chroniques de Port-Royal 44 (1995), special issue: Antoine Arnauld (1612–1694): Philosophe, écrivain, théologien, 31–52. On Louis XIV’s troubled relations with the Jansenists see Chaline, Le Règne de Louis XIV, 350–8. 81. Catherine-Laurence Maire, De la cause de Dieu à la cause de la nation: le jansénisme au XVIIIe siècle (Paris, 1998), 58–67. See also Lucien Ceyssens, Le Sort de la Bulle Unigenitus (Louvaine, 1992); idem and Joseph A.G. Tans, Autour de l’Unigenitus. Recherches sur la genèse de la constitution (Louvaine, 1987); Emile Jacques, Jansénisme et antijansénisme. Acteurs, auteurs et témoins (Brussels, 1988); and Monique Cottret, ‘La Querelle Janséniste’, in Marc Venard (ed.), L’Âge de raison (1620/30–1750) (Histoire du Christianisme des origines à nos jours, vol. 9) (Paris, 1997), 351–408, in particular 378–96. 82. Maire, De la cause de Dieu à la cause de la nation, 60. 83. Briggs, Communities of Belief, 349. According to one of his confessors, Père François de la Chaise, Louis resented the ‘esprit d’indépendance’ which was characteristic of the Jansenist variety of piety. 84. Maire, De la cause de Dieu à la cause de la nation, 58; Briggs, Communities of Belief, 362; see also Bergin, Church, Society and Religious Change in France, 412–23. 85. Maire, De la cause de Dieu à la cause de la nation, 45. 86. Thus Maire, De la cause de Dieu à la cause de la nation, 39–40; Quesnel and other Jansenists advocated the reading of the liturgical offices and later even the Mass in the vernacular (Bergin, Church, Society and Religious Change in France, 415–6). 87. Oakley, The Conciliarist Tradition, 174–81, 243–9. Cf. Orcibal, Louis XIV contre Innocent XI, 76–88; Van Kley, The Religious Origins of the French Revolution; Mager, ‘Die Anzweiflung des oberhirtlichen Kirchenregiments’; Maire, De la cause de Dieu à la cause de la nation; eadem, ‘Aux sources politiques et religieuses de la Révolution française. Deux modèles en discussion’, Le Débat 130 (2004), 133–53. Unlike Van Kley, Maire downplays the challenge that Jansenism posed to the French monarchy and absolutism, and denies that Jansenists were in the tradition of the League in some way. See also the review article by Dale Van Kley, ‘The Rejuvenation and Rejection of Jansenism in History and Historiography: Recent Literature on Eighteenth-Century Jansenism in French’, French Historical Studies 29 (2006), 649–84. 88. Maire, ‘Aux sources politiques et religieuses de la Révolution française’, 147. 89. Ibid., 147: ‘En deux mots, le roi sacré devient un roi d’État. Il ne participe plus du divin. Il est le tenant-lieu d’un Dieu de tout à fait ailleurs. Il n’est plus le médiateur charnel d’un ordre surnaturel, il est la clef de voûte d’un ordre politique suspendu à sa volonté.’ It should be emphasized, however, that this analysis may have some plausibility for the later eighteenth century.

222 | Notes

90. Gérard Sabatier, ‘Religious Rituals and the Kings of France in the Eighteenth Century’, in Michael Schaich (ed.), Monarchy and Religion: The Transformation of Royal Culture in Eighteenth-Century Europe (Oxford, 2007), 249–81, p. 280. Sabatier continues: ‘It was upheld less by ostentatious religious rituals at court than by a more internalized piety, which was characteristic of the royal family under Louis XV himself, and by the popular practices of a traditional royal religion.’ 91. Van Kley, The Religious Origins of the French Revolution, 191–248 on the ‘Siege of Sacral Absolutism’; cf. pp. 290–302. For the change in Jansenism after 1713 see also Jean-Louis Quantin, ‘Avant et après l’Unigenitus. Sur les mutations du jansénisme dans la France du XVIIIe siècle’, in Daniel Tollet (ed.), Le Jansénisme et la franc-maçonnerie en Europe centrale aux XVIIe et XVIIIe siècles (Paris, 2002), 159–82. Cf. John McManners, Church and Society in Eighteenth-Century France, vol. 2, The Religion of the People and the Politics of Religion (Oxford, 1998), 345–564. 92. See Pincus, 1688, 517, n. 13, for English interest in the conflict, quoting a number of texts and diaries dealing with these events in France. 93. For the nonjurors see Paul Kléber Monod, Jacobitism and the English People, 1688–1788 (Cambridge, 1989), 138–45; Robert D. Cornwall, ‘Divine Right Monarchy: Henry Dodwell’s Critique of the Reformation and Defense of the Deprived Nonjuror Bishops’, Anglican and Episcopal History 68 (1999), 37–66; and idem, ‘The Theologies of the Nonjurors: A Historiographical Essay’, Cromohs Virtual Seminars, , accessed 16 July 2011. For Leslie see idem, ‘Leslie, Charles (1650–1722)’, in ODNB, , accessed 21 December 2011. 94. Charles Leslie, The Case of the Regale and the Pontificat Stated in a Conference Concerning the Independency of the Church (1st edn, 1700; 2nd edn, London, 1702). 95. Ibid., 239; cf. Claydon, Europe and the Making of England, 334, on Leslie as a leader of a pro-Catholic faction within the Church of England. 96. Leslie, The Case of the Regale and the Pontificat, 15. 97. For the conflicts within the Church of England after 1688 and in the early seventeenth century see Andrew Starkie, The Church of England and the Bangorian Controversy, 1716– 1721 (Woodbridge, 2007). 98. Grotius was excoriated because he had tried to bring about a reconciliation between Protestantism and the moderate wing of the Catholic Church, or so it seemed. Cf. HarmJan van Dam, ‘De imperio summarum potestatum circa sacra’, in Henk J.M. Nellen and Edwin Rabbie (eds), Hugo Grotius Theologian. Essays in Honour of G. H. M. Posthumus Meyjes (Leiden, 1994), 19–40. 99. Richard Baxter, Of National Churches. Their Description, Institution, Use, Preservation, Danger, Maladies and Cure, Partly Applied to England (London, 1691), 1 and 6. 100. Idem, Against the Revolt to Foreign Jurisdiction, Which Would be to England its Perjury, Church-Ruine, and Slavery (London, 1691), 330. 101. Ibid., 335–6. For Baxter’s position, which he had already held before 1688, see also William Lamont, Richard Baxter and the Millennium (London, 1979), 53: ‘But there was a new development in the 1680s in which the ultimate aim – the destruction of the Christian Emperor – could be achieved by different means. “Italian” Catholics could continue to nurture their fantasy of world domination through the Pope; more realistic “French” Catholics based their hopes on conciliar supremacy over both Pope and Emperor [Italics in original]. This was the dream of Grotius, and it represented a highly

Notes | 223

acceptable compromise to many High Church Anglicans. Union with French Gallicans could be worked for by men who continued to believe that the Pope was Antichrist.’ See further Paul Chang-Ha Lim, In Pursuit of Purity, Unity and Liberty. Richard Baxter’s Puritan Ecclesiology in its Seventeenth-Century Context (Leiden, 2004), 191–9. 102. Quoted by Lamont in Richard Baxter and the Millennium, 63, from the Baxter correspondence. 103. Ibid., 94, quoted from the Baxter correspondence in the Dr Williams Library, London, vol. 2, ff. 11r–12v. 104. For Baxter’s position see also Gary S. De Krey, ‘Reformation in the Restoration Crisis, 1679–1682’, in Donna B. Hamilton and Richard Strier (eds), Religion, Literature and Politics in Post-Reformation England, 1540–1688 (Cambridge, 1996), 231–53. 105. Jacqueline Rose, ‘Concepts of Royal Ecclesiastical Supremacy in Restoration England’ (Ph.D. thesis, University of Cambridge, 2007), 105, 131; see also eadem, Godly Kingship in Restoration England: The Politics of the Royal Supremacy 1660–1688 (Cambridge, 2011), 198. 106. Mark Goldie, Roger Morrice and the Puritan Whigs, 154–61. Goldie argues that the great fear of the Anglican royalists was a Presbyterian kingship, a danger which had seemed imminent in Scotland in 1649–50; see idem, ‘Danby, the Bishops and the Whigs’, in Tim Harris, Paul Seaward and Mark Goldie (eds), The Politics of Religion in Restoration England (Oxford, 1990), 75–105, at 100. 107. Gilbert Burnet, The History of the Rights of Princes in the Dispensing of Ecclesiastical Benefices and Church Lands, Relating Chiefly to the Pretensions of the Crown of France to the Regale and the Late Contests with the Court of Rome (London, 1682), 322. 108. Gilbert Burnet, News from France, in a Letter Giving a Relation of the Present State of the Difference between the French King and the Court of Rome (London, 1682), 12; cf. idem, The History of the Rights of Princes, 6. Cf. Paule Jansen, ‘Jansénisme et Grande-Bretagne de la chute de Charles Ier à celle de Jacques II (1649–1688)’, in Christopher Smith and Elfrieda Dubois (eds), France et Grande-Bretagne de la chute de Charles Ier à celle de Jacques II (1649–1688) (Norwich, 1990), 91–101, at 97–8. 109. The Sighs of France in Slavery (London, 1689), 8, see also 5–7. The author expressly mentioned that in the matter of the régale, the king had acted like a tyrant. He had taken away all the revenue of the bishops of Pamiers and Alet – who had resisted him – and driven them into exile, and had condemned to death the vicar general of one of the two bishops. 110. Élisabeth Labrousse, Conscience et conviction: Études sur le XVIIe siècle (Paris, 1996), 182–3. Cf. Rolf Reichardt (ed.), Handbuch politisch-sozialer Grundbegriffe in Frankreich, vol. 10 (Munich, 1988), 60. 111. See Claydon, Europe and the Making of England, 173–83, for the image of Louis as unChristian and a sort of French Great Turk. 112. Pincus, 1688, 122–34, in particular, 131. For a criticism of such assessments see Rose, Godly Kingship in Restoration England, 231; and Scott Sowerby, ‘Pantomime History’, Parliamentary History 30, 2 (2011), 236–58. 113. Cf. Rose, ‘Concepts of Royal Ecclesiastical Supremacy in Restoration England’, 230, 210, 214; and Mark Goldie, ‘The Political Thought of the Anglican Revolution’, in R. Beddard (ed.), The Revolutions of 1688 (Oxford, 1991), 103–36, at 135–6. See also Rose, Godly Kingship in Restoration England, 233–43. 114. Eoin Lorcan Devlin, ‘English Encounters with Papal Rome in the Late Counter Reformation c.1685–1697’ (Ph.D. thesis, University of Cambridge, 2010), 91. Devlin

224 | Notes

adds: ‘In some ways James was in a much better position than Louis for pushing forward a Gallican agenda’ (p. 96). 115. Cf. Pincus, 1688, 133: ‘Gallican Catholicism clearly went much further in exalting royal authority than most High churchmen were willing to go.’ Cf. pp. 133–4. 116. Tim Harris, Restoration: Charles II and his Kingdoms, 1660–1685 (London, 2005), 136– 202; John Miller, After the Civil Wars: English Politics and Government in the Reign of Charles II (Harlow, 2000), 245–71. 117. Ronald Hutton, ‘The Making of the Secret Treaty of Dover’, Historical Journal 29 (1986), 297–318; De Krey, Restoration and Revolution in Britain, 95–8; see also Pincus, ‘From Butterboxes to Wooden Shoes’, and John Spurr, England in the 1670s: ‘This Masquerading Age’ (Oxford, 2000), 11–13. 118. Harris, Restoration, 74–6. 119. Ronald Hutton, The Restoration: A Political and Religious History of England and Wales, 1658–1667 (Oxford, 1985), 143–8; NeilH. Keeble, The Restoration: England in the 1660s (Oxford, 2002); Miller, After the Civil Wars, 141–4; Goldie, Roger Morrice and the Puritan Whigs, 154–61. Cf above, p. 125 for Richard Baxter. 120. John Locke, Political Writings, ed. David Wootton (London, 1993), 396: ‘A church then I take to be a voluntary society of men, joining themselves together’ (An Essay Concerning Toleration). See also John Locke, An Essay Concerning Toleration and Other Writings on Law and Politics, 1667–1683, ed. John R. Milton and Philip Milton (Oxford, 2006); and John Marshall, John Locke, Toleration and Early Enlightenment Culture. Religious Intolerance and Arguments for Religious Toleration in Early Modern and ‘Early Enlightenment’ Europe (Cambridge, 2006). 121. Blair Worden, ‘The Question of Secularisation’, in Alan Houston and Steve Pincus, A Nation Transformed: England after the Restoration (Cambridge, 2001), 40–60. 122. See Taylor, A Secular Age, 221–34, for a general account of these changes affecting England and France in the late seventeenth and early eighteenth centuries. 123. Mark Goldie, ‘Priestcraft and the Birth of Whiggism’, in Nicholas Phillipson and Quentin Skinner (eds), Political Discourse in Early Modern Britain (Cambridge, 1993), 209–31. 124. John Spurr, ‘Religion in Restoration England’, in Lionel K.J. Glassey (ed.), The Reigns of Charles II and James VII & II (Basingstoke, 1997), 90–124; John Spurr, ‘Rational Religion in Restoration England’, Journal of the History of Ideas 49 (1988), 563–85; idem, The Restoration Church of England, 1646–1689 (New Haven, Conn., 1991), 249–69; Stefan Weyer, Die Cambridge Platonists. Religion und Freiheit in England im 17. Jahrhundert (Frankfurt am Main, 1993), 137–54; Gordon J. Schochet, ‘Between Lambeth and Leviathan: Samuel Parker on the Church of England and Political Order’, in Nicholas Phillipson and Quentin Skinner (eds), Political Discourse in Early Modern Britain (Cambridge, 1993), 189–208, as well as Gerald R Cragg, From Puritanism to the Age of Reason: A Study of Changes in Religious Thought within the Church of England 1660 to 1700 (Cambridge, 2008), and Grant Tapsell (ed.), The later Stuart church, 1660-1714 (Manchester, 2012). 125. For the Anglican Church after 1660 see Spurr, The Restoration Church of England; for the Restoration settlement see Paul Seaward, The Cavalier Parliament and the Reconstruction of the Old Regime, 1661–1667 (Cambridge, 1989); and Ian M. Green, The Re-establishment of the Church of England, 1660–1663 (Oxford, 1978). 126. Kelsey, ‘The King’s Book’, 150–69. It is significant that the Duke of York, the later James II, rejected the authenticity of Eikon Basilike (Callow, The Making of King James II, 153).

Notes | 225

1 27. Wolfe, ‘The Strange Afterlife of Henri III’. 128. Dougal Shaw, ‘The Coronation and Monarchical Culture in Stuart Britain and Ireland, 1603–1661’ (Ph.D. thesis, University of Cambridge, 2002), 76–182; cf. Austin Woolrych, Britain in Revolution, 1625–1660 (Oxford, 2002), 492. 129. Robert Douglas, The Form and Order of the Coronation of Charles the Second, King of Scotland, England, France and Ireland. As it Was Acted and Done at Scoone […] 1651 (Aberdeen, 1700), 20 and 18. This argument had already been spelled out by John Knox in the 1560s. See John Knox, ‘The Debate at the General Assembly, June 1564’, in idem, On Rebellion, ed. Roger A. Mason (Cambridge, 1994), 182–209, at 202: ‘And whereas ye say that we have no such priests this day [who are anointed and the figure of Christ], I might answer that neither have we such kings this day as then were anointed at God’s commandment […] and were no less the figure of Christ Jesus in their just administration than were the priests in their anointed office: and such kings, I am assured, we have not now more than that we have such priests: for Christ Jesus being anointed in our nature, of God His Father, both king, priest and prophet, has put an end to all external unction.’ 130. Kelsey, ‘The King’s Book’, 163. 131. George Morley, A Sermon Preached at the Magnificent Coronation of the Most High and Mighty King Charles the IInd King of Great Britain (London, 1661), preface, no pagination. For the coronation cf. Lorraine Madway, ‘“The most Conspicuous Solemnity”: The Coronation of Charles II’, in Eveline Cruickshanks (ed.), The Stuart Courts (Stroud, 2000), 141–57. 132. Joseph Swetnam, David’s Devotions upon his Deliverances: Set Forth in a Sermon [on Psal. xxiv. 3] […] June 28, 1660, Being the Day of Publique Thanksgiving for his Majesties Happy Restauration (London, 1660); Francis Gregory, David’s Returne from his Banishment, set forth in a Thanksgiving Sermon [on 2 Sam. xix. 30] for the Returne of […] Charles II (Oxford, 1660); William Creed, Judah’s Return to their Allegiance and David’s Returne to his Crown and Kingdom. A Sermon Preacht at St Mary Woolchurch upon June 28. 1660, Being the Day of Solemn Thanksgiving for the Happy Return of His Majestie (London, 1660). See also James Heath, The Glories and Magnificent Triumphs of the Blessed Restitution of His Sacred Majesty King Charles II from his Arrival in Holland 1659–1660 till this Present (London, 1662). 133. Ronald Knowles, ‘Introduction’, in John Ogilby, The Entertainment of His Most Excellent Majestie Charles II in His Passage Through the City of London to His Coronation [London, 1662], ed. Ronald Knowles (New York, 1988), 15. For the role of the Order of the Garter in 1660 and more generally during the Restoration period see also Antti Matikkala, The Orders of Knighthood and the Formation of the British Honours System, 1660–1760 (Woodbridge, 2008), 62–7, 305. 134. Anna Keay, The Magnificent Monarch: Charles II and the Ceremonies of Power (London, 2008), 115–18, and 211–13; cf. Harold M. Weber, Paper Bullets: Print and Kingship under Charles II (Lexington, Ky., 1996), 50–87. For miraculous healings in this period see Peter Elmer, The Miraculous Conformist: Valentine Greatrakes, the Body Politic and the Politics of Healing in Restoration Britain (Oxford, 2013). 135. Ogilby, The Entertainment of His Most Excellent Majestie Charles II, 25–8; and Knowles, ‘Introduction’, in ibid., 20, where Knowles points out that Charles is depicted as a new Octavianus/Augustus who returns from the battles of the Civil War to avenge the murder of his father (in Octavianus’s case, Caesar).

226 | Notes

136. Knoppers, Constructing Cromwell, 169. 137. For the cult of Saint Louis see above, p. 79. 138. See above p. 211, n. 221. 139. Hutton, ‘The Religion of Charles II’, 237. 140. J. Douglas Stewart, ‘A Militant, Stoic Monument: The Wren–Cibber–Gibbons Charles I Mausoleum Project: Its Authors, Sources, Meaning and Influence’, in W. Gerald Marshall (ed.), The Restoration Mind (London, 1997), 21–64; and R.A. Beddard, ‘Wren’s Mausoleum for Charles I and the Cult of the Royal Martyr’, Architectural History 27 (1984), 36–47; see also Lacey, The Cult of King Charles the Martyr, 168–71. The proposed new chivalric order of the ‘Esquires of the Martyred King’ was never created either (Matikkala, The Orders of Knighthood and the Formation of the British Honours System, 73–5). 141. Lacey, The Cult of King Charles the Martyr, 129–71, esp. 149–50. 142. Ibid., 142, 161 (‘In making the Fast day an indispensable part of their counter-attack the Tories and the “orthodox” clergy had underlined the party nature of the martyr who was reduced to a pretext for a political discourse.’ This related to the 30 January sermons in the 1680s). 143. Paul Hammond, ‘The King’s Two Bodies: Representations of Charles II’, in Jeremy Black and Jeremy Gregory (eds), Culture, Politics and Society in Britain, 1660–1800 (Manchester, 1991), 13–48, at 39, quoting John Dryden, Absalom and Achitophel, l. 10. For the king’s mistresses see also Robert Woods, ‘Charles II and the Politics of Sex and Scandal’, in Charles H. Carlton, Robert L. Woods, Mary L. Robertson and Joseph S. Block (eds), State, Sovereigns and Society in Early Modern England: Essays in Honour of A. J. Slavin (Stroud, 1998), 119–36. 144. Kevin Sharpe, ‘“Thy Longing Country’s Darling and Desire”: Aesthetics, Sex and Politics in the England of Charles II’, in Julia Marciari Alexander and Catherine MacLeod (eds), Politics, Transgression and Representation at the Court of Charles II (New Haven, Conn., 2007), 1–32, at 12. 145. Weber, Paper Bullets, 101–7, esp. 105; see further 88–127. 146. Nancy Klein Maguire, ‘The Duchess of Portsmouth: English Royal Consort and French Politician, 1670–1685’, in Smuts (ed.), The Stuart Courts and Europe, 247–73; and Sonya Wynne, ‘The Mistresses of Charles II and Restoration Court Politics’, in Cruickshanks (ed.), The Stuart Courts, 171–90. 147. Hammond, ‘The King’s Two Bodies’, 22. 148. Keay, The Magnificent Monarch, 171–206; cf. Brian Weiser, Charles II and the Politics of Access (Woodbridge, 2003), 74–87. For court culture see, most recently, Matthew Jenkinson, Culture and Politics at the Court of Charles II, 1660–1685 (Woodbridge, 2010); and further Andrew R. Walkling, ‘Court Culture and Politics in Restoration England’, 2 vols (Ph.D. thesis, Cornell University, 1997); and Lorraine Margaret Madway, ‘Majesty and Mockery: Representations of Royal Power in the Reign of Charles II, 1660–1685’ (Ph.D. thesis, Yale University, 1999). See also Kevin Sharpe, Rebranding Rule 1660–1714: The Restoration and Revolution Monarchy (Newhaven, Conn., 2013). Unfortunately this last volume of Sharpe’s great work on the English monarchy appeared too late for me to consult when writing this chapter. 149. Laurence M. Bryant, ‘Royal Ceremony and the Revolutionary Strategies of the Third Estate’, in idem, Ritual, Ceremony and the Changing Monarchy in France, 283–320, at 287: ‘The king performed and each party could “read” a royal gesture in his own way:

Notes | 227

indeed a considerable part of his power came from allowing ambiguous and different interpretations of the same phenomenon among those who depended upon his decision, direction and support’ (with regard to court and state ceremonies during the ancien régime in France). 150. Jenkinson, Culture and Politics at the Court of Charles II, 239–40. 151. Nancy Klein Maguire, Regicide and Restoration: English Tragicomedy, 1660–1671 (Cambridge, 1992), 27–39, 129–44. 152. Susan J. Owen, Restoration Theatre and Crisis (Oxford, 1996), 166–70, 177, 200–2. Cf. A. Patterson, ‘John Dryden and Political Allegiance’; and Spurr, England in the 1670s, 84–114, on the deep ambivalence of all royalist ideas of virtue and manliness, which could not but affect prevalent ideas of kingship as well. 153. James Rees Jones, Charles II: Royal Politician (London, 1987), 81; cf. Paul Seward, ‘Charles II (1630–1685)’, in ODNB, , accessed 21 December 2011, p. 144, on Charles’s repeated attempts to establish a firm alliance with France. 154. Hutton, ‘The Religion of Charles II’, 230. See also idem, Charles II, King of England, Scotland and Ireland (Cambridge, 1989), 455–8. 155. Miller, After the Civil Wars, 174–87, 205–11. 156. Jones, Charles II, 21–2; but cf. Hutton, Charles II, 49–70. 157. See Rose, Godly Kingship in Restoration England, 89–104, 154–62; and Jeffrey R. Collins, ‘The Restoration Bishops and the Royal Supremacy’, Church History 68 (1999), 549–80. 158. Jones, Charles II, 46–51; Spurr, The Restoration Church of England, 147–8. 159. See above ch. II, p. 74. 160. Rose, Godly Kingship in Restoration England, 73–88, 130–40. 161. On Tory political thought see Harris, Restoration, 220–37; and Mark Goldie, ‘Restoration Political Thought’, in Lionel K.J. Glassey (ed.), The Reigns of Charles II and James VII and II (Basingstoke, 1997), 12–35, at 14–15 and 19–29. 162. Thomas Barlow, The Original of Kingly and Ecclesiastical Government (London, 1681). Dr Barlow was Bishop of Lincoln. 163. See John Spurr, ‘Barlow, Thomas (1608/9–1691)’, in ODNB, , accessed 21 December 2011. For Spurr, Barlow, with his combination of Calvinist convictions and support for divine right monarchy, was a survivor from the Jacobean age. 164. Barlow, The Original of Kingly and Ecclesiastical Government, 9–10. For Andrewes’s ­similar arguments, see above, pp. 34–5. 165. See above, p. 71. 166. Barlow continues: ‘Tush say they, what need all these fopperies, a Kings Throne is his Iustice, his sceptre and cheifest strength the peoples hearts, his holy Oyl is his Religion’ (Barlow, The Original of Kingly and Ecclesiastical Government, 13). 167. Ibid., 14. 168. Goldie, ‘The Political Thought of the Anglican Revolution’, 127. 169. J.R. Collins, ‘The Restoration Bishops and the Royal Supremacy’, 563, quoting Benjamin Laney, A Sermon Preached before his Majesty at Whitehall March 18, 1665 (London, 1665), 137–8. 170. Simon Lowth, Of the Subject of Church Power (London, 1685; 1st edn, 1683). For Lowth see Rose, Godly Kingship in Restoration England, 149–61, 225–8. 171. Lowth, Of the Subject of Church Power, 499.

228 | Notes

172. See Stuart Handley, ‘Lowth, Simon (bap. 1636, d. 1720)’, in ODNB, , accessed 21 December 2011. Lowth enjoyed Samuel Parker’s support in his career and was also favoured by King James II. He seems to have become a nonjuror after 1688 partly on account of personal grievances. 173. A. Milton, Laudian and Royalist Polemic in Seventeenth-Century England; idem, ‘“Vailing his Crown”’; and cf. idem, ‘Sacrilege and Compromise: Court Divines and the King’s Conscience’, in Michael J. Braddick and David L. Smith (eds), The Experience of Revolution in Stuart Britain and Ireland (Cambridge, 2011), 135–53. 174. Collins, The Allegiance of Thomas Hobbes, 242–72; see also Parkin, Taming the Leviathan, 200–37; and further Metzger, Thomas Hobbes und die englische Revolution. 175. There were certainly opponents of the established church, such as Andrew Marvell, who tried to persuade Charles II to grant toleration to dissenters on Hobbesian grounds; not to do so would be to submit himself to the power of a clergy intent on undermining the sovereignty of the king. See Jon Parkin, ‘Liberty Transpos’d: Andrew Marvell and Samuel Parker’, in Warren Chernaik and Martin Dzelzainis (eds), Marvell and Liberty (Basingstoke, 1999), 269–89. 176. See Peter Heylyn, Ecclesia Vindicata, or the Church of England Justified (London, 1657). Heylyn argued that the royal supremacy rested on a transfer of power from the church as a corporate body comparable to the transfer of power from the Roman people to the emperor by the lex regia (p. 84; cf. pp. 8 and 13). He strongly rejected the ‘Regal-Faith and a Regal-Gospel’ to which the Presbyterians allegedly subscribed (p. 43; cf. p. 39). Significantly, Heylyn saw the true tradition of the Church of England as an English variant of French Gallicanism. In his opinion Henry VIII’s reformation was no more than what Henry IV of France had intended to do in France should the Pope have refused to accept his title to the crown (p. 51). 177. Goldie, ‘The Political Thought of the Anglican Revolution’, 130; cf. J.R. Collins, ‘The Restoration Bishops’, 578. See also Victor D. Sutch, Gilbert Sheldon Architect of Anglican Survival (The Hague, 1973), 103. 178. Clare Jackson, Restoration Scotland 1660–1690: Royalist Politics, Religion and Ideas (Woodbridge, 2003), 114–17, 169–78. 179. See above p. 106 and n. 10. 180. Goldie, ‘Danby, the Bishops and the Whigs’, 82–96. 181. Anchitell Grey (ed.), Debates in the House of Commons from the Year 1664 to the Year 1694, 10 vols (London, 1763), vol. 4, 321. 182. Ibid., 320, Mr Mallet (1677). The nine mitres referred to the committee of bishops that was to be responsible for clerical appointments. 183. Ibid., 284–6 (1676); see also Andrew Marvell, An Account of the Growth of Popery and Arbitrary Government in England (Amsterdam, 1677), 96–9. The Whigs and their leaders – in particular, Shaftesbury – were much more inclined to subject the church as completely as possible to the authority of the King-in-Parliament, possibly reviving even some of the offices of the Henrician supremacy of the 1530s to achieve this end. See Paul Seaward, ‘Shaftesbury and the Royal Supremacy’, in John Spurr (ed.) Anthony Ashley Cooper, First Earl of Shaftesbury, 1621–1683 (Farnham, 2011), 51–76. 184. Grey, Debates in the House of Commons, vol. 4, 294–5 (1676). 185. Cf. Goldie, ‘Civil Religion and the English Enlightenment’, 31–46, esp. 44.

Notes | 229

186. Tapsell, The Personal Rule of Charles II, 58–9. 187. Keay, The Magnificent Monarch, 191–3, 202–3. ‘The Windsor chapel was a triumphalist scheme, overseen personally by a king who believed that royal religious practice was fundamentally linked to royal authority’ (p. 203). See also pp. 211–13 for the number of people who were touched for the King’s Evil. 188. Keay, The Magnificent Monarch, 203; cf. Simon Thurley, ‘A Country Seat Fit for a King: Charles II, Greenwich and Winchester’, in Cruickshanks (ed.), The Stuart Courts, 214– 39, esp. 226–35. 189. John Dryden, The History of the League Written in French by Monsieur Maimbourg, Transl. into English according to His Majesty’ Command by Mr. Dryden (London, 1684) Postscript, 48. 190. Louis Maimbourg, Histoire de La Ligue (Paris, 1684), ‘Épître au roi’, no pagination, and 224. For Maimbourg and his career see Quantin, ‘“Croisades et supercroisade?”’. 191. Dryden, League, Postscript, 7–9. Dryden himself became a Catholic in 1686. 192. Callow, The Making of King James II, 151. 193. Callow, King in Exile, 307, and for the theocratic vision of kingship, see p. 309. 194. See, e.g., Monique Cottret and Bernard Cottret, ‘La Sainteté de Jacques II et les miracles d’un roi défunt’, in Edward Corp (ed.), L’Autre exil: Les Jacobites en France (Paris, 1993), 79–106; and Bernard Cottret, ‘Ecce Homo. La Crise de l’incarnation royale en Angleterre (1649–1688–1701)’, in Maria-Christi Pitassi (ed.), Le Christ entre Orthodoxie et Lumières (Geneva, 1994), 77–99. 195. Pincus, 1688, 122. 196. James’s personal piety is not easy to fathom for the years before he went into exile, but it was certainly inspired by contemporary French Catholicism. See Steve Pincus, ‘The European Catholic Context of the Revolution of 1688–89: Gallicanism, Innocent XI and Catholic Opposition’, in Alan I. Macinnes and Arthur H. Williamson (eds), Shaping the Stuart World, 1603–1714 (Leiden, 2006), 79–114, at 93; on Bossuet as an author who had great influence in England cf. John Miller, James II: A Study in Kingship (London, 1978), 58–60. For James’s piety and devotions in exile see Edward T. Corp, A Court in Exile: The Stuarts in France, 1689–1718 (Cambridge, 2004), 234–43. See also James II, Royal Tracts in Two Parts the First Containing the Select Speeches, Orders, Messages, Letters, etc. of His Sacred Majesty upon Extraordinary Occasions, […] The Second Containing Imago Regis or the Sacred Image of His Majesty in His Solitudes and Sufferings, Written during His Retirement in France (Paris, 1692). 197. Hours, ‘De la piété personelle de Louis XIV’. 198. Miller, James II, 144–5; cf. idem, ‘James II and Toleration’, in Eveline Cruickshanks (ed.), By Force or by Default? The Revolution of 1688–89 (Edinburgh, 1989), 8–27, and for the period after 1689, Corp, A Court in Exile, 156–7, 234–8. For a different interpretation see Pincus, 1688, 163–78; see also Michael Mullett, James II and English Politics, 1678–1688 (London, 1994). 199. Adam B. Seligman, Robert P. Weller, Michael J. Puett and Bennett Simon, Ritual and its Consequences. An Essay on the Limits of Sincerity (Oxford, 2008), 118. 200. For Milton, see above, p. 93. 201. Callow, King in Exile, 212, 333–4. 202. Seligman et al., Ritual and its Consequences, 122–6, cf. 162. 203. See most recently Scott Sowerby, ‘Of Different Complexion: Religious Diversity and National Identity in James II’s Toleration Campaign’, English Historical Review 124

230 | Notes

(2009), 29–52. See also idem, ‘James II’s Revolution. The Politics of Religious Toleration in England, 1685–1689’ (Ph.D. thesis, Harvard University, 2006). 204. Mark Goldie, ‘John Locke’s Circle and James II’, Historical Journal 35 (1992), 557–86. 205. [Bulstrode Whitelocke], The King’s Right of Indulgence in Spiritual Matters, with the Equity Thereof, Asserted, by a Person of Honour and Eminent Minister of State Lately Deceased (London, 1688), 37, italics in original text. The tract had originally been written by Bulstrode Whitelocke for Charles II in 1663, but not published; see Rose, Godly Kingship in Restoration England, 169–70, 185, and Mark Goldie, ‘Toleration and the Godly Prince in Restoration England’, in John Morrow and Jonathan Scott (eds), Liberty, Authority, Formality: Political Ideas and Culture, 1600-1900 (Exeter, 2008), 45–65. The tract specifically referred to the French Pragmatic Sanction of 1438 as the foundation stone of the spiritual jurisdiction exercised by the King of France. This was seen as a model for royal authority in ecclesiastical matters elsewhere (p. 22). The tract also argued that the king’s authority, being that of a father and patriarchal in nature, necessarily had a sacerdotal dimension: ‘Abraham and every Patriarch or Prince within his territory, and every Father or a family within his family, did exercise the office of priest also. […] And it would be hard to deny a Prince the same power of Indulgence to his Subjects, which is allowed to every Father of a Family, to his children and Servants’ (p. 19). 206. Ibid., 38. 207. On supporters of James’s policy, in particular Thomas Pierce and Samuel Parker, see Rose, A Godly Kingship, 139–40, 228, and Schochet, ‘Between Lambeth and Leviathan’. 208. Spurr, The Restoration Church of England, 88–95. 209. William Gibson, James II and the Trial of the Seven Bishops (Basingstoke, 2009), 41, 67; but cf. Andrew Barclay, ‘The Impact of James II and the Departments of the Royal Household’ (Ph.D. thesis, University of Cambridge, 1993), who argues that although he reinstated the pre-Reformation liturgy for healing the scrofula, James used the Anglican ritual as well at least until October 1687 (ibid., 110 and n. 41). 210. For the seven bishops – Sancroft of Canterbury and the bishops of Bath and Wells, Ely, Chichester, Peterborough, St Asaph and Bristol – see Tim Harris, Revolution: The Great Crisis of the British Monarchy, 1685–1720 (London, 2006), 260–4; Gibson, James II and the Trial of the Seven Bishops, and most recently Scott Sowerby, Making Toleration. The Repealers and the Glorious Revolution (Cambridge, Mass., 2013), 153–92. 211. Harris, Restoration, 259. 212. Rose, A Godly Kingship, 157–62. 213. For the Pope’s attitude see Armogathe, L’Église catholique et la révocation de l’édit de Nantes, 134–7. 214. Roger Morrice, The Entring Book of Roger Morrice, 1677–1691, ed. Mark Goldie, 7 vols (London, 2007), vol. 4, p. 5. 215. Morrice, The Entring Book of Roger Morrice, vol. 3, pp. 273 and 336 (Jan. 1687). Cf. Steve Pincus, ‘“To protect English liberties”: The English Nationalist Revolution of 1688–1689’, in Tony Claydon and Ian McBride (eds), Protestantism and National Identity. Britain and Ireland, c.1650–1850 (Cambridge, 1998), 75–104, at 85. 216. For an earlier pamphlet which depicted the then Duke of York’s Francophilia as a sign of his utter subservience to France, see Europe a Slave unless England Break her Chains, Discovering the Grand Design of the French-Popish Party (London, 1681), which argued: ‘the dispute is not here about religion: that’s but the mantle which covers the design of the popishly affected party and their leaders to keep off the sitting of parliaments’ (p. 63).

Notes | 231

217. Pincus, 1688, 118–78; cf. Sowerby, ‘Pantomime History’. 218. The Spirit of France and the Politick Maxims of Lewis XIV Laid Open to the World (London, 1689), 43. The tract was probably originally written in Dutch, then translated into French and only subsequently into English (see University of Cambridge Library, catalogue entry). 219. For the rather fraught relations between James and Pope Innocent XI see also John Miller, Popery and Politics in England 1660–1688 (Cambridge, 1973), 229–38; and Devlin, ‘English Encounters with Papal Rome in the Late Counter-Reformation’, 109–15. 220. One of the French priests, giving a funeral sermon on the life of James II, felt constrained to defend the king’s piety, which, even to many French Catholics, apparently seemed somewhat excessive. Henry Emmanuel de Roquette, Oraison funèbre du très-haut, trèspuissant, très-excellent et très-religieux prince, Jacques II, Roy de la Grand’ Bretagne, prononcée le 19 jour de Septembre 1702 dans l’église des Religieuses de la visitation de Chaillot ou repose le coeur de sa Majesté par Messire Henry Emmanuel de Roquette, Docteur de Sorbonne (Paris, 1702), 23: ‘Dieu immortel! Faut-il que je soi icy reduit à justifier au monde Chrétien, les pieux excés d’un Roy, qu’on accuse d’avoir trop osé pour l’avancement de la foy Catholique?’ According to the preacher, the king had loved the church as fervently as Josias, Constantine or Theodosius, and like James the latter had destroyed the pagan altars in his realm, in this case in Rome (p. 24). 221. For Pincus’s position see his statement: ‘French Gallicanism provoked more papally inclined Catholics to enunciate an alternative vision for the Church and society at large. Just as the court Catholicism in the 1680s cannot be properly understood without appreciating its continental context, so the opposition to the French-tinged Catholicism had continental roots.’ See Pincus, ‘The European Catholic Context’, 114. 222. Robin D. Gwynn, ‘Roger Morrice and the Huguenot Refugees’, in McElligott, Fear, Exclusion and Revolution, 2–49, at 47–8; cf. p. 41 where Gwynn points out that in May 1686 Jean Claude’s book Les plaintes des protestants cruellement opprimez was burnt in England on the king’s orders. Cf. Robin D. Gwynn, ‘James II in the Light of his Treatment of Huguenot Refugees in England, 1685–1685’, English Historical Review 92 (1977), 820–33. See also Matthew Glozier, The Huguenot Soldiers of William of Orange and the ‘Glorious Revolution’ of 1688: The Lions of Judah (Brighton, 2002), 92–4. 223. Cf. above, p. 63. 224. See Hans-Christof Kraus, Englische Verfassung und politisches Denken im Ancien Régime 1689 bis 1789 (Munich, 2006), 72–87. See also Bernard Cottret, The Huguenots in England. Immigration and Settlement c.1550–1700 (Cambridge, 1985), 185–90. 225. A Letter of Several French Ministers Fled into Germany upon Account of the Persecution in France, to Such of their Brethren in England as Approved the Kings Declaration Touching Liberty of Conscience (London, 1688). The letter is generally attributed to Pierre Jurieu. 226. Glozier, The Huguenot Soldiers of William of Orange, 105–12. 227. Tony Claydon, William III and the Godly Revolution (Cambridge, 1996). 228. See Bloch, Les rois thaumaturges, 224–45. 229. Sowerby, ‘Of Different Complexion’, 50: ‘Most of the addresses [proclaiming the loyalty of their authors to the king] conspicuously failed to refer to Protestantism as a source of national unity and strength; instead the foundations of national unity were said to be liberty of conscience and the monarchy.’ According to Sowerby, Englishmen and -women by no means agreed on one particular concept of national unity (an assumption Pincus

232 | Notes

makes), but William III’s programme of falling back on mainstream Protestantism as central to national identity proved victorious because King James had attempted to stretch a concept of national identity that proved ultimately to be inelastic (p. 52). 230. See above, p. 69. 231. See above, n. 82. 232. On Louis’s ecclesiastical policy in the later decades of his reign see Bergin, Church, Society and Religious Change in France, 410–17. 233. Or as Mark Goldie puts it: ‘James II managed to be both papal and caesaro-papal; his Anglican opponents took care to be neither.’ Goldie, ‘The Political Thought of the Anglican Revolution’, 136. 234. See e.g. Henry Keepe, True and Perfect Narrative of the Strange and Unexpected Finding the Crucifix and the Gold Chain of the Pious Prince St. Edward the King […] presented to […] King James the Second (London, 1688). 235. Goldie, ‘Priestcraft and the Birth of Whiggism’; cf. Justin A.I. Champion, Republican Learning: John Toland and the Crisis of Christian Culture, 1696–1722 (Manchester, 2003), and idem, The Pillars of Priestcraft Shaken.

Outlook and Conclusion 1. See above p. 65. 2. See above, p. 45 and Corona Regia, ed. Fyoter and Schleiner. 3. Alastair Bellany, The Politics of Court Scandal in Early Modern England: News Culture and the Overbury Affair, 1603–1660 (Cambridge, 2002), 241–58. 4. See above chapter II, p. 225, n. 129. 5. See above p. 91. 6. See above p. 92. 7. See Crouzet, Le Haut cœur de Catherine de Médicis (Paris, 2005), 566. 8. For the notion of an ‘emotional regime’ see William M. Reddy, The Navigation of Feeling: A Framework for the History of Emotions (Cambridge, 2001), 124–6. 9. Claydon, William III and the Godly Revolution. 10. Hannah Smith, Georgian Monarchy: Politics and Culture, 1714–1760 (Cambridge, 2006), 21–47; Andrew C. Thompson, Britain, Hanover and the Protestant Interest, 1688–1756 (Woodbridge, 2006). 11. Tony Claydon and Ian McBride, ‘The Trials of the Chosen Peoples: Recent Interpretations of Protestantism and National Identity in Britain and Ireland’, in eadem (eds), Protestantism and National Identiy: Britain and Ireland, c.1650–1850 (Cambridge, 1998), 1–29, at 25–8; see also Jeremy Black, ‘Confessional State or Elect Nation? Religion and Identity in Eighteenth-Century England’, in ibid., 53–74; and cf. Linda Colley, Britons: Forging the Nation 1707–1837 (New Haven, Conn., 1992), 11–54. For the notion of confessional culture see Thomas Kaufmann, Anselm Schubert and Kaspar von Greyerz (eds), Frühneuzeitliche Konfessionskulturen (Gütersloh, 2008); and Thomas Kaufmann, Konfession und Kultur. Lutherischer Protestantismus in der zweiten Hälfte des Reformationsjahrhunderts (Tübingen, 2006). 12. See above p. 95. 13. For Louis XV see Bernard Hours, Louis XV et sa cour (Paris, 2002). As Gérard Sabatier has pointed out, however, some of Louis XV’s personal deficiencies were compensated for

Notes | 233

by the very visible piety of his wife and family. See Sabatier, ‘Religious Rituals and the Kings of France in the Eighteenth Century’, 280. 14. The images of royal authority which the monarchy promoted outside the confines of the court, however, in the form of royal statues, for example, often continued to owe more to non-Christian, such as classical Roman, models than to strictly Christian ones. See Michel Martin, Les Monuments équestres de Louis XIV: une grande entreprise de propagande monarchique (Paris, 1986). 15. See above p. 114. 16. See above p. 115. 17. Olivier Chaline, ‘Des parlementaires jansénistes?’, in Gauthier Aubert and Olivier Chaline (eds), Les parlements de Louis XIV. Opposition, coopération, autonomisation? (Rennes, 2010), 277–92; and David Feutry, ‘Le Parquet du parlement de Paris à la fin du règne de Louis XIV: une cohésion familiale et doctrinaire à l’épreuve des choix du roi’, in ibid., 33–47, esp. 39–44. 18. Van Kley, The Religious Origins of the French Revolution, 112, 196–8. 19. Quantin, ‘Avant et après l’Unigenitus’, 179. 20. Gauchet, Le Désenchantement du monde, 285. See above introduction, p. 1. 21. For the importance of the narrative dimension to all theories which assume that organized religion is a matter of the past, see Taylor, A Secular Age, 256. Cf. David Storey, ‘Charles Taylor’s A Secular Age: Breaking the Spell of the Immanent Frame’, in Herbert de Vriese and Gary Gabor (eds), Rethinking Secularization: Philosophy and the Prophecy of a Secular Age (Newcastle upon Tyne, 2009), 179–208, at 187–8. 22. See above p. 54. 23. See above p. 122 with reference to Catherine-Laurence Maire, De la cause de Dieu à la cause de la nation, and Van Kley, The Religious Origins of the French Revolution. 24. However, the Jacobite non-jurors fought a rearguard action on this front as on others. Kléber Monod, Jacobitism and the English People, 138–45. 25. Michel Vovelle, Religion et Révolution. La déchristianisation de l’an II (Paris, 1976); and idem, La Révolution contre l’Église. 26. Cf. Sabatier, ‘Religious Rituals and the Kings of France in the Eighteenth Century’, 278, 280–1. 27. For France and America see Jeremy Gunn and Blandine Chélini-Pont, Dieu en France et aux États-Unis. Quand les mythes font la loi (Paris, 2005); and Blandine Chélini-Pont, ‘Is Laïcité the Civil Religion of France?’, in Civil Religion in the United States and Europe, special issue of George Washington International Law Review 41, 4 (2010), 765–815. Cf. Jeremy Gunn, ‘French Secularism as Utopia and Myth’, Houston Law Review 42,1 (2005), 81–102. 28. For these changes see Justin A.I. Champion, ‘“My Kingdom is not of this world”: The Politics of Religion after the Revolution’, in Nicholas Tyacke (ed.), The English Revolution, c.1590–1720. Politics, Religion and Communities (Manchester, 2007), 185–202; and Starkie, The Church of England and the Bangorian Controversy, esp. 103–11. 29. Pasi Ihalainen, Protestant Nations Redefined: Changing Perceptions of National Identity in the Rhetoric of the English, Dutch and Swedish Public Churches, 1685–1772 (Leiden, 2005), 348. 30. Colley, Britons, 204–27. 31. Campbell Orr, ‘The Late Hanoverian Court and the Christian Enlightenment’. Cf. Clark, English Society 1660–1832, 256–83, 300–17; and G.M. Ditchfield, George III: An Essay in Monarchy (Basingstoke, 2002), 77–106.

234 | Notes

32. Sabatier, ‘Religious Rituals and the Kings of France in the Eighteenth Century’, 280. 33. Goldie, ‘Priestcraft and the Birth of Whiggism’. Cf. Champion, The Pillars of Priestcraft Shaken, 170–75; and idem, Republican Learning, 91–115. 34. For attempts to redefine the position of the Church of England and the other Protestant denominations in England with regard to Continental Protestantism see Claydon, Europe and the Making of England 1660–1760, 313–53. 35. Schlögl, Alter Glaube und moderne Welt, 226: ‘Das hieß auch Religion konnte gemacht werden. […] Aber die Stabilisierung sozialer Systeme ist darauf angewiesen, dass ihr Code nicht beliebig kopiert werden kann. Inflation ist nicht nur für wirtschaftliche Systeme ein Problem.’ (‘This meant that religion could be created or fabricated. […] But if you want to lend stability to social systems it should not be too easy to copy the code on which they rely. Inflation is a problem not just for economic systems’) Cf. ibid., pp. 190–207 and 437–56. 36. Seligman et al., Ritual and its Consequences, 118. 37. Thomas Schwinn, ‘Multiple Modernities: Konkurrierende Thesen und offene Fragen Ein Literaturbericht in konstruktiver Absicht’, Zeitschrift für Soziologie 38 (2009), 454–76; cf. Martino Rosati, Multiple Modernities and Postsecular Societies (Farnham, 2012). 38. Ronald G. Asch, ‘Das Problem des religiösen Pluralismus im Zeitalter der “Konfessionalisierung”: zum historischen Kontext der konfessionellen Bestimmungen des Westfälischen Friedens’, Blätter für Deutsche Landesgeschichte 134 (1998), 1–32. 39. Cf. Tony Judt, A Grand Illusion? An Essay on Europe (2nd edn, New York, 2011), 115.

Bibliography

Primary Sources Collectio variorum tractatuum in quibus praecipuae controversiae inter Romanum Pontificem et Ecclesiam Gallicanam de auctoritate Papae et politica potestate agitantur (Paris, 1717). Corona Regia, ed. and trans. Tyler Fyoter and Winfried Schleiner, intro. Winfried Schleiner (Geneva, 2010). Europe a Slave unless England Break her Chains, Discovering the Grand Design of the French– Popish Party (London, 1681). The Sighs of France in Slavery (London, 1689). The Spirit of France and the Politick Maxims of Lewis XIV Laid Open to the World (London, 1689). Abbeville, Matthieu d’, Discours funebre en l’honneur de Roy Henry le Grand (Paris, 1610). Abra de Raconis, Charles François, Discours funebre, panegyrique et histoire sur la vie et vertus, la maladie et la mort du Roy tres-chretien. Prononcé le 19 et 20 juin […] (Paris, 1643). Andrewes, Lancelot, Ninety-Six Sermons, 5 vols (Oxford, 1841). Armancani, Alexandri Patricii [Cornelis Jansen], Mars Gallicus, editio novissima (n.p., 1639; 1st edn, 1635). Arnauld, Antoine, Œuvres, 42 vols (Paris, 1775–81). Arroy, Besian, Questions décidées, sur la iustice des armes des rois de France, sur les alliances auec les hérétiques ou infidelles, & sur la conduite de la conscience des gens de guerre (Paris, 1634). Aubery, Antoine, L’Histoire du Cardinal Mazarin, 2 vols (Amsterdam, 1695). Barclay, William, De potestate papae liber posthumus eiusdem de regno et regali potestate, adversus Buchanum […] et reliquos monarchomachos, libri VI (Hanau, 1612). Barlow, Thomas, The Original of Kingly and Ecclesiastical Government (London, 1681). Barlow, William, The Summe and Substance of the Conference (London, 1605). Baxter, Richard, Against the Revolt to Foreign Jurisdiction, Which Would be to England its Perjury, Church-Ruine, and Slavery (London, 1691). ———, Of National Churches. Their Description, Institution, Use, Preservation, Danger, Maladies and Cure, Partly Applied to England (London, 1691). [Beaune, Renaud de], Oraison funebre de la Royne d’Ecosse sur le sujet de celle, prononcée par Monsieur de Bourges (Paris, 1588). Bedé de la Gormandière, Jean, Le Droit des roys contre le Cardinal Bellarmin (Frankental, 1611). [Belloy, Pierre de], Apologie Catholique contre les libelles, declarations advis […] publiees par les Liguez, par E. D. L. I. C. (n.p., 1586). Bérulle, Pierre de, Œuvres complètes, vol. 3, parts 1 and 2: Discours de l’état et des grandeurs de Jésus, ed. Michel Join-Lamberg and Rémi Lescot (Paris, 1996).

236 | Bibliography

Blackwood, Adam, ‘Pro regibus apologia adversus Georgii Buchanani dialogum de iure regni apud Scotos’, in idem, Opera Omnia (Paris, 1644), 1–207. Bossuet, Jacques-Bénigne, Defensio declarationis conventus cleri Gallicani, an. 1682 de eccl. potestate, 2 vols (Mainz, 1788). ———, Politique tirée des propres paroles de l’écriture sainte, ed. Jacques Le Brun (Geneva, 1967). Boucher, Jean, De Iusta Henrici tertii abdicatione a Francorum regno, libri quatuor (Paris, 1589). ———, Sermons de la simulée conversion et nullité de la prétendue absolution de Henry de Bourbon, prince de Bearn, à S. Denys en France, le dimanche 25 juillet 1593 (Paris, 1594). [——], Apologie pour Iehan Chastel. Parisien, executé a mort, par François de Verone Constantin (n.p., 1610). Brightman, Thomas, Revelation of the Revelation. That is the Revelation of St. John Opened Clearly with a Logicall Resolution and Exposition. Wherein the Sense is Cleared, out of the Scripture, the Event also of Thinges Foretold is Discussed out of the Church-Historyes (2nd edn, Amsterdam, 1615). Brouncker, Edward, The Curse of Sacriledge (London, 1630). Buckeridge, John, A Sermon Preached before His Maiestie, at Whitehall, March 22, 1617, being Passion Sunday, Touching Prostration and Kneeling in the Worship of God, (London, 1618). ———, De potestate Papae in rebus temporalibus […] adversus Cardinalem Bellarminum (London, 1614). Burnet, Gilbert, News from France, in a Letter Giving a Relation of the Present State of the Difference between the French King and the Court of Rome (London, 1682). ———, The History of the Rights of Princes in the Dispensing of Ecclesiastical Benefices and Church Lands, Relating Chiefly to the Pretensions of the Crown of France to the Regale and the Late Contests with the Court of Rome (London, 1682). Burton, Henry, The Sounding of the Two Last Trumpets, the Sixth and Seventh or Meditations by Way of Paraphrase upon the 9th, 10th and 11th Chapters of the Revelation, as Containing a Prophecie of These Last Times (2nd edn, London, 1641). C., M. [Antoine Charlas], Tractatus de Libertatibus ecclesiae Gallicanae (Liège, 1684). Cappel, Jacques, Les Livrees de Babel ou l’histoire du siege Romain (Sedan, 1616). Carrier, Hubert (ed.), La Fronde. Contestation démocratique et misère paysanne, 52 Mazarinades, 2 vols (Paris, 1982). Caumont Champenois, Iean de, Advertissement des advertissements au peuple tres-chrestien (n.p., 1587). Ceriziers, René de, Discours sur le sacre du Roi (Paris, 1654). Charles I, King of England, Scotland and Ireland, Eikon Basilike with Selections from Eikonoklastes, ed. Jim Daems and Holly Faith Nelson (Peterborough, Ont., 2006). Coke, Edward, The Selected Writings of Sir Edward Coke, ed. Steve Sheppard, 3 vols (Indianapolis, Ind., 2003). Creed, William, Judah’s Return to their Allegiance and David’s Returne to his Crown and Kingdom. A Sermon Preacht at St Mary Woolchurch upon June 28. 1660, Being the Day of Solemn Thanksgiving for the Happy Return of His Majestie (London, 1660). Cromé, François, Dialogue d’entre le maheustre et le manant, ed. Peter M. Ascoli (Geneva, 1977). Dent, Arthur, The Ruine of Rome or an Exposition upon the Whole Revelation wherein is Plainly Shewed and Proved, that the Popish Religion, Together with all the Power and Authoritie of Rome, Shall Ebbe and Decay […] (2nd edn, London, 1603).

Bibliography | 237

Doleman, R. [Robert Parsons], A Conference about the Next Succession to the Crown of England (n.p., 1681). Dorléans, Louis, Advertissement, des catholiques anglois aux François catholiques (Paris 1586). ———, Apologie ou defence des catholiques unis les uns avec les autres contre les impostures des catholiques associez à ceux de la pretendue religion (n.p., 1586). ———, Premier et second advertissements des catholiques anglois aux François catholiques et à la noblesse qui suit a present le roy de Navarre (Paris, 1590). ———, Responce des vrays Catholiques françois, à l’advertissement des catholiques anglois, pour l’exclusion du roy de Navarre de la couronne de France (Paris, 1588). Douglas, Robert, The Form and Order of the Coronation of Charles the Second, King of Scotland, England, France and Ireland. As it Was Acted and Done at Scoone […] 1651 (Aberdeen, 1700). Dryden, John, The History of the League Written in French by Monsieur Maimbourg, Transl. into English according to His Majesty’ Command by Mr. Dryden (London, 1684). Du Perron, Jacques Davy, ‘Harangue faite de la part de la chambre écclesiastique, en celle du tiers Estat, sur l’article du serment’, in idem, Oeuvres diverses, 2 vols (Paris, 1633; reprint Geneva, 1969), vol. 2, 593–648. Durand, Claude, Advis d’un docteur de Paris sur un livre intitulé de la puissance ecclesiastique et politique (Paris, 1612). Duval, André, Libelli de ecclesiastica et politica potestate elenchus (Paris, 1612). Elizabeth I, Collected Works, eds. Leah S. Marcus, Janet Muller and Mary Beth Rose(Chicago, Ill., 2000). Ferrier, Jérémie, Le Catholique d’Estat ou Discours politique des alliances du Roy […] (Paris, 1625). Filmer, Robert, Patriarcha and Other Writings, ed. Johann Sommerville (Cambridge, 1991). Forest du Chesne, Nicolas, Mars vere Gallicus adversus Jansenii Martem falso Gallicum (Rouen, 1660). Franklin, Julian H. (ed.), Constitutionalism and Resistance in the Sixteenth Century. 3 Treatises (New York, 1969). Gondi, Jean-François-Paul de, Cardinal de Retz, Mémoires, ed. Michel Pernot (Paris, 2003) (1st edn. Amsterdam, 1717). Goodwin, Thomas, A Glimpse of Sion’s Glory, or the Churches Beautie Specified. (Published for the Good and Benefit of All Those Whose Hearts are Raised up in the Expectation of the Glorious Liberties of the Saints.) (2nd edn, London, 1641). Gregory, Francis, David’s Returne from his Banishment, set forth in a Thanksgiving Sermon [on 2 Sam. xix. 30] for the Returne of […] Charles II (Oxford, 1660). Grey, Anchitell (ed.), Debates in the House of Commons from the Year 1664 to the Year 1694, 10 vols (London, 1763). Guez de Balzac, Jean-Louis, Le Prince (Paris, 1631). Heath, James, The Glories and Magnificent Triumphs of the Blessed Restitution of His Sacred Majesty King Charles II from his Arrival in Holland 1659–1660 till this Present (London, 1662). Heylyn, Peter, Ecclesia Vindicata, or the Church of England Justified (London, 1657). ———, The Historie of the Most Famous Saint and Souldier of Christ Iesus, St. George of Cappadocia (London, 1633). Hobbes, Thomas, Leviathan, Revised Student Edition, ed. Richard Tuck (Cambridge, 1996).

238 | Bibliography

Howson, John, A Sermon Preached at St. Maries in Oxford, the 17th Day of November 1602 in Defence of the Festivities of the Church of England, and Namely those of Her Majesties Coronation (Oxford, 1602). Hudson, Michael, The Divine Right of Government (n.p., 1647). James I, King of England, Scotland and Ireland, ‘A Paraphrase upon the Revelation’, in idem, The Workes (London, 1616; reprint Hildesheim, 1971). ———, ‘A Remonstrance for the Right of Kings’, in Political Works of James I, ed. Charles Howard McIlwain (Cambridge, Mass., 1918; reprint New York, 1965), 169–268. ———, Declaration du serenissime Roy Jacque I. […] contre la harangue de l’illustrissime Cardinal du Perron prononcée en la chambre du tiers estat le XV. de januier 1615 (London, 1615). ———, King James VI and I: Political Writings, ed. Johann P. Sommerville (Cambridge, 1994). ———, Political Works of James I, ed. Charles Howard McIlwain (Cambridge, Mass., 1918; reprint New York, 1965). ———, Remonstrance of the Most Gratious King James I King of Great Brittaine, […] for the Right of Kings and the Independance of Their Crownes (Cambridge, 1616). ____, The Basilikon Doron of King James VI, ed. James Craigie, 2 vols (Edinburgh, 1944, 1950). James II, King of England, Scotland and Ireland, Royal Tracts in Two Parts the First Containing the Select Speeches, Orders, Messages, Letters, etc. of His Sacred Majesty upon Extraordinary Occasions, […] The Second Containing Imago Regis or the Sacred Image of His Majesty in His Solitudes and Sufferings, Written during His Retirement in France (Paris, 1692). [Jurieu, Pierre], A Letter of Several French Ministers Fled into Germany upon Account of the Persecution in France, to Such of their Brethren in England as Approved the Kings Declaration Touching Liberty of Conscience (London, 1688). Jurieu, Pierre, La Religion des Jesuites (The Hague, 1689). Keepe, Henry, True and Perfect Narrative of the Strange and Unexpected Finding the Crucifix and the Gold Chain of the Pious Prince St. Edward the King […] presented to […] King James the Second (London, 1688). Knafla, Louis A., Law and Politics in Jacobean England: The Tracts of Lord Chancellor Ellesmere (Cambridge, 1977). Knox, John, ‘The Debate at the General Assembly, June 1564’, in idem, On Rebellion, ed. Roger A. Mason (Cambridge, 1994), 182–209. Laney, Benjamin, A Sermon Preached before his Majesty at Whitehall March 18, 1665 (London, 1665). Laud, William, Seven Sermons (London, 1651). ———, The Works, 7 vols (Oxford, 1854; reprint Hildesheim, 1977). Law, Thomas Graves (ed.), The Archpriest Controversy. Documents Relating to the Dissensions of the Catholic Clergy, 1597–1602, 2 vols, Camden Society, 56, 58 (London, 1896–98). Le Boindre, Jean, Débats du parlement de Paris pendant la minorité de Louis XIV, ed. Robert Descimon, Orest Ranum and Patricia M. Ranum (Paris, 1997). Leigh, William, Queene Elizabeth Paralleld in her Princely Vertues with David, Iosua and Hezekia […] in Three Sermons […] (London, 1612). Lemée, François, Traité des statues (Paris, 1688). Leslie, Charles, The Case of the Regale and the Pontificat Stated in a Conference Concerning the Independency of the Church (2nd edn, London, 1702). L’Estoile, Pierre de, Mémoires-journaux 1574–1611, eds. Paul Bonnefon, Gustave Brunet, Aimé Louis Champollion-Figeac, Eugène Halphen, Paul Lacroix, Charles Read and Tamizey de Larroque, 12 vols (Paris, 1875–96).

Bibliography | 239

Locke, John, An Essay Concerning Toleration and Other Writings on Law and Politics, 1667– 1683, ed. John R. Milton and Philip Milton (Oxford, 2006). ———, Political Writings, ed. David Wootton (London, 1993). Louis XIV, Mémoires suivis de manière de montrer les jardins de Versailles, ed. Joël Cornette (Paris, 2007). Lowth, Simon, Of the Subject of Church Power (London, 1685; 1st edn, 1683). Maimbourg, Louis, Histoire de La Ligue (Paris, 1684). Marcelline, George, Les trophées du Roi Jacques I (à Eleutherée, 1609). Marlot, Guillaume, Le Théâtre d’honneur et de magnificence préparé au sacre des roys (Reims, 1643). Marsys, François de, Les memoires du feu roy de la Grand’Bretagne Charles Premier: escrits de sa propre main dans sa prison: ou il est monstré que le livre intitule Portrait du Roy de la Grand’ Bretagne, est un liure aposté & diffamatoire. Traduits de l’Anglois en nostre langue, par le sieur de Marsys, et enrichis d’annotations, & de renuois tres-necessaire pour l’intelligence de l’ouurage, Preface du Traducteur (Paris, 1649). Marvell, Andrew, An Account of the Growth of Popery and Arbitrary Government in England (Amsterdam, 1677). Melville, James, The Autobiography and Diary of Mr. James Melville, ed. Robert Pitcairn (Edinburgh, 1842). Migne, Jacques-Paul de (ed.), Collection intégrale et universelle des orateurs sacrés, du premier et du second ordre, 99 vols (Paris, 1844–66). Milton, John, The Complete Prose Works, vol. 3: 1648–1649, ed. Merritt Y. Hughes (Newhaven, Conn., 1962). Montagu, Richard, Appello Caesarem (London, 1625). [Montgailliard, Bernard de], Response de Dom Bernard, Doyen de l’Oratoire de Saint Bernard des Feuillans lez Paris, à une lettre à luy escrite et envoyee par Henry de Valois (Paris, 1589). Morgues, Mathieu de, Diverses pièces pour la defence de la Royne Mère du Roy Très-Chrestien Louys XIII (Antwerp, 1643). [——], Le Genie demasqué (Paris, 1632). [——], Vrais et bons advis de françois fidele sur les calomnies et blasphemies du Sieur des Montagnes ou examen du libelle intitulé defense du roy et des ses ministres (n.p., 1631). Morley, George, A Sermon Preached at the Magnificent Coronation of the Most High and Mighty King Charles the IInd King of Great Britain (London, 1661). Morrice, Roger, The Entring Book of Roger Morrice, 1677–1691, ed. Mark Goldie, 7 vols (London, 2007). Morton, Thomas, A Defence of the Innocencie of the Three Ceremonies of the Church of England (London, 1619). Morus, Hubertus [Hubert Meurier], De sacris unctionibus libri tres, in quibus de sancta ampulla et Francorum Regum Consecratione diffuse tractatur. Authore H. Moro (Paris, 1593). Moulin, Pierre du, Bouclier de la foy (1st edn, Charenton, 1619; reprint Geneva, 1635). ———, Defense de la foy catholique contenue au livre du très puissance et serenissme Jacque I. Roi de la Grand Bretagne et d’Irlande, contre la response de F. N. Coeffeteau (n.p., 1610). ———, Iconomachus seu De imaginibus et earum cultu (Sedan, 1635). Ogilby, John, The Entertainment of His Most Excellent Majestie Charles II in His Passage through the City of London to His Coronation [London, 1662], ed. Ronald Knowles (New York, 1988).

240 | Bibliography

Pasquier, Étienne, ‘L’Antimartyr de frère Jacques Clement de l’Ordre des Jacobins’, in idem, Ecrits politiques. Textes réunis, publiés et annotés par Dorothy Thikett (Geneva, 1966), 185–246. Perkins, William, A Reformed Catholicke (Cambridge, 1598). ———, A Warning against the Idolatrie of the Last Times (Cambridge, 1601). Porthaise, Jean, Cinq sermons du R. P. J. Porthaise, […] théologal de l’église de Poictiers, par luy prononcez en icelle, esquels est traicté tant de la simulée conversion du Roy de Navarre que du droit de l’absolution ecclésiastique [...] (Paris, 1594). [Priezac, Daniel de], Vindiciae Galliae contra Alexandrum Patricium Armacanum (Paris, 1638). Prynne, William, Canterburies Doome, or the First Part of a Compleat History of the Commitment, Charge, Tryall, Condemnation, Execution of William Laud, Late Arch-bishop of Canterbury (London, 1646). Richer, Edmond, A Treatise of Ecclesiastical and Political Power (London, 1612). ———, De potestate ecclesiae in rebus temporalibus et defensio articuli quem tertius ordo comitiorum regni Franciae pro lege fundamentali ejusdem regni defigi postulavit, anno Domini 1614 & 1615 (Cologne, 1692). ———, Libellus de ecclesiastica et politica potestate (Paris, 1611). Rochemonteix, Camille de, Nicolas Caussin, confesseur de Louis XIII et le Cardinal Richelieu: documents inédits (Paris, 1911). Roquette, Henry Emmanuel de, Oraison funèbre du très-haut, très-puissant, très-excellent et trèsreligieux prince, Jacques II, Roy de la Grand’ Bretagne, prononcée le 19 jour de Septembre 1702 dans l’église des Religieuses de la visitation de Chaillot ou repose le coeur de sa Majesté par Messire Henry Emmanuel de Roquette, Docteur de Sorbonne (Paris, 1702). Rossaeus, Guillelmus, De iusta rei publicae in reges impios authoritate (Antwerp, 1592). Saint-Sixt, Charles de, Sermon funèbre prononcée en l’église cathédrale de Riez, au service du grand et auguste Henri IIII (Paris, 1610). Santarelli, Antonius, Tractatus de haeresi […] et de potestate Romani pontificis (Rome, 1625). Senault, Jean-François, Harangues funebres de Louis le Iuste Roy de France et de Nauarre, et de la Royne sa mere Marie de Medicis. Prononcees dans l’Eglise Cathedrale de Sainte Croix d’Orleans, par le pere Jean-François Senault, Prestre de l’Oratoire (Paris, 1643). [Servin, Louis], Vindiciae secundum libertatem ecclesiae gallicanae et regii status Gallofrancorum, sub Henrico III (n.p., 1593; 1st edn, 1590). Swetnam, Joseph, David’s Devotions upon his Deliverances: Set Forth in a Sermon [on Psal. xxiv. 3] […] June 28, 1660, Being the Day of Publique Thanksgiving for his Majesties Happy Restauration (London, 1660). Tanner, Joseph R. (ed.), Constitutional Documents of the Reign of James I, A. D. 1603–1625 (Cambridge, 1952). Thibaut, Dominique, Oraison funebre faite et pronounce à Paris en l’eglise de Saint Germain l’Auxerrois (Paris, 1610). Thou, Jacques Auguste de, Historia sui temporis, 7 vols (London, 1733). Turner, Robert, Histoire et vie de Marie Stuart (Paris, 1589). Udall, Ephraim, Noli me tangere is a Thinge to be Thought on or vox carnis clamantis ab altari ad aquilam sacrilegam (London, 1642). Valladier, André, ‘Oraison funebre de Henry Le Grand’, in Guillaume du Peyrat (ed.), Les Oraisons et discours funebres […] sur les trespas de Henri le Grand (Paris, 1611), 272–360. ———, Parenese royale, sur les ceremonies du sacre du tres-chrestien Louis XIII, Roy de France et de Navarre (Paris, 1611). [——], Labyrinthe royale de l’Hercule Gaulois triomphant […] (Avignon, 1601).

Bibliography | 241

Vrevin S.J., François, Oraison funèbre prononcée en l’eglise de Rouen aux funerailles […]de Henri IIII roy de France (Rouen, 1610). [Whitelocke, Bulstrode], The King’s Right of Indulgence in Spiritual Matters, with the Equity Thereof, Asserted, by a Person of Honour and Eminent Minister of State Lately Deceased (London, 1688). Wickham Legg, Leopold Georg (ed.), English Coronation Records (London, 1901). Wren, Matthew, A Sermon Preached before the King’s Majesty on Sunday the Seventeenth of February Last (London, 1627).

Secondary Sources 1594, Le Sacre d’Henri IV à Chartres. Musée des Beaux-Arts de Chartres (Chartres, 1994). Achinstein, Sharon, ‘Milton and King Charles’, in Thomas N. Corns (ed.), The Royal Image: Representations of Charles I (Cambridge, 1999), 141–61. Adam, Antoine, Du Mysticisme à la révolte. Les Jansénistes du XVIIe siècle (Paris, 1968). Adamson, John S.A., ‘Chivalry and Political Culture in Caroline England’, in Kevin Sharpe and Peter Lake (eds), Culture and Politics in Early Stuart England (Basingstoke, 1994), 161–98. ———, The Noble Revolt: The Overthrow of Charles I (London, 2007). Allison, Anthony F., ‘An English Gallican: Henry Holden (1596/7–1662)’, pt 1, Recusant History 22 (1995), 319–49. Amalou, Thierry, Le Lys et la mitre. Loyalisme monarchique et pouvoir épiscopal pendant les guerres de religion (1580–1610) (Paris, 2007). ———, ‘Une Sorbonne régicide? Autorité, zèle et doctrine de la Faculté de théologie de Paris pendant la Ligue (1588–1593)’, in Les universités en Europe (1450–1815) (Bulletin de l’Association des Historiens modernistes des Universités française) (Paris, 2013), 77–116. Apostolidès, Jean-Marie, Le Roi-machine: Spectacle et politique au temps de Louis XIV (Paris, 1981). Arblaster, Paul, Antwerp and the World: Richard Verstegan and the International Culture of Catholic Reformation (Leuven, 2004). Armitage, David, Armand Himy and Quentin Skinner (eds), Milton and Republicanism (Cambridge, 1995). Armogathe, Jean-Robert, L’Église catholique et la révocation de l’édit de Nantes (Paris, 1985). Armstrong, Megan C., The Politics of Piety. Franciscan Preachers during the French Wars of Religion (Rochester, N.Y., 2004). Asch, Ronald G., ‘Absolutism and Royal Government’, in Peter H. Wilson (ed.), A Companion to Eighteenth-Century Europe (Oxford, 2008), 451–63. ———, ‘Das Problem des religiösen Pluralismus im Zeitalter der “Konfessionalisierung”: zum historischen Kontext der konfessionellen Bestimmungen des Westfälischen Friedens’, Blätter für Deutsche Landesgeschichte 134 (1998), 1–32. ———, Der Hof Karls I. von England. Politik, Provinz und Patronage (Cologne, 1993). ———, ‘Hof, Adel und Monarchie. Norbert Elias’ Höfische Gesellschaft im Lichte der neueren Forschung’, in Claudia Opitz (ed.), Höfische Gesellschaft und Zivilisationsprozeß. Norbert Elias’ Werk in Kulturwissenschaftlicher Perspektive (Cologne, 2005), 119–42. ———, Jakob I. (1566–1625). König von England und Schottland (Stuttgart, 2005).

242 | Bibliography

———, ‘No bishop no king oder cuius regio eius religio. Die Deutung und Legitimation des fürstlichen Kirchenregiments und ihre Implikationen für die Genese des “Absolutismus” in England und im protestantischen Deutschland’, in idem and Heinz Duchhardt (eds), Der Absolutismus – ein Mythos? (Cologne, 1996), 79–124. ———, Sacred Kingship in France and England in the Age of the Wars of Religion: From Disenchantment to Re-enchantment?’, in Charles W.A. Prior and Glenn Burgess (eds), England’s Wars of Religion Revisited (Farnham, 2011), 27–48. ———, ‘The Revelation of the Revelation. Die Bedeutung der Offenbarung des Johannes für das politische Denken in England im späten 16. und frühen 17. Jahrhundert’, in Kai Trampedach and Andreas Pečar (eds), Die Bibel als Politisches Argument, Historische Zeitschrift, Beiheft 43 (Munich, 2007), 315–31. Asch, Ronald G. and Heinz Duchhardt (eds), Der Absolutismus – ein Mythos? (Cologne, 1996). Ascoli, Georges, La Grande-Bretagne devant l’opinion française au XVIIe siècle, 2 vols (Paris, 1930). Atherton, Ian, Ambition and Failure in Stuart England: The Career of John, First Viscount Scudamore (Manchester, 1999). Aubert, Gauthier and Olivier Chaline (eds), Les Parlements de Louis XIV. Opposition, coopération, autonomisation? (Rennes, 2010). Aznar, Daniel, ‘Louis (XIII) II de Catalogne: La Construction d’un mythe royal (1641–1643)’, unpublished paper. Bailey, Donald A., ‘Introduction’, in Nicholas Lefèvre de Lezeau, La Vie de Michel de Marillac (1560–1632), Garde des sceaux sous Louis XIII, ed. Donald A. Bailey (Quebec, 2007), iii–lxviii. Barber, Sarah, Regicide and Republicanism: Politics and Ethics in the English Revolution, 1646– 1659 (Edinburgh, 1998). Barbiche, Bernard, ‘Agents de la monarchie’, in Lucien Bély (ed.), Dictionnaire de l’Ancien Régime (Paris, 1996), 38–40. Barclay, Andrew, ‘The Impact of James II and the Departments of the Royal Household’ (Ph.D. thesis, University of Cambridge, 1993). Bardon, Françoise, Le Portrait mythologique à la cour de France sous Henri IV et Louis XIII (Paris, 1974). Barroll, J. Leeds, Anna of Denmark. Queen of England: A Cultural Biography (Philadelphia, Pa., 2001). Bauckham, Richard, Tudor Apocalypse. Sixteenth-Century Apocalypticism, Millenarianism and the English Reformation: From John Bale to John Foxe and Thomas Brightman (Oxford, 1978). Baumgartner, Frederic J., Radical Reactionaries: The Political Thought of the French Catholic League (Geneva, 1975). Beddard, R. A., ‘Wren’s Mausoleum for Charles I and the Cult of the Royal Martyr’, Architectural History 27 (1984), 36–47. Béguin, Katia, Les Princes de Condé. Rebelles, courtisans et mécènes dans la France du Grand Siècle (Seyssel, 1999). Beik, William, Absolutism and Society in Seventeenth-Century France. State Power and Aristocracy in Languedoc (Cambridge, 1985). ———, A Social and Cultural History of Early Modern France (Cambridge, 2009). Bell, David, The Cult of the Nation in France: Inventing Nationalism, 1680–1800 (Cambridge, Mass., 2003).

Bibliography | 243

———, ‘Unmasking a King: The Political Uses of Popular Culture under the Catholic League, 1588–89’, Sixteenth Century Journal 20 (1989), 371–86. Bell, Ilona, ‘“Souvereaigne Lord or Lordly Lady of this Land”: Elizabeth, Stubbs and the Gaping Gulf ’, in Julia M. Walker (ed.), Dissing Elizabeth. Negative Representations of Gloriana (Durham, N.C., 1998), 99–116. Bellany, Alastair, ‘Libels in Action: Ritual Subversion and the English Literary Underground, 1603–1642’, in Tim Harris (ed.), The Politics of the Excluded, c.1500–1850 (Basingstoke, 2001), 99–124. ———, The Politics of Court Scandal in Early Modern England: News Culture and the Overbury Affair, 1603–1660 (Cambridge, 2002). Bellany, Alastair and Andrew McRae (eds), Early Stuart Libels: An Edition of Poetry from Manuscript Sources. Early Modern Literary Studies Text Series I (2005), , accessed 10 Sept. 2012. Benoist, Pierre, La Bure et le sceptre: La Congrégation des feuillants dans l’affirmation des États et des pouvoirs princiers (vers 1560–vers 1660) (Paris, 2006). ———, Le Père Joseph. L’Eminence grise de Richelieu (Paris, 2007). Bercé, Yves-Marie, ‘Henri IV et la maîtrise des opinions populaires’, in Avènement d’Henri IV, quatrième centenaire, vol. 1: Quatrième centenaire de la Bataille de Coutras (Pau, 1989), 111–24. ———, La Naissance dramatique de l’absolutisme, 1598–1661, Nouvelle Histoire de la France Moderne, vol. 3 (Paris, 1992). Bergin, Joseph, Church, Society and Religious Change in France, 1580–1730 (Newhaven, Conn., 2009). ———, Crown, Church and Episcopate under Louis XIV (New Haven, Conn., 2004). Bergin, Joseph, and Laurence Brockliss (eds), Richelieu and His Age (Oxford, 1992). Bireley, Robert, The Jesuits and the Thirty Years War. Kings, Courts and Confessors (Cambridge, 2003). Birnstiel, Eckart, Die Fronde in Bordeaux (1648–1653) (Frankfurt am Main, 1985). Black, Jeremy, ‘Confessional State or Elect Nation? Religion and Identity in EighteenthCentury England’, in Tony Claydon and Ian McBride (eds), Protestantism and National Identiy: Britain and Ireland, c.1650–1850 (Cambridge, 1998), 53–74. Blet S.J., Pierre, ‘L’Article du tiers aux états généraux de 1614’, Revue d’histoire moderne et contemporaine 2 (1955), 81–106. ———, Le Clergé de France et la monarchie. Étude sur les assemblées générales du clergé de 1615 à 1666 (Rome, 1959). ———, Les assemblées du clergé et Louis XIV de 1670 à 1693 (Rome, 1972). Bloch, Marc, Les rois thaumaturges (Paris, 1983). Blokmans, Wim, André Holenstein and Jon Mathieu (eds), Empowering Interactions: Political Cultures and the Emergence of the State in Europe 1300–1900 (Farnham, 2009). Blümle, Claudia, ‘Souveränität im Bild. Anthonis van Dycks Reiterporträt Karls I.’, in Horst Bredekamp and Pablo Schneider (eds), Visuelle Argumentationen: Die Mysterien der Repräsentation und die Berechenbarkeit der Welt (Munich, 2006), 79–102. Boltanski, Ariane, Les Ducs de Nevers et l’État royal. Genèse d’un compromis (ca. 1550–ca. 1600) (Geneva, 2006), 454–60. Bonney, Richard, The Limits of Absolutism in Ancien Régime France (Aldershot, 1995). Boucher, Jacqueline, La Cour de Henri III (Rennes, 1986). ———, Société et mentalités autour de Henri III, 4 vols (Lille, 1981).

244 | Bibliography

Bourdin, Bernard, La Genèse théologico-politique de l’État moderne: la controverse de Jacques Ier d’Angleterre avec le cardinal Bellarmin (Paris, 2004). ———, The Theological-Political Origins of the Modern State: The Controversy between James I of England and Cardinal Bellarmine (Washington, D.C., 2010). Boureau, Alain, ‘Les enseignements absolutistes de Saint Louis, 1610–1630’, in Centre de Recherches sur l’Occident Moderne (ed.), La Monarchie absolutiste et l’histoire en France. Théories du pouvoir, propagandes monarchiques et mythologies nationales (Paris, 1987), 79–87. ———, Le Simple corps du roi. L’Impossible sacralité des souverains français, XVe–XVIIIe siècle (Paris, 1988). Bouyer, Christian, Louis XIII: La Montée de l’absolutisme (Paris, 2006). Boyer, Allan D. (ed.), Law, Liberty and Parliament. Selected Essays on the Writings of Sir Edward Coke (Indianapolis, Ind., 2004). Braddick, Michael, God’s Fury, England’s Fire. A New History of the English Civil Wars (London, 2009). Briggs, Robin, Communities of Belief. Cultural and Social Tensions in Early Modern France (Oxford, 1995). Brogan, Stephen, ‘The Royal Touch as Adapted by James I’, History Today 61, 2 (2011), 46–52. Brooks, Christopher W., Law, Politics and Society in Early Modern England (Cambridge, 2008). Brown, Anthony, ‘Anglo-Irish Gallicanism, 1635–1685’ (Ph.D. thesis, University of Cambridge, 2004). Bryant, Laurence M., Ritual, Ceremony, and the Changing Monarchy in France, 1350–1789 (Farnham, 2001). Burgess, Glenn, ‘“Absolutism” and Monarchy in Early Stuart England’, in idem, Absolute Monarchy and the Stuart Constitution (New Haven, Conn., 1996), 17–62. ———, British Political Thought, 1500–1660 (Basingstoke, 2009). ———, ‘Regicide: The Execution of Charles I and English Political Thought’, in Robert von Friedeburg (ed.), Murder and Monarchy: Regicide in European History, 1300–1800 (Basingstoke, 2004), 212–36. ———, ‘Religious War and Constitutional Defence: Justifications of Resistance in English Puritan Thought, 1590–1643’, in Robert von Friedeburg (ed.), Widerstandsrecht in der frühen Neuzeit. Erträge und Perspektiven im deutsch-britischen Vergleich (Berlin, 2001), 185–206. ———, ‘The Divine Right of Kings Reconsidered’, in idem, Absolute Monarchy and the Stuart Constitution (New Haven, Conn., 1996), 91–124. ———, The Politics of the Ancient Constitution (Basingstoke, 1992). ———, ‘Was the English Civil War a War of Religion? The Evidence of Political Propaganda’, Huntington Library Quarterly 61, 2 (1999/2000), 173–201. Burke, Peter, The Fabrication of Louis XIV (New Haven, Conn., 1992). Burns, James Henderson, ‘George Buchanan, and the Anti-Monarchomachs’, in Roger A. Mason (ed.), Scots and Britons. Scottish Political Thought and the Union of 1603 (Cambridge, 1994), 138–58. ———, The True Law of Kingship. Concepts of Monarchy in Early Modern Scotland (Oxford, 1996). Burleigh, Michael, Earthly Powers: The Clash of Religion and Politics in Europe, from the French Revolution to the Great War (London, 2005). Burschel, Peter, Sterben und Unsterblichkeit. Zur Kultur des Martyriums in der Frühen Neuzeit (Munich, 2004).

Bibliography | 245

Butler, Martin, The Stuart Court Masque and Political Culture (Cambridge, 2008). Büttgen, Philippe and Christophe Duhamelle (eds), Religion ou confession? Un Bilan francoallemand sur l’époque moderne (XVIe–XVIIIe siècles) (Paris, 2010). Callow, John, King in Exile. James II: Warrior, King and Saint (Stroud, 2004). ———, The Making of King James II. The Formative Years of a Fallen King (Stroud, 2000). Cameron, Keith, Henri III. A Maligned or Malignant King? Aspects of the Satirical Iconography of Henri de Valois (Exeter, 1978). Campbell Orr, Clarissa, ‘The Late Hanoverian Court and the Christian Enlightenment’, in Michael Schaich (ed.), Religion and Monarchy: The Transformation of Royal Culture in Eighteenth-Century Europe (Oxford, 2007), 307–43. Carafiello, Michael L., Robert Parsons and English Catholicism, 1580–1610 (London, 1998). Carlton, Charles, Archbishop William Laud (London, 1987). Carmona, Michel, La France de Richelieu (Paris, 1985). Carrier, Hubert, Le Labyrinthe de l’État. Essai sur le débat politique en France au temps de la Fronde (1648–1653) (Paris, 2004). ———, Les Mazarinades. La Presse de la Fronde, 2 vols (Geneva, 1989–91). Carroll, Stuart, Martyrs and Murderers: The Guise Family and the Making of Europe (Oxford, 2009). Carswell, John, The Porcupine: The Life of Algernon Sidney (London, 1989). Cassan, Michel, La Grande Peur de 1610: les Français et l’assassinat d’Henri IV (Seyssel, 2010). Certeau, Michel de, La Fable mystique, XVIe–XVIIe siècle (Paris, 1982). Ceyssens, Lucien, Le Sort de la Bulle Unigenitus (Louvain, 1992). Ceyssens, Lucien, and Joseph A.G. Tans, Autour de l’Unigenitus. Recherches sur la genèse de la constitution (Louvain, 1987). Chaline, Olivier, ‘De la gloire’, Littératures classiques 36 (1999), 95–108. ———, ‘Des parlementaires Jansénistes?’, in Gauthier Aubert and Olivier Chaline (eds), Les parlements de Louis XIV. Opposition, coopération, autonomisation? (Rennes, 2010), 277–92. ———, Le Règne de Louis XIV (Paris, 2005). ———, ‘Port-Royal et la gloire’, Histoire, économie, societé 20 (2001), 163–75. Champion, Justin A.I., ‘“My Kingdom is not of this world”: The Politics of Religion after the Revolution’, in Nicholas Tyacke (ed.), The English Revolution, c. 1590–1720, Politics, Religion and Communities (Manchester, 2007), 185–202. –––––, Republican Learning: John Toland and the Crisis of Christian Culture, 1696–1722 (Manchester, 2003). ———, The Pillars of Priestcraft Shaken: The Church of England and its Enemies, 1660–1730 (Cambridge, 1992). Chélini-Pont, Blandine, ‘Is Laïcité the Civil Religion of France?’, in Civil Religion in the United States and Europe, special issue of George Washington International Law Review 41, 4 (2010), 765–815. Chevallier, Pierre, Henri III: Roi Shakespearien (Paris, 1985). ———, Les Régicides: Clément, Ravaillac, Damiens (Paris, 1989). Christianson, Paul, Discourse on History, Law and Governance in the Public Career of John Selden, 1610–1635 (Toronto, 1996). ———, ‘From Expectation to Militance. Reformers and Babylon in the First Two Years of the Long Parliament’, Journal of Ecclesiastical History 24 (1973), 225–44. ———, Reformers and Babylon. English Apocalyptic Visions from the Reformation to the Eve of Civil War (Toronto, 1978).

246 | Bibliography

———, ‘Royal and Parliamentary Voices on the Ancient Constitution’, in Linda Levy Peck (ed.), The Mental World of the Jacobean Court (Cambridge, 1991), 71–95. Christin, Olivier, Une révolution symbolique. L’iconoclasme huguenot et la reconstruction catholique (Paris, 1991). Christout, Marie-Françoise, Le Ballet de cour de Louis XIV: 1643–72 (2nd edn, Paris, 1972). Church, William F., Richelieu and Reason of State (Princeton, N.J., 1972). ———, ‘The Decline of the French Jurists as Political Theorists’, French Historical Studies 5 (1967), 1–40. Clark, Jonathan C.D., English Society 1660–1832 (Cambridge, 2000). ———, ‘Secularization and Modernization. The Failure of a “Grand Narrative”’, Historical Journal 55 (2012), 161–94. ———, ‘The Re-enchantment of the World? Religion and Monarchy in Eighteenth-Century Europe’, in Michael Schaich (ed.), Religion and Monarchy: The Transformation of Royal Culture in Eighteenth-Century Europe (Oxford, 2007), 41–75. Claydon, Tony, Europe and the Making of England, 1660–1780 (Cambridge, 2007). ———, William III and the Godly Revolution (Cambridge, 1996). Claydon, Tony and Ian McBride, ‘The Trials of the Chosen Peoples: Recent Interpretations of Protestantism and National Identity in Britain and Ireland’, in eadem (eds), Protestantism and National Identiy: Britain and Ireland, c.1650–1850 (Cambridge, 1998), 1–29. Coffey, John, ‘England’s Exodus: The Civil War as a War of Deliverance’, in Charles W.A. Prior and Glenn Burgess (eds), England’s Wars of Religion Revisited (Farnham, 2011), 253–80. ———, John Goodwin and the Puritan Revolution, Religion and Intellectual Change in Seventeenth-Century England (Woodbridge, 2006). ———, Politics, Religion and the British Revolution. The Mind of Samuel Rutherford (Cambridge, 1997). ———, ‘Samuel Rutherford and the Political Thought of the Scottish Covenanters’, in John R. Young (ed.), The Celtic Dimension of the British Civil Wars (Edinburgh, 1997), 75–96. Cognet, Louis, Crépuscule des mystiques: Bossuet-Fénelon, ed. Jean Robert Armogathe (2nd edn, Paris, 1991). Colley, Linda, Britons: Forging the Nation 1707–1837 (New Haven, Conn., 1992). Collins, James B., The State in Early Modern France (2nd edn, Cambridge, 2009). Collins, Jeffrey R., The Allegiance of Thomas Hobbes (Oxford, 2007). ———, ‘The Restoration Bishops and the Royal Supremacy’, Church History 68 (1999), 549–80. Collinson, Patrick, ‘Ecclesiastical Vitriol: Religious Satire in the 1590s and the Invention of Puritanism’, in John Guy (ed.), The Reign of Elizabeth I. Court and Culture in the Last Decade (Cambridge, 1995), 150–70. ———, ‘Lectures by Combination. Structures and Characteristics of Church Life in 17thCentury England’, in idem, Godly People: Essays on English Protestantism and Puritanism (London, 1983), 467–98. ———, The Birthpangs of Protestant England. Religious and Cultural Change in the Sixteenth and Seventeenth Centuries (Basingstoke, 1988). ———, ‘The Cohabitation of the Faithful with the Unfaithful’, in Ole Peter Grell, Jonathan Israel and Nicholas Tyacke (eds), From Persecution to Toleration: The Glorious Revolution and Religion in England (Oxford, 1994), 51–76. ———, The Elizabethan Puritan Movement (London, 1967).

Bibliography | 247

———, ‘The English Conventicle’, in William J. Sheils and Diana Wood (eds), Voluntary Religion (Oxford, 1986), 223–59. ———, ‘The Jacobean Religious Settlement: The Hampton Court Conference’, in Howard Tomlinson (ed.), Before the English Civil War (Basingstoke, 1983), 27–52. ———, ‘The Monarchical Republic of Queen Elizabeth I’, in idem, Elizabethan Essays (London, 1994), 31–57. ———, The Religion of Protestants: The Church in English Society (Oxford, 1982). ———, ‘Windows in a Woman’s Soul: Questions about the Religion of Queen Elizabeth I’, in idem, Elizabethan Essays (London, 1994), 87–118. Collot, Claude, L’École doctrinale de droit public de Pont-à-Mousson: Pierre Grégoire de Toulouse et Guillaume Barclay (fin du XVIe siècle) (Paris, 1965). Connolly, Sean J., Divided Kingdom: Ireland 1630–1800 (Oxford, 2008). Constant, Jean-Marie, ‘Der Adel und die Monarchie in Frankreich vom Tode Heinrichs IV bis zum Ende der Fronde (1610–1653)’, in Ronald G. Asch (ed.), Der Europäische Adel im Ancien Régime (Cologne, 2001), 129–50. ———, La Folle liberté des baroques 1600–1661 (Paris, 2007). ———, La Ligue (Paris, 1996). ———, ‘L’Assemblée de la noblesse de 1651: une autre conception de la monarchie française’, in Roger Duchêne and Pierre Ronzeaud (eds), La Fronde en questions (Marseille, 1989), 277–86. ———, ‘La Troisième Fronde: les gentilshommes et les libertés nobiliaires’, Dix-septième siècle 145 (1984), 341–54. Conte, Sophie (ed.), Nicolas Caussin: rhétorique et spiritualité à l’époque de Louis XIII (Münster, 2007). Coraillon, Cédric, ‘Les deux morts de Louis XIII’, Revue d’histoire moderne et contemporaine 55 (2008), 50–73. Cornette, Joël, ‘“Deux Soleils en la France”. L’Événement dans la théorie de l’État royal au temps de Pierre de Bérulle et de Gabriel Naudé’, in Serge Berstein and Pierre Milza (eds), Axes et méthodes de l’histoire politique (Paris, 1998), 163–200. ———, ‘Figures politiques du Grand Siècle. Roi-État ou État-roi?’, in idem (ed.), La Monarchie entre Renaissance et Révolution, 1515–1792 (Paris, 2000), 137–278. ———, Henri IV à Saint-Denis. De l’abjuration à la profanation (Paris, 2010). ———, La Mélancolie du pouvoir. Omer Talon et le procès de la raison d’État (Paris, 1998). ———, ‘La Tente de Darius’, in idem and Henry Méchoulan (eds), L’État classique ­1652–1715. Regards sur la pensée politique dans la France dans la seconde moitié du XVIIe siècle (Paris, 1996), 9–42. ———, Le Roi de guerre. Essai sur la souveraineté dans la France du Grand Siècle (Paris, 2000). Cornwall, Robert D., ‘Divine Right Monarchy: Henry Dodwell’s Critique of the Reformation and Defense of the Deprived Nonjuror Bishops’, Anglican and Episcopal History 68 (1999), 37–66. ———, ‘The Theologies of the Non-jurors: A Historiographical Essay’, Cromohs Virtual Seminars, , accessed 16 July 2011. Corp, Edward T., A Court in Exile: The Stuarts in France, 1689–1718 (Cambridge, 2004). Cosandey, Fanny and Robert Descimon, L’Absolutisme en France. Histoire et Historiographie (Paris, 2002).

248 | Bibliography

Cottret, Bernard, ‘Ecce Homo. La Crise de l’incarnation royale en Angleterre (1649–1688– 1701)’, in Maria-Christina Pitassi (ed.), Le Christ entre Orthodoxie et Lumières (Geneva, 1994), 77–99. ———, The Huguenots in England. Immigration and Settlement c.1550–1700 (Cambridge, 1985). Cottret, Monique, ‘Edmond Richer 1539–1631. Le Politique et le sacré’, in Henry Méchoulan (ed.), L’État baroque. Regards sur la pensée politique de la France du premier XVIIe siècle (Paris, 1985), 159–77. ———, ‘La Querelle Janséniste’, in Marc Venard (ed.), L’Âge de raison (1620/30–1750) (Histoire du Christianisme des origines à nos jours, vol. 9) (Paris, 1997), 351–408. ———, Tuer le tyran: Le Tyrannicide dans l’Europe moderne (Paris, 2009). Cottret, Monique and Bernard Cottret, ‘La Sainteté de Jacques II et les miracles d’un roi défunt’, in Edward Corp (ed.), L’Autre exil: Les Jacobites en France (Paris, 1993), 79–106. Cowart, Georgia J., The Triumph of Pleasure. Louis XIV and the Politics of Spectacle (Chicago, Ill., 2008). Cragg, Gerald R., From Puritanism to the Age of Reason: A Study of Changes in Religious Thought within the Church of England 1660 to 1700 (Cambridge, 2008). Cramsie, John, ‘The Philosophy of Imperial Kingship and the Interpretation of James VI and I’, in Ralph Anthony Houlbrooke (ed.), James VI and I: Ideas, Authority, and Government (Aldershot, 2006), 43–69. Crawfurd, Raymond, The King’s Evil (Oxford, 1911). Cressy, David, ‘Binding the Nation. The Bonds of Association, 1584 and 1696’, in DeLloyd J. Guth and John W. McKenna (eds), Tudor Rule and Revolution (Cambridge, 1982), 217–34. ———, Bonfires and Bells: National Memory and the Calendar in Elizabethan and Stuart England (Berkeley, Calif., 1989). Crest, Aurélie du, Modèle familial et pouvoir monarchique (XVIe–XVIIIe siècles) (Aix-enProvence, 2002). Croft, Pauline, King James (Basingstoke, 2003). Cromartie, Alan, The Constitutionalist Revolution: An Essay on the History of England 1450– 1642 (Cambridge, 2006). Cross, Claire, The Royal Supremacy in the Elizabethan Church (London, 1969). Crouzet, Denis, ‘Désir de mort et puissance absolue, de Charles VIII à Henri IV’, Revue de Synthèse 112 (1991), 423–41. ———, Dieu en ses royaumes. Une histoire des guerres de religion (Seyssel, 2008). ———, ‘Henri IV, King of Reason?’, in Keith Cameron (ed.), From Valois to Bourbon: Dynasty, State and Society in Early Modern France (Exeter, 1989), 73–106. ———, Le Haut cœur de Catherine de Médicis (Paris, 2005). ———, ‘Les Fondements idéologiques de la royauté d’Henri IV’, in Jacques Pérot and Pierre Tucoo-Chala (eds), Henri IV: Le Roi et la reconstruction du royaume (Pau, 1990), 165–94. ———, Les Guerriers de Dieu. La violence au temps des troubles de religion (vers 1525–vers 1610), 2 vols (Paris, 1990). Cust, Richard P., ‘Charles and Providence’, in Kenneth Fincham and Peter Lake (eds), Religious Politics in Post-Reformation England (Woodbridge, 2006), 193–208. ———, Charles I. A Political Life (Harlow, 2005). ———, ‘News and Politics in Early Seventeenth-Century England’, Past and Present 112 (1986), 60–90. ———, The Forced Loan and English Politics, 1626–1628 (Oxford, 1987).

Bibliography | 249

Cuttica, Cesare, ‘Adam the Father of all Flesh. An Intellectual History of Sir Robert Filmer, 1588–1653 and his Works in European Political Thought’ (Ph.D. thesis, European University Institute, Florence, 2007). Daniel, Marie Céline, ‘Livre politique et politique du livre: influence de l’actualité française des guerres de religion sur l’utilisation du livre comme instrument politique en Angleterre, entre 1570 et 1610’ (Ph.D. thesis, Paris-Sorbonne University, 2009). Daubresse, Sylvie, Le Parlement de Paris ou la voix de la raison (1559–1589) (Geneva, 2005). Daussy, Hugues, Les Huguenots et le roi. Le Combat politique de Philippe Duplessis-Mornay (1572–1600) (Geneva, 2002). Davies, Julian, The Caroline Captivity of the Church. Charles I and the Remoulding of Anglicanism (Oxford, 1992). De Franceschi, Sylvio Hermann, La Crise théologico-politique du premier âge baroque. Antiromanisme doctrinal, pouvoir pastoral et raison du prince: Le Saint-Siège face au prisme français (1607–1627) (Rome, 2009). ———, ‘La Genèse française du catholicisme d’État et son aboutissement au début du ministériat de Richelieu. Les catholiques zélés à l’épreuve de l’affaire Santarelli et la clôture de la controverse autour du pouvoir pontifical au temporel (1626–1627)’, Annuaire-Bulletin de la Société de l’Histoire de France 525 (2001), 19–63. ———, Raison d’État et raison de l’Église. La France et l’interdit vénitien (1606–1607): aspects diplomatiques et doctrinaux (Paris, 2009). De Krey, Gary S., ‘Reformation in the Restoration Crisis, 1679–1682’, in Donna B. Hamilton and Richard Strier (eds), Religion, Literature and Politics in Post-Reformation England, 1540–1688 (Cambridge, 1996), 231–53. ———, Restoration and Revolution in Britain. A Political History of the Era of Charles II and the Glorious Revolution (Basingstoke, 2007). De Vriese, Herbert and Gary Gabor (eds), Rethinking Secularization: Philosophy and the Prophecy of a Secular Age (Newcastle upon Tyne, 2009). DeJean, Joan E., Ancients against Moderns. Culture Wars and the Making of a Fin de Siècle (Chicago, Ill., 1997). Descimon, Robert, ‘Chastel’s Attempted Regicide (27 December 1594) and its Subsequent Transformation into an “Affair”’, in Alison Forrestal and Eric Nelson (eds), Politics and Religion in Early Bourbon France (Basingstoke, 2009), 86–104. ———, ‘Les fonctions de la métaphore du mariage politique du roi et de la république. France, XVe–XVIIIe siècles’, Annales ESC 47 (1992), 1127–47 ———, ‘Nobles de lignage et noblesse de service. Sociogenèses comparées de l’épée et de la robe (XVe–XVIIIe siècle)’, in idem and Élie Haddad (eds), Épreuves de Noblesse. Les experiences nobiliaires de la haute robe parisienne (XVIe–XVIIe siècle) (Paris, 2010), 277–303. ———, ‘Preface’, in Stéphane-Marie Morgain, La Théologie politique de Pierre de Bérulle (1598–1629) (Paris, 2001), 11–24. Descimon, Robert and José Javier Ruiz Ibáñez, Les Ligueurs de l’exil. Le Refuge catholique français après 1594 (Paris, 2005). Desplat, Christian, ‘La Religion d’Henri IV’, in Jacques Pérot and Pierre Tucoo-Chala (eds), Henri IV: Le Roi et la reconstruction du royaume (Pau, 1990), 223–67. Devlin, Eoin Lorcan, ‘English Encounters with Papal Rome in the Late Counter-Reformation c.1685–1697’ (Ph.D. thesis, University of Cambridge, 2010). Dickerman, Edmund H. and Anita M. Walker, ‘The Choice of Hercules: Henry IV as Hero’, Historical Journal 39 (1996), 315–37.

250 | Bibliography

Diefendorf, Barbara, ‘Henri IV, the Dévots and the Making of a French Catholic Reformation’, in Alison Forrestal and Eric Nelson (eds), Politics and Religion in Early Bourbon France (Basingstoke, 2009), 157–79. Dinzelbacher, Peter, ‘Das erzwungene Individuum. Sündenbewußtsein und Pflichtbeichte’, in Richard von Dülmen (ed.), Entdeckung des Ich (Cologne, 2001), 41–60. Ditchfield, G.M., George III: An Essay in Monarchy (Basingstoke, 2002). Donagan, Barbara, ‘Varieties of Royalism’, in Jason McElligott and David L. Smith (eds), Royalists and Royalism during the English Civil Wars (Cambridge, 2007), 66–88. ———, War in England, 1642–1649 (Oxford, 2008). Drévillon, Hervé, Les rois absolus: 1629 – 1715 (Paris, 2011). Dubail, Isabelle, ‘Le Sacrifice de Fontainebleau (1600)’, in Paul Mironneau and Isabelle Pébay-Clottes (eds), Paix des armes, paix des âmes. Actes du colloque international de Pau 8–11 octobre 1998 (Paris, 2000), 395–403. Duccini, Hélène, Faire voir, faire croire. L’Opinion publique sous Louis XIII (Paris, 2003). Ducheine, Michel, ‘Marie Stuart – une reine française en Écosse’, in François Laroque and Franck Lessay (eds), Enfers et délices à la Renaissance (Paris, 2003), 79–89. Duindam, Jeroen K., Vienna and Versailles: The Courts of Europe’s Dynastic Rivals 1550–1780 (Cambridge, 2003). Durand, Yves, L’Ordre du monde. Idéal politique et valeurs sociales en France du XVIe au XVIIIe siècle (Paris, 2001). ———, ‘Mystique et politique au XVIIe siècle. L’Influence du pseudo-Denys’, Dix-septième siécle 173 (1991), 323–50. Dzelzainis, Martin, ‘Anti-Monarchism in English Republicanism’, in Martin van Gelderen and Quentin Skinner (eds), Republicanism: A Shared European Heritage, 2 vols (Cambridge, 2002), vol. 2, 27–42. Édouard, Sylvène, ‘Le Messianisme de Louis XIV: un modèle espagnol?’, in Gérard Sabatier and Margarita Torrione (eds), ¿Louis XIV espagnol? Madrid et Versailles, images et modèles (Versailles, 2009), 255–70. El Kenz, David, ‘Les usages subversifs du martyre dans la France des troubles de religion. De la parole au geste’, in Frank Lestringant (ed.), Martyrs et martyrologes, Revue des Sciences Humaines 269 (2003), 33–51. Ellis, Harold A., Boulainvilliers and the French Monarchy. Aristocratic Politics in Early EighteenthCentury France (Ithaca, N.Y., 1988), 29–39. Elmer, Peter, The Miraculous Conformist: Valentine Greatrakes, the Body Politic and the Politics of Healing in Restoration Britain (Oxford, 2013). Elwood, Christopher, The Body Broken. The Calvinist Doctrine of the Eucharist and the Symbolization of Power in Sixteenth-Century France (New York, 1999). Engels, Jens Ivo, ‘Beyond Sacral Monarchy: A New Look at the Image of the Early Modern French Monarchy’, French History 15 (2001), 139–58. ———, ‘Das “Wesen” der Monarchie? Kritische Anmerkungen zum “Sakralkönigtum” in der Geschichtswissenschaft’, Maiestas 7 (1999), 4–39. ———, Königsbilder. Sprechen, Singen und Schreiben über den französischen König in der ersten Hälfte des achtzehnten Jahrhunderts (Bonn, 2000). Espiner-Scott, Janet Girvan, Claude Fauchet. Sa vie, son œuvre (Paris, 1938). Ferraro Parmelee, Lisa, Good Newes from Fraunce: French Anti-League Propaganda in Late Elizabethan England (Rochester, N.Y., 1996).

Bibliography | 251

Ferrell, Lori A., Government by Polemic. James I, the King’s Preachers and the Rhetoric of Conformity (Stanford, Calif., 1998). Feutry, David, ‘Le Parquet du parlement de Paris à la fin du règne de Louis XIV: une cohésion familiale et doctrinaire à l’épreuve des choix du roi’, in Gauthier Aubert and Olivier Chaline (eds), Les parlements de Louis XIV. Opposition, coopération, autonomisation? (Rennes, 2010), 33–47. Figeac, Michel, ‘“Le roi est mort! Vive les parlements!” ou la justice de Roi-Soleil revisitée par le chancelier d’Aguesseau’, in Gauthier Aubert and Olivier Chaline (eds), Les parlements de Louis XIV. Opposition, coopération, autonomisation? (Rennes, 2010), 19–32. Fincham, Kenneth (ed.), The Early Stuart Church, 1603–1642 (Basingstoke, 1993). Fincham, Kenneth and Peter Lake, ‘The Ecclesiastical Policies of James I and Charles I’, in Kenneth Fincham (ed.), The Early Stuart Church, 1603–1642 (Basingstoke, 1993), 23–50. Finley-Crosswhite, Annette, ‘Henry IV and the Diseased Body Politic’, in Martin Gosman, Alasdair MacDonald and Arjo Vanderjagt (eds), Princes and Princely Culture, 1450–1650 (Leiden, 2003), 131–46. Firth, Katherine R., The Apocalyptic Tradition in Reformation Britain 1530–1645 (Oxford, 1979). Fischlin, Daniel and Mark Fortier (eds), Royal Subjects: Essays on the Writings of James VI and I (Detroit, Mich., 2002). Fogel, Michèle, Les cérémonies de l’information dans la France du XVIe au milieu du XVIIIe siècle (Paris, 1989). Ford, Franklin L., Robe and Sword: The Regrouping of the French Aristocracy after Louis XIV (Cambridge, Mass., 1953). Forster, A.M.C., ‘The Real Roger Widdrington’, Recusant History 11 (1971–2), 196–205. Freeman, Thomas S., ‘“Imitatio Christi with a Vengeance”. The Politicisation of Martyrdom in Early Modern England’, in idem and Thomas F. Mayer (eds), Martyrs and Martyrdom in England, c.1400–1700 (Woodbridge, 2007), 35–69. ———, ‘Providence and Prescription: The Account of Elizabeth in Foxe’s Book of Martyrs’, in idem and Susan Doran (eds), The Myth of Elizabeth (Basingstoke, 2003), 27–55. Freist, Dagmar, ‘Popery in Perfection? The Experience of Catholicism: Henrietta Maria between Private Practice and Public Discourse’, in Michael Braddick and David L. Smith (eds), The Experience of Revolution in Stuart Britain and Ireland (Cambridge, 2011), 33–51. Friedeburg, Robert von, ‘Bausteine widerstandsrechtlicher Argumente in der frühen Neuzeit (1523–1668): Konfessionen, klassische Verfassungsvorbilder, Naturrecht, direkter Befehl Gottes, historische Rechte der Gemeinwesen’, in Christoph Strohm and Heinrich de Wall (eds), Konfessionalität und Jurisprudenz in der frühen Neuzeit (Berlin, 2009), 116–66. ———, Self-Defence and Religious Strife in Early Modern Europe. England and Germany, 1530–1680 (Aldershot, 2002). Fumaroli, Marc, L’Âge de l’éloquence (2nd edn, Paris, 1994; 1st edn, 1980). Gaehtgens, Barbara, ‘À toutes les gloires de l’État. Richelieu, les Jésuites et le maître-autel de Saint-Louis à Paris’, in Jean-Claude Boyer, Barbara Gaehtgens and Bénédicte Gady (eds), Richelieu patron des arts (Paris, 2009), 215–49. Galloway, Bruce, The Union of England and Scotland, 1603–1608 (Edinburgh, 1986). Garloff, Mona, ‘Reunionsprojekte des 16. und frühen 17. Jahrhunderts. Jean Hotman (1552-1636) und Friedensperspektiven im frühneuzeitlichen Europa‘, (Ph. D thesis, Frankfurt/M. University, 2013) Garrisson, Janine, L’Edit de Nantes et sa révocation: histoire d’une intolérance (Paris, 1985).

252 | Bibliography

Gauchet, Marcel, ‘L’État au miroir de la raison dÉtat: La France et la chrétienté’, in Yves Charles Zarka (ed.), Raison et déraison d’État (Paris, 1994), 193–244. ———, Le Désenchantement du monde. Une histoire politique de la religion (Paris, 1985). Gaudelus, Sébastien, ‘La Mise en spectacle de la religion royale: recherches sur la dévotion de Louis XIV’, Histoire, économie et société 19 (2000), 513–26. Gibbons, Katy, ‘“A Reserved Place”? English Catholic Exiles and Contested Space in Late Sixteenth-Century Paris’, French Historical Studies 32 (2009), 33–62. ———, English Catholic Exiles in Late Sixteenth-Century Paris (Rochester, 2011). Gibson, William, James II and the Trial of the Seven Bishops (Basingstoke, 2009). Giesey, Ralph E., ‘La Crise du cérémonial en 1610’, in idem, Cérémonial et puissance souveraine. France, XVe–XVIIe siècles (Paris, 1987), 33–48. ———, ‘La Societé de cour’, in idem, Cérémonial et puissance souveraine. France, XVe–XVIIe siècles (Paris, 1987), 67–86. ———, Rulership in France, 15th–17th Centuries (Aldershot, 2004). ———, The Royal Funerary Ceremony in Renaissance France (Geneva, 1960). ____, Le Roi ne meurt jamais [translation of The Royal Funerary Ceremony] (Paris, 1987). Gimaret, Antoinette, ‘La Mémoire du corps souffrant ou la question de l’horreur. Les récits du siège de Paris de Goulart à Maimbourg’, in Jacques Berchtold and Marie-Madeleine Fragonard (eds), La Mémoire des Guerres de Religion. La Concurrence des genres historiques, XVIe–XVIIIe siècles (Geneva, 2007), 193–209. Glassey, Lionel K.J., Politics and the Appointment of Justices of the Peace, 1675–1720 (Oxford, 1979). Glozier, Matthew, The Huguenot Soldiers of William of Orange and the ‘Glorious Revolution’ of 1688: The Lions of Judah (Brighton, 2002). Gojosso, Eric, Le Concept de république en France (XVIe–XVIIIe siècle) (Aix-en-Provence, 1998). Golden, Richard M., The Godly Rebellion: Parisian Curés and the Religious Fronde, 1652–1662 (Chapel Hill, N.C., 1981). Goldie, Mark, ‘Civil Religion and the English Enlightenment’, in Gordon J. Schochet (ed.), Politics, Politeness and Patriotism (Washington, D.C., The Folger Institute 1993), 31–46. ———, ‘Danby, the Bishops and the Whigs’, in Tim Harris, Paul Seaward and Mark Goldie (eds), The Politics of Religion in Restoration England (Oxford, 1990), 75–105. ———, ‘John Locke’s Circle and James II’, Historical Journal 35 (1992), 557–86. ———, ‘Priestcraft and the Birth of Whiggism’, in Nicholas Phillipson and Quentin Skinner (eds), Political Discourse in Early Modern Britain (Cambridge, 1993), 209–31. ———, ‘Restoration Political Thought’, in Lionel K.J. Glassey (ed.), The Reigns of Charles II and James VII and II (Basingstoke, 1997), 12–35. ———, Roger Morrice and the Puritan Whigs (= idem (ed.), The Entering Book of Roger Morrice, 1677–1691, vol. 1), (Woodbridge, 2007). ———, ‘The Huguenot Experience and the Problem of Toleration in Restoration England’, in Edric Caldicott, Hugh Gough and Jean-Paul Pittion (eds), The Huguenots and Ireland. Anatomy of an Emigration (Dublin, 1987), 175–203. ———, ‘The Political Thought of the Anglican Revolution’, in R. Beddard (ed.), The Revolutions of 1688 (Oxford, 1991), 103–36. ———, ‘Toleration and the Godly Prince in Restoration England’, in John Morrow and Jonathan Scott (eds), Liberty, Authority, Formality: Political Ideas and Culture, 1600–1900 (Exeter, 2008), 45–65.

Bibliography | 253

Goloubeva, Maria, The Glorification of Emperor Leopold I in Image, Spectacle and Text (Mainz, 2000). González Cruz, David, Une guerre de religion entre princes catholiques. La succession de Charles II dans l’Empire espagnol (Paris, 2006). Goodare, Julian, The Government of Scotland 1560–1625 (Oxford, 2004). Goodare, Julian and Michael Lynch (eds), The Reign of James VI (East Linton, 2000). Green, Ian M., The Re-establishment of the Church of England, 1660–1663 (Oxford, 1978). Greengrass, Mark, Governing Passions. Peace and Reform in the French Kingdom, 1576–1586 (Oxford, 2007). ———, ‘Regicide, Martyrs and Monarchical Authority in France in the Wars of Religion’, in Robert von Friedeburg (ed.), Murder and Monarchy: Regicide in European History, 1300– 1800 (Basingstoke, 2004), 176–92. Gregory, Brad Stephan, Salvation at Stake: Christian Martyrdom in Early Modern Europe (Cambridge, Mass., 1999). Grell, Chantal and Christian Michel, L’École des princes ou Alexandre disgracié. Essai sur la mythologie monarchique de la France absolutiste (Paris, 1988). Gres-Gayer, Jacques, ‘Le Gallicanisme d’Antoine Arnauld: éléments d’une enquête’, Chroniques de Port-Royal 44 (1995), special issue: Antoine Arnauld (1612–1694): Philosophe, écrivain, théologien, 31–52. Greyerz, Kaspar von, Religion and Culture in Early Modern Europe (Oxford, 2008). ——— (ed.), Interkonfessionalität – Transkonfessionalität – binnenkonfessionelle Pluralität: Neue Forschungen zur Konfessionalisierungthese (Gütersloh, 2003). Griffey, Erin (ed.), Henrietta Maria: Piety, Politics and Patronage (Aldershot, 2008). Gunn, Jeremy ‘French Secularism as Utopia and Myth’, Houston Law Review 42, 1 (2005), 81–102. Gunn, Jeremy and Blandine Chélini-Pont, Dieu en France et aux États-Unis. Quand les mythes font la loi (Paris, 2005). Guy, John, ‘My Heart is My Own’. The Life of Mary Queen of Scots (London, 2004). ———, ‘The Elizabethan Establishment and the Ecclesiastical Polity’, in idem (ed.), The Reign of Elizabeth I. Court and Culture in the Last Decade (Cambridge, 1995), 126–49. Gwynn, Robin D., ‘James II in the Light of his Treatment of Huguenot Refugees in England, 1685–1685’, English Historical Review 92 (1977), 820–33. ———, ‘Roger Morrice and the Huguenot Refugees’, in Jason McElligott (ed.), Fear, Exclusion and Revolution. Roger Morrice and Britain in the 1680s (Aldershot, 2006), 2–49. Hackett, Helen, Virgin Mother, Maiden Queen: Elizabeth I and the Cult of the Virgin Mary (Basingstoke, 1995). Haigh, Christopher, Elizabeth I (London, 1988). Hammer, Paul E.J., Elizabeth’s Wars (Basingstoke, 2003). Hammond, Paul, ‘The King’s Two Bodies: Representations of Charles II’, in Jeremy Black and Jeremy Gregory (eds), Culture, Politics and Society in Britain, 1660–1800 (Manchester, 1991), 13–48. Hamscher, Albert N., The Parlement of Paris after the Fronde (1653–1673) (Pittsburgh, Pa., 1975). Haran, Alexandre Y., ‘Louis le Juste à travers les oraisons funèbres. Roi-Sauveur et monarque providentiel’, in Bernard Barbiche, Jean-Pierre Poussou and Alain Tallon (eds), Pouvoirs, contestations et comportements dans l’Europe moderne. Mélanges en l’honneur du professeur Yves-Marie Bercé (Paris, 2005), 247–62.

254 | Bibliography

Harris, Tim, Restoration: Charles II and his Kingdoms, 1660–1685 (London, 2005). ———, Revolution: The Great Crisis of the British Monarchy, 1685–1720 (London, 2006). Hart, Philip, Pen for a Party: Dryden’s Tory Propaganda in its Context (Princeton, N.J., 1993). Haueter, Anton, ‘Die Krönungen der französischen Könige im Zeitalter des Absolutismus und in der Restauration’ (Ph.D. thesis, University of Zurich, 1975). Hayden, James Michael, France and the Estates General of 1614 (Cambridge, 1974). Headley, John M., Hans J. Hillerbrand and Anthony J. Papalas (eds), Confessionalization in Europe, 1555–1700: Essays in Honor and Memory of Bodo Nischan (Aldershot, 2004). Hearn, Karen (ed.), Van Dyck and Britain (London, 2009). Hennequin, Jacques, Henri IV dans ses oraisons funèbres ou la naissance d’une légende (Paris, 1977). ———, ‘L’Image du prince dans les oraisons funèbres de Louis XIII’, in Colloque sur l’image du roi (Strasbourg, 1984 = Travaux de Linguistique et de Littérature 22, 2), 41–55. Henshall, Nicholas, The Myth of Absolutism: Change and Continuity in Early Modern European Monarchy (London, 1992). Hersche‚ Peter, ‘“Klassizistischer” Katholizismus. Der konfessionsgeschichtliche Sonderfall Frankreich’, Historische Zeitschrift 262 (1996), 357–89. Hibbard, Caroline, ‘A Cosmopolitan Court in a Confessional Age: Henrietta Maria Revisited’, in Ronald Corthell, Frances E. Dolan and Christopher Highley (eds), Catholic Culture in Early Modern England (Notre Dame, Ind., 2007), 117–34. ———, Charles I and the Popish Plot (Chapel Hill, N.C., 1983). ———, ‘Henrietta Maria in the 1630s: Perspectives on the Role of Consort Queens in Ancien Régime Courts’, in Ian Atherton and Julie Sanders (eds), The 1630s: Interdisciplinary Essays on Culture and Politics in the Caroline Era (Manchester, 2006), 92–110. Hildesheimer, Françoise, ‘Au cœur religieux du ministériat. La Place de Dieu dans le testament politique des Richelieu’, Revue d’histoire de l’Église de France 84 [212] (1998), 21–38. ———, La Double mort du roi Louis XIII (Paris, 2007). ———, Relectures de Richelieu (Paris, 2000). ———, Richelieu (Paris, 2004). Hill, Christopher, Economic Problems of the Church. From Archbishop Whitgift to the Long Parliament (Oxford, 1956). Hoffmann, Kathryn, Society of Pleasures. Interdisciplinary Readings in Pleasure and Power during the Reign of Louis XIV (New York, 1997). Holloway, Ernest R., Andrew Melville and Humanism in Renaissance Scotland 1545–1622 (Leiden, 2011). Holmes, Peter, Resistance and Compromise: The Political Thought of the Elizabethan Catholics (Cambridge, 1982). ———, ‘The Authorship and and Early Reception of a Conference about the Next Succession to the Crown of England’, Historical Journal 23 (1980), 415–29. Holt, Mack P., The French Wars of Religion, 1562–1629 (Cambridge, 1995). Horowski, Leonhard, ‘Das Erbe des Favoriten: Minister, Mätressen und Günstlinge am Hof Ludwigs XIV’, in Jan Hirschbiegel and Werner Paravicini (eds), Der Fall des Günstlings. Hofparteien in Europa vom 13. bis zum 17. Jahrhundert (Ostfildern, 2004), 77–126. ———, Die Belagerung des Thrones. Machtstrukturen und Karrieremechanismen am Hof von Frankreich, 1661–1789 (Ostfildern, 2012). Houliston, Victor, Catholic Resistance in Elizabethan England. Robert Persons’s Jesuit Polemic, 1580–1610 (Aldershot, 2007).

Bibliography | 255

Hours, Bernard, ‘De la piété personnelle de Louis XIV’, in Gérard Sabatier and Margarita Torrione (eds), ¿Louis XIV espagnol? Madrid et Versailles, images et modèles (Versailles, 2009), 237–54. ———, Louis XV et sa cour (Paris, 2002). Howarth, David, Images of Rule: Art and Politics in the English Renaissance, 1485–1649 (Basingstoke, 1997). Hunt, Alice, The Drama of the Coronation: Medieval Ceremony in Early Modern England (Cambridge, 2008). Hurt, John J., Louis XIV and the Parlements: The Assertion of Royal Authority (Manchester, 2002). Hutton, Ronald, Charles II, King of England, Scotland and Ireland (Cambridge, 1989). ———, ‘The Making of the Secret Treaty of Dover’, Historical Journal 29 (1986), 297–318. ———, ‘The Religion of Charles II’, in R. Malcolm Smuts (ed.), The Stuart Courts and Europe: Essays in Politics and Political Culture (Cambridge, 1995), 228–46. ———, The Restoration: A Political and Religious History of England and Wales, 1658–1667 (Oxford, 1985). ———, The Rise and Fall of Merry England: The Ritual Year 1400–1700 (Oxford, 1996). Hutton, William Holden, William Laud (London, 1896). Ihalainen, Pasi, Protestant Nations Redefined: Changing Perceptions of National Identity in the Rhetoric of the English, Dutch and Swedish Public Churches, 1685–1772 (Leiden, 2005). Jackson, Clare, Restoration Scotland 1660–1690: Royalist Politics, Religion and Ideas (Woodbridge, 2003). Jacques, Emile, Jansénisme et antijansénisme. Acteurs, auteurs et témoins (Brussels, 1988). Jansen, Paule, ‘Jansénisme et Grande-Bretagne de la chute de Charles Ier à celle de Jacques II (1649–1688)’, in Christopher Smith and Elfrieda Dubois (eds), France et Grande-Bretagne de la chute de Charles Ier à celle de Jacques II (1649–1688) (Norwich, 1990), 91–101. Jenkinson, Matthew, Culture and Politics at the Court of Charles II, 1660–1685 (Woodbridge, 2010). Jones, James Rees, Charles II: Royal Politician (London, 1987). Jouanna, Arlette, La France du XVIe siècle, 1483–1598 (Paris, 1996). ———, Le Devoir de révolte. La Noblesse française et la gestation de l’État moderne, 1559–1661 (Paris, 1989). ———, ‘Les Guise et le sang de France’, in Yves Bellenger (ed.), Le Mécénat et l’influence des Guises (Geneva, 1997), 23–38. Jouhaud, Christian, Les Pouvoirs de la littérature. Histoire d’un paradoxe (Paris, 2000). ———, Mazarinades: La Fronde des mots (Paris, 1985). Judt, Tony, A Grand Illusion? An Essay on Europe (2nd edn, New York, 2011). Jussen, Bernhard (ed.), Die Macht des Königs. Herrschaft in Europa vom Frühmittelalter bis in die Neuzeit (Munich, 2005). Kantorowicz, Ernst H., The King’s Two Bodies. A Study in Medieval Political Theology (Princeton, N.J., 1957). Kaufmann, Thomas, Konfession und Kultur. Lutherischer Protestantismus in der zweiten Hälfte des Reformationsjahrhunderts (Tübingen, 2006). Kaufmann, Thomas, Anselm Schubert and Kaspar von Greyerz (eds), Frühneuzeitliche Konfessionskulturen (Gütersloh, 2008). Keay, Anna, The Magnificent Monarch: Charles II and the Ceremonies of Power (London, 2008).

256 | Bibliography

Keeble, Neil H., The Restoration: England in the 1660s (Oxford, 2002). Kelsey, Sean, ‘“A No-King or a New”. Royalists and the Succession, 1648–49’, in McElligott and Smith (eds), Royalists during the Civil Wars, 192–213. ———, Inventing a Republic: The Political Culture of the English Commonwealth, 1649–1653 (Stanford, Calif., 1997). ———, ‘The Death of Charles I’, Historical Journal 45 (2002), 727–54. ———, ‘The King’s Book: Eikon Basilike and the English Revolution’, in Nicholas Tyacke (ed.), The English Revolution, c. 1540–1720: Politics, Religion and Communities (Manchester, 2007), 150–69. King, John, ‘James I and King David: Jacobean Iconography and its Legacy’, in Daniel Fischlin and Mark Fortier (eds), Royal Subjects: Essays on the Writings of James VI and I (Detroit, 2002), 421–53. Kirchner, Thomas, Der epische Held. Historienmalerei und Kunstpolitik im Frankreich des 17. Jahrhunderts (Munich, 2001). Klaits, Joseph, Printed Propaganda under Louis XIV. Absolute Monarchy and Public Opinion (Princeton, N.J., 1976). Kléber Monod, Paul, Jacobitism and the English People, 1688–1788 (Cambridge, 1989). ———, The Power of Kings: Monarchy and Religion in Europe, 1589–1715 (New Haven, Conn., 1999). Klein Maguire, Nancy, Regicide and Restoration: English Tragicomedy, 1660–1671 (Cambridge, 1992). ———, ‘The Duchess of Portsmouth: English Royal Consort and French Politician, 1670– 1685’, in R. Malcolm Smuts (ed.), The Stuart Courts and Europe: Essays in Politics and Political Culture (Cambridge, 1995), 247–73. Knachel, Philip, England and the Fronde. The Impact of the English Civil War and Revolution in France (Ithaca, N.Y., 1967). Knoppers, Laura Lunger, Constructing Cromwell: Ceremony, Portrait, and Print 1645–1661 (Cambridge, 2000). Kötting, Helmut, Die Ormée (1651–1653) (Münster, 1983). Kraus, Hans-Christof, Englische Verfassung und politisches Denken im Ancien Régime 1689 bis 1789 (Munich, 2006). Krautheim, Ulrike, Die Souveränitätskonzeption in den englischen Verfassungskonflikten des 17. Jahrhunderts (Frankfurt, 1977). Kretzer, Hartmut, Calvinismus und französische Monarchie im 17. Jahrhundert: Die politische Lehre der Akademien Sedan und Saumur; mit besonderer Berücksichtigung von Pierre Du Moulin, Moyse Amyraut und Pierre Jurieu (Berlin, 1975). Krynen, Jacques, L’Empire du Roi. Idées et croyances politiques en France, XIIIe–XVe siècle (Paris, 1993). Labrousse, Élisabeth, Conscience et conviction: Études sur le XVIIe siècle (Paris, 1996). ———, La Révocation de l’Edit de Nantes: une foi, une loi, un roi? (Paris, 1990). Lacey, Andrew, The Cult of King Charles the Martyr (Woodbridge, 2003). Lake, Peter, ‘“A Charitable Christian Hatred”: The Godly and their Enemies in the 1630s’, in Christopher Durston and Jacqueline Eales (eds), The Culture of English Puritanism (Basingstoke, 1996), 145–83. ———, Anglicans and Puritans? Presbyterianism and English Conformist Thought from Whitgift to Hooker (London, 1988).

Bibliography | 257

———, ‘Anti-Puritanism: The Structure of a Prejudice’, in Kenneth Fincham and Peter Lake (eds), Religious Politics in Post-Reformation England. Essays in Honour of Nicholas Tyacke (Woodbridge, 2006), 89–97. ———, ‘Constitutional Consensus and Puritan Opposition in the 1620s: Thomas Scott and the Spanish Match’, Historical Journal 25 (1982), 805–25. ———, ‘Introduction: Puritanism, Arminianism and Nicholas Tyacke’, in Kenneth Fincham and Peter Lake (eds), Religious Politics in Post-Reformation England. Essays in Honour of Nicholas Tyacke (Woodbridge, 2006), 1–15. ———, ‘Lancelot Andrewes, John Buckeridge and Avant-garde Conformity at the Court of James I’, in Linda Levy Peck (ed.), The Mental World of the Jacobean Court (Cambridge, 1991), 113–33. ———, Moderate Puritans and the Elizabethan Church (Cambridge, 1982). ———, ‘The King (The Queen) and the Jesuit: James Stuart’s True Law of Free Monarchies in Context/s’, Transactions of the Royal Historical Society 14 (2004), 243–60. ———, ‘The Laudian Style: Order, Uniformity and the Pursuit of the Beauty of Holiness in the 1630s’, in Kenneth Fincham (ed.), The Early Stuart Church, 1603–1642 (Basingstoke, 1993), 161–86. ———, ‘“The Monarchical Republic of Elizabeth I” Revisited (by its Victims) as a Conspiracy’, in Barry Coward and Julian Swann (eds), Conspiracies and Conspiracy Theory in Early Modern Europe: From the Waldensians to the French Revolution (Aldershot, 2004), 87–111. ———, ‘“The Monarchical Republic of Queen Elizabeth I” (and the Fall of Archbishop Grindal) Revisited’, in John F. McDiarmid (ed.), The Monarchical Republic of Early Modern England: Essays in Response to Patrick Collinson (Aldershot, 2007), 129–47. Lamont, William M., Marginal Prynne, 1600–1669 (London, 1963). ———, Richard Baxter and the Millennium (London, 1979). Laurentin, René, Le Vœu de Louis XIII. Passé ou avenir de la France? (Paris, 2004). Le Gall, Jean-Marie, ‘La Nécropole dynastique des Bourbons à Saint-Denis ou l’impossible simple corps du roi’, Revue Historique 637 (2006), 61–80. ———, Le Mythe de Saint Denis. Entre Renaissance et Révolution (Seyssel, 2007). Le Person, Xavier, ‘Practiques’ et ‘Practiqueurs’. La Vie politique à la fin du régne de Henri III (1584–1589) (Geneva, 2002). Le Roux, Nicolas, La Faveur du Roi. Mignons et Courtisans au temps des derniers Valois (vers 1547–vers 1589) (Seyssel, 2000). ———, Un régicide au nom de Dieu. L’Assassinat d’Henri III, 1er août 1589 (Paris, 2006). Le Roy Ladurie, Emmanuel, L’Ancien Régime, vol. 1: 1610–1715 (Paris, 1991). Lee, Maurice, Government by Pen: Scotland under James VI and I (Urbana, Ill., 1981). Leferme-Falguières, Frédérique, Les Courtisans. Une société de spectacle sous l’Ancien Régime (Paris, 2007). Levack, Brian P., The Formation of the British State: England, Scotland and the Union, 1603– 1707 (Oxford, 1987). Levillain, Charles-Edouard, ‘London Besieged? The City’s Vulnerability during the Glorious Revolution’, in Jason McElligott (ed.), Fear, Exclusion and Revolution. Roger Morrice and Britain in the 1680s (Aldershot, 2006), 91–107. Levin, Carole, The Heart and Stomach of a King. Elizabeth I and the Politics of Sex and Power (Philadelphia, Pa., 1994). Levy, Anthony, Cardinal Richelieu and the Making of France (London, 2001).

258 | Bibliography

Lignereux, Yann, ‘Les “trois corps du roi”. Les entrées d’Henri IV à Lyon, 1594–1596’, Dixseptième siècle 53 (2001), 405–17. Lim, Paul Chang-Ha, In Pursuit of Purity, Unity and Liberty. Richard Baxter’s Puritan Ecclesiology in its Seventeenth-Century Context (Leiden, 2004). Lim, Seung-Hwi, ‘Mathieu de Morgues, bon Français ou bon catholique?’, Dix-septième siècle 213 (2001), 654–72. Lim, Walter S.H., John Milton: Radical Politics and Biblical Republicanism (Newark, Del., 2006). Loades, David, ‘The English State and the Death of Mary, Queen of Scots’, in Robert von Friedeburg (ed.), Murder and Monarchy: Regicide in European History, 1300–1800 (Basingstoke, 2004), 159–75. Love, Ronald S., Blood and Religion: The Conscience of Henri IV, 1553–1593 (Montreal, 2001). Luhmann, Niklas, Gesellschaftsstruktur und Semantik. Studien zur Wissenssoziologie der modernen Gesellschaft, vol. 3 (2nd edn, Frankfurt am Main, 1998). Lynch, Michael, ‘Court Ceremony and Ritual during the Personal Reign of James VI’, in Julian Goodare and Michael Lynch (eds), The Reign of James VI (East Linton, 2000), 71–92. MacDonald, Alan R., The Jacobean Kirk, 1567–1625: Sovereignty, Polity and Liturgy (Brookfield, Vt., 1998). Madway, Lorraine, ‘Majesty and Mockery: Representations of Royal Power in the Reign of Charles II, 1660–1685’ (Ph.D. thesis, Yale University, 1999). ———, ‘“The most Conspicuous Solemnity”: The Coronation of Charles II’, in Eveline Cruickshanks (ed.), The Stuart Courts (Stroud, 2000), 141–57. Mager, Wolfgang, ‘Die Anzweiflung des oberhirtlichen Kirchenregiments im Widerstand des jansenistischen Lagers gegen die Anerkennung der Bulle Unigenitus (1713) in Frankreich – Ein Beitrag zur Entstehungsgeschichte des modernen Konstitutionalismus’, in Neithart Bulst (ed.), Politik und Kommunikation. Zur Geschichte des Politischen in der Vormoderne (Frankfurt am Main, 2009), 147–249. Maillet-Rao, Caroline, ‘La Théologie politique des dévots Mathieu de Morgues et Michel de Marilllac, opposants au Cardinal de Richelieu’, Renaissance and Reformation 32 (2009), 51–77. ———, ‘Mathieu de Morgues and Michel de Marillac: The Dévots and Absolutism’, French History 25 (2011), 279–97. ———, ‘Mathieu de Morgues (1582–1679) et Michel de Marillac (1560–1632): les dévots devant l’Histoire’ (Ph.D. thesis, University of Tours, 2004), forthcoming as La Pensée politique des dévots Mathieu de Morgues et Michel de Marillac. Une opposition au ministériat. Maire, Catherine-Laurence, ‘Aux sources politiques et religieuses de la Révolution française. Deux modèles en discussion’, Le Débat 130 (2004), 133–53. ———, De la cause de Dieu à la cause de la nation: le jansénisme au XVIIIe siècle (Paris, 1998). Maral, Alexandre, La Chapelle Royale de Versailles sous Louis XIV. Cérémonial, liturgie et musique (Sprimont, 2002). ———, Le Roi-Soleil et Dieu (Paris, 2012). Marek, Kristin, Die Körper des Königs. Effigies, Bildpolitik und Heiligkeit (Munich, 2009). Marin, Louis, The Portrait of the King (London, 1988). Marshall, John, John Locke, Toleration and Early Enlightenment Culture. Religious Intolerance and Arguments for Religious Toleration in Early Modern and ‘Early Enlightenment’ Europe (Cambridge, 2006).

Bibliography | 259

Marshall, Joseph, ‘Reading and Misreading King James 1622–42: Responses to the Letter and Directions Touching Preaching and Preachers’, in Daniel Fischlin and Mark Fortier (eds), Royal Subjects: Essays on the Writings of James VI and I (Detroit, Mich., 2002), 476–511. Martimort, Aimé-Georges, Le Gallicanisme de Bossuet (Paris, 1953). Martin, Gregory, Rubens – the Ceiling Decoration for the Banqueting Hall, 2 vols (London, 2005). Martin, John J., ‘Inventing Sincerity, Refashioning Prudence: The Discovery of the Individual in Renaissance Europe’, American Historical Review 102 (1997), 1309–42. ———, Myths of Renaissance Individualism (Basingstoke, 2004). Martin, Michel, Les Monuments équestres de Louis XIV: Une grande entreprise de propagande monarchique (Paris, 1986). Martin, Patrick and John Finnis, ‘The Secret Sharers: “Anthony Rivers” and the Appelant Controversy’, Huntington Library Quarterly 69 (2006), 195–257. Mason, Roger A. (ed.), Scots and Britons. Scottish Political Thought and the Union of 1603 (Cambridge, 1994). Matikkala, Antti, The Orders of Knighthood and the Formation of the British Honours System, 1660–1760 (Woodbridge, 2008). Mayer, Jean-Christophe (ed.), The Struggle for the Succession in Late Elizabethan England: Politics, Polemics and Cultural Representations (Montpellier, 2004). Mazel, Claire, ‘“Ils ont préféré la croix au trône”. Les monuments funéraires des premiers Bourbons’, in Thomas W. Gaehtgens and Nicole Hochner (eds), L’Image du roi de François Ier à Louis XIV (Paris, 2006), 169–90. McCaffrey, Wallace, Elizabeth I (London, 1993). McCulloch, Diarmaid, The Later Reformation in England, 1547–1603 (Basingstoke, 1990). McCullough, Peter E., ‘Out of Egypt: Richard Fletcher’s Sermon before Elizabeth I after the Execution of Mary Queen of Scots’, in Julia M. Walker (ed.), Dissing Elizabeth. Negative Representations of Gloriana (Durham, N.C., 1998), 118–49. ———, Sermons at Court: Politics and Religion in Elizabethan and Jacobean Preaching (Cambridge, 1998), McDiarmid, John F. (ed.), The Monarchical Republic of Early Modern England: Essays in Response to Patrick Collinson (Aldershot, 2007). McElligott, Jason and David L. Smith (eds), Royalists and Royalism during the English Civil Wars (Cambridge, 2007). McLaren, Anne, ‘Challenging the Monarchical Republic: James I’s Articulation of Kingship’ in John F. McDiarmid (ed.), The Monarchical Republic of Early Modern England: Essays in Response to Patrick Collinson (Aldershot, 2007), 165–80. ———, Political Culture in the Reign of Elizabeth I: Queen and Commonwealth 1558–1585 (Cambridge, 1999). ———, ‘Political Ideas: Two Concepts of the State’, in Susan Doran and Norman Jones (eds), The Elizabethan World (Abingdon, 2011), 92–112. ———, ‘Prophecy and Providentialism in the Reign of Elizabeth I’, in Bertrand Taithe and Tim Thornton (eds), Prophecy: The Power of Inspired Language in History, 1300–2000 (Sutton, 1997), 31–50. McManners, John, Church and Society in Eighteenth-Century France, vol. 2, The Religion of the People and the Politics of Religion (Oxford, 1998). McRae, Andrew, Literature, Satire and the Early Stuart State (Cambridge, 2004).

260 | Bibliography

Mears, Natalie, ‘Counsel, Public Debate and Queenship: John Stubb’s The Discoverie of a Gaping Gulf, 1579’, Historical Journal 44 (2001), 629–50. ———, Queenship and Political Discourse in the Elizabethan Realms (Cambridge, 2005). Meikle, Maureen M., ‘Anna of Denmark’s Coronation and Entry into Edinburgh, 1590: Cultural, Religious and Diplomatic Perspectives’, in Julian Goodare and Alisdair A. MacDonald (eds), Sixteenth-Century Scotland: Essays in Honour of Michael Lynch (Leiden, 2008), 277–94. Mellet, Paul-Alexis, ‘L’Ange et l’assassin: les vocations extraordinaires et le régicide jusqu’a 1610’, in Marie-Luce Demonet (ed.), Hasard et providence XIVe–XVIIe siècle (2007), internet publication , accessed 13 June 2011. Metzger, Hans-Dietrich, Thomas Hobbes und die englische Revolution 1640–1660 (Munich, 1991). Michaud, Claude, ‘D’une croisade à l’autre, ou de François de la Noue au Duc de Mercoeur’, in Jean-François Labourdette, Jean-Pierre Poussou and Marie-Catherine Vignal(eds), Le Traité de Vervins (Paris, 2000), 457–72. Michel, Christian, ‘Les enjeux historiographiques de la querelle des anciens et des modernes’, in La Monarchie absolutiste et l’histoire en France. Théories du pouvoir, propagandes monarchiques et mythologies nationales (Paris, 1987), 129–54. Milanovic, Nicolas, Du Louvre à Versailles. Lecture des grands décors monarchiques (Paris, 2005). Milanovic, Nicolas and Alexandre Maral (eds), Louis XIV, l’homme et le roi (Paris, 2009). Miller, John, After the Civil Wars: English Politics and Government in the Reign of Charles II (Harlow, 2000). ———, Charles II (London, 1991). ———, ‘James II and Toleration’, in Eveline Cruickshanks (ed.), By Force or by Default? The Revolution of 1688–89 (Edinburgh, 1989), 8–27. ———, James II: A Study in Kingship (London, 1978). ———, Popery and Politics in England 1660–1688 (Cambridge, 1973). Milton, Anthony, ‘Anglicanism and Royalism in the 1640s’, in John Adamson (ed.), The English Civil War (Basingstoke, 2009), 61–81. ———, Catholic and Reformed: The Roman and Protestant Churches in English Protestant Thought, 1660–1640 (Cambridge, 1995). ———, Laudian and Royalist Polemic in Seventeenth-Century England: The Career and Writings of Peter Heylyn (Manchester, 2007). ———, ‘Sacrilege and Compromise: Court Divines and the King’s Conscience’, in Michael J. Braddick and David L. Smith (eds), The Experience of Revolution in Stuart Britain and Ireland (Cambridge, 2011), 135–53. ———, ‘The Creation of Laudianism: A New Approach’, in Thomas Cogswell et al. (eds), Politics, Religion and Popularity in Early Stuart Britain. Essays in Honour of Conrad Russell (Cambridge, 2002), 162–84. ———, ‘“Vailing his Crown”: Royalist Criticism of Charles I’s Kingship in the 1650s’, in Jason McElligott and David L. Smith (eds), Royalists and Royalism during the Interregnum (Manchester, 2010), 88–105. Montrose, Louis, The Subject of Elizabeth. Authority, Gender, and Representation (Chicago, Ill., 2006). Moote, Alanson Lloyd, Louis the Thirteenth, the Just (Berkeley, Calif., 1989).

Bibliography | 261

Morgain, Stéphane-Marie, La Théologie politique de Pierre de Bérulle (1598–1629) (Paris, 2001). Morrill, John, ‘A Liberation Theology? Aspects of Puritanism in the English Revolution’, in Laura Lunger Knoppers (ed.), Puritanism and its Discontents (Cranbury, N.J., 2003), 27–48. ———, ‘Charles I, Tyranny and the English Civil War’, in idem, The Nature of the English Revolution (London, 1993), 285–306. ———, ‘Introduction: England’s Wars of Religion’, in idem, The Nature of the English Revolution (London, 1993), 33–44. ———, ‘Renaming England’s Wars of Religion’, in Charles W.A. Prior and Glenn Burgess (eds), England’s Wars of Religion Revisited (Farnham, 2011), 307–25. ——— (ed.), The Scottish National Covenant in its British Context, 1638–1651 (Edinburgh, 1990). Morrill, John and Philip Baker, ‘Oliver Cromwell, the Regicides and the Sons of Zeruiah’, in John Peacey (ed.), The Regicides and the Execution of Charles I (Basingstoke, 2001), 14–35. Mousnier, Roland, L’Assassinat d’Henri IV: 14 Mai 1610 (Paris, 1979). Muir, Edward, Ritual in Early Modern Europe (Cambridge, 1997). Mullan, David George, Episcopacy in Scotland: The History of an Idea, 1560–1638 (Edinburgh, 1986). Mullett, Michael A., Catholics in Britain and Ireland, 1558–1829 (New York, 1998). Mullett, Michael, James II and English Politics, 1678–1688 (London, 1994). Mulryne, James R., Helen Watanabe-O’Kelly and Margaret Shewring (eds), Europa Triumphans. Court and Civic Ceremonies in Early Modern Europe, 2 vols (Aldershot, 2004). Myers, Nick, ‘Hercule Gaulois, Great Britain’s Solomon – Myths of Persuasion, Styles of Authority’, in Eveline Cruickshanks (ed.), The Stuart Courts (Stroud, 2000), 29–42. Nagle, Jean, Un orgueil français. La Vénalité des offices sous l’Ancien Régime (Paris, 2008). Nelson, Eric, ‘Defining the Fundamental Laws of France: The Proposed First Article of the Third Estate at the French Estates General of 1614’, English Historical Review 115 (2000), 1216–30. ———, ‘Royal Authority and the Pursuit of a Lasting Religious Settlement’, in Alison Forestal and Eric Nelson (eds), Religion and Politics in Early Bourbon France (Basingstoke, 2009), 107–31. ———, ‘Talmudical Commonwealthmen and the Rise of Republican Exclusivism’, Historical Journal 50 (2007), 809–35. ———, The Hebrew Republic: Jewish Sources and the Transformation of European Political Thought (Cambridge, Mass., 2010), 38–50 ———, The Jesuits and the Monarchy: Catholic Reform and Political Authority in France (1590– 1615) (Aldershot, 2005). Nenner, Howard, The Right to Be King: The Succession to the Crown of England, 1603–1714 (Basingstoke, 1995). Néraudau, Jean-Pierre, L’Olympe du roi-soleil. Mythologie et idéologie royale au Grand Siècle (Paris, 1986). Neveu, Bruno, ‘Culture religieuse et aspirations réformistes à la cour d’Innocent XI’, in idem, Érudition et religion aux XVIIe et XVIIIe siècles (Paris, 1994), 235–76. Newton, Diana, The Making of the Jacobean Regime: James VI and I and the Government of England, 1603–1605 (Woodbridge, 2005).

262 | Bibliography

Nicholls, Andrew D., The Jacobean Union. A Reconsideration of British Civil Policies under the Early Stuarts (Westport, Conn., 1999). Oakley, Francis, The Conciliarist Tradition. Constitutionalism in the Catholic Church, 1300– 1870 (Oxford, 2003). Orcibal, Jean, Jean Duvergier de Hauranne, abbé de Saint-Cyran et son temps (Paris, 1948). ———, ‘Les “supercroisades” de Louis XIV (1683–1689)’, in Janet van Bavel and Martijn Schrama (eds), Jansénius et le Jansénisme dans les Pays-Bas (Louvain, 1982), 138–47. ———, Louis XIV contre Innocent XI. Les appels au futur concile de 1688 et l’opinion française (Paris, 1949). ———, ‘Louis XIV et l’édit de Nantes’, in idem, Études d’histoire et de littérature religieuses: XVIe–XVIIIe siècles, ed. Jacques Le Brun (Paris, 1997), 847–67. ———, Louis XIV et les protestants (Paris, 1951). ———, Saint-Cyran et le Jansénisme (Bourges, 1961). Orr, D. Alan, Treason and the State: Law, Politics and Ideology in the English Civil War (Cambridge, 2002). Owen, Susan J., Restoration Theatre and Crisis (Oxford, 1996). Parkin, Jon, ‘Liberty Transpos’d: Andrew Marvell and Samuel Parker’, in Warren Chernaik and Martin Dzelzainis (eds), Marvell and Liberty (Basingstoke, 1999), 269–89. ———, Taming the Leviathan: The Reception of the Political and Religious Ideas of Thomas Hobbes, 1640–1700 (Cambridge, 2007). Parrott, David, Richelieu’s Army: War, Government and Society in France, 1624–1642 (Cambridge, 2001). Parsons, Jotham, The Church in the Republic. Gallicanism and Political Ideology in Renaissance France (Washington, D.C., 2004). Patterson, Annabel, ‘John Dryden and Political Allegiance’, in Steven N. Zwicker (ed.), The Cambridge Companion to John Dryden (Cambridge, 2004), 221–36. Patterson, William Brown, King James VI and I and the Reunion of Christendom (Cambridge, 1997). ———, ‘William Bishop as Catholic Theologian and Polemicist’, Recusant History 28 (2006), 209–34. Peacey, John (ed.), The Regicides and the Execution of Charles I (Basingstoke, 2001). Peacock, John, ‘The Image of Charles I as a Roman Emperor’, in Ian Atherton and Julie Sanders (eds), The 1630s: Interdisciplinary Essays on Culture and Politics in the Caroline Era (Manchester, 2006), 50–73. Pečar, Andreas, ‘Auf der Suche nach den Ursprüngen des Divine Right of Kings. Herrschaftskritik und Herrschaftslegitimation in Schottland unter Jakob VI’, in idem and Kai Trampedach (eds), Die Bibel als politisches Argument. Voraussetzungen und Folgen biblizistischer Herrschaftslegitimation in der Vormoderne, Beiheft der Historischen Zeitschrift 43 (Munich, 2007), 295–314. ———, ‘Der König – Theologe und Prophet? Biblizistische Selbstdarstellung Jakobs VI./I. im Spiegel seiner Schriften’, Zeitschrift für Historische Forschung 35 (2008), 207–34. ———, Die Ökonomie der Ehre. Höfischer Adel am Kaiserhof Karls VI. (Darmstadt, 2003). ———, Macht der Schrift. Politischer Biblizismus in Schottland und England zwischen Reformation und Bürgerkrieg (1534–1642) (Munich, 2011). Peltonen, Markku, Classical Republicanism and Republicanism in English Political Thought, 1570–1640 (Cambridge, 1995).

Bibliography | 263

Pernot, Michel, La Fronde (Paris, 1994). Petitfils, Jean-Christian, L’Assassinat d’Henri IV. Mystères d’un crime (Paris, 2009). Pincus, Steve C.A., 1688: The First Modern Revolution (New Haven, Conn., 2009). ———, ‘From Butterboxes to Wooden Shoes: The Shift in English Popular Sentiment from Anti-Dutch to Anti-French in the 1670s’, Historical Journal 38 (1995), 333–61. ———, ‘The European Catholic Context of the Revolution of 1688–89: Gallicanism, Innocent XI and Catholic Opposition’, in Alan I. Macinnes and Arthur H. Williamson (eds), Shaping the Stuart World, 1603–1714 (Leiden, 2006), 79–114. ———, ‘“To protect English liberties”: The English Nationalist Revolution of 1688–1689’, in Tony Claydon and Ian McBride (eds), Protestantism and National Identity. Britain and Ireland, c.1650–1850 (Cambridge, 1998), 75–104. Pocock, John, The Ancient Constitution and the Feudal Law (Cambridge, 1957). Posthumus Meyjes, Guillaume H.M., ‘Jean Hotman’s English Connection’, Koninklijke Nederlandse Akademie von Wetenschappen, Mededelingen, Afdeling Letterkunde, ns, pt 55, no. 5 (1990), 165–222. Potter, David, ‘Kingship in the Wars of Religion: The Reputation of Henri III of France’, European History Quarterly 25 (1995), 485–528. Potter, Lois, Secret Rites and Secret Writing. Royalist Literature 1641–1660 (Cambridge, 1989). Poumarède, Géraud, Pour en finir avec la croisade. Mythes et réalités de la lutte contre les Turcs aux XVIe et XVIIe siècles (Paris, 2004). Prior, Charles W.A., A Confusion of Tongues: Britain’s Wars of Reformation, 1625–1642 (Oxford, 2012). ———, Defining the Jacobean Church. The Politics of Religious Controversy, 1603–1625 (Cambridge, 2005). Pritchard, Arnold, Catholic Loyalism in Elizabethan England (London, 1979). Puyol, Édouard, Edmond Richer. Etude historique et critique sur la rénovation du Gallicanisme au commencement du XVIIe siècle, 2 vols (Paris, 1876). Quantin, Jean-Louis, ‘Avant et après l’Unigenitus. Sur les mutations du Jansénisme dans la France du XVIIIe siècle’, in Daniel Tollet (ed.), Le Jansénisme et la franc-maçonnerie en Europe centrale aux XVIIe et XVIIIe siècles (Paris, 2002), 159–82. ———, ‘“Croisades et supercroisade?” Les Histoires de Maimbourg et la politique de Louis XIV’, in Chantal Grell and Werner Paravicini (eds), Les Princes et l’histoire du XIVe au XVIIe siècle (Bonn, 1998), 619–44. ———, ‘Le Rêve de la communauté pure’, in Bernard Cottret, Monique Cottret and MarieJosé Michel (eds), Jansénisme et puritanisme (Paris, 2002), 166–94. Questier, Michael C., Catholicism and Community in Early Modern England. Politics, Aristocratic Patronage and Religion, c.1550–1640 (Cambridge, 2006). –––––, ‘Loyalty, Religion and State Power in Early Modern England. English Romanism and the Jacobean Oath of Allegiance’, Historical Journal 40 (1997), 311–29. Racaut, Luc, ‘The Polemical Use of the Albigensian Crusade during the French Wars of Religion’, French History 13 (1999), 261–79. Ramsey, Ann W., Liturgy, Politics, and Salvation: The Catholic League in Paris and the Nature of Catholic Reform, 1540–1630 (Rochester, N.Y., 1999). ———, ‘The Ritual Meaning of Henry IV’s 1594 Parisian Entry’, in Nicolas Russell and Hélène Visentin (eds), French Ceremonial Entries in the Sixteenth Century: Event, Image, Text (Toronto, 2007), 189–296.

264 | Bibliography

Raymond, Joad, ‘Irrational, Impractical and Unprofitable: Reading News in SeventeenthCentury Britain’, in Kevin Sharpe and Steven N. Zwicker (eds), Reading, Society and Politics in Early Modern England (Cambridge, 2003), 185–212. Reddy, William M., The Navigation of Feeling: A Framework for the History of Emotions (Cambridge, 2001). Redworth, Glyn, The Prince and the Infanta: The Cultural Politics of the Spanish Match (New Haven, Conn., 2003). Rehberg, Karl-Siegbert, ‘Präsenzmagie und Zeichenhaftigkeit. Institutionelle Formen der Symbolisierung’, in Gerd Althoff (ed.), Zeichen – Rituale – Werte (Münster, 2004), 19–26. ———, ‘Weltrepräsentanz und Verkörperung. Institutionelle Analyse und Symboltheorien – eine Einführung in systematischer Absicht’, in Gert Melville (ed.), Institutionalität und Symbolisierung. Verstetigungen kultureller Ordnungsmuster in Vergangenheit und Gegenwart (Cologne, 2001), 3–49. Reichardt, Rolf (ed.), Handbuch politisch-sozialer Grundbegriffe in Frankreich, vol. 10 (Munich, 1988). Reinhard, Marcel, La Légende de Henri IV (Saint-Brieuc, 1935). Renoux-Zagamé, Marie-France, Du droit de Dieu au droit de l’homme (Paris, 2003). ———, ‘Du juge-prêtre au roi-idole. Droit divin et constitution de l’État dans la pensée juridique française à l’aube des temps modernes’, in Jean-Louis Thireau (ed.), Le droit entre laïcisation et néo-sacralisation (Paris, 1997), 143–86. Rickard, Jane, Authorship and Authority. The Writings of James VI and I (Manchester, 2007). Roberts, Penny, ‘The Kingdom’s Two Bodies? Corporeal Rhetoric and Royal Authority during the Religious Wars’, French History 21 (2007), 147–64. Ronchail, Christine, ‘La Famille du Moulin et la monarchie anglaise de Jacques Ier à Charles II’, in Anne Dunan-Pagé and Marie-Christine Munoz-Teulié (eds), Les Huguenots dans les îles britanniques de la Renaissance aux Lumières. Écrits religieux et représentations (Paris, 2008), 105–26. Rosati, Martino, Multiple Modernities and Postsecular Societies (Farnham, 2012). Rose, Jacqueline, ‘Concepts of Royal Ecclesiastical Supremacy in Restoration England’ (Ph.D. thesis, University of Cambridge, 2007). ———, Godly Kingship in Restoration England: The Politics of the Royal Supremacy 1660–1688 (Cambridge, 2011). Rowlands, Guy, ‘Louis XIV, Aristocratic Power and the Elite Units of the French Army’, French History 13 (1999), 303–31. ———, The Dynastic State and the Army under Louis XIV: Royal Service and Private Interest, 1661–1701 (Cambridge, 2002). Roy, Ian, ‘Royalist Reputations: The Cavalier Ideal and the Reality’, in McElligott and Smith (eds), Royalists during the Civil Wars, 89–111. Ruggiu, François-Joseph, ‘Westminster, nécropole royale, ou la disparition des trois corps du roi (début du XVIIe–début du XIXee siècle)’, Revue Historique 637 (2006), 81–111. Russell, Conrad, The Causes of the English Civil War (Oxford, 1990). Sabatier, Gérard, ‘Imagerie héroïque et sacralité monarchique’, in Alain Boureau (ed.), La Royauté sacreé dans le monde chrétien (Paris, 1995), 115–28. ———, ‘Religious Rituals and the Kings of France in the Eighteenth Century’, in Michael Schaich (ed.), Monarchy and Religion: The Transformation of Royal Culture in EighteenthCentury Europe (Oxford, 2007), 249–81.

Bibliography | 265

———, Versailles ou la figure du roi (Paris, 1999). Sabatier, Gérard and Margarita Torrione (eds), ¿Louis XIV espagnol? Madrid et Versailles, images et modèles (Versailles, 2009). Salazar, Philippe-Joseph, ‘L’Apologie pour les Catholiques d’Angleterre d’Antoine Arnauld: éloquence, controverse, tradition’, in Christopher Smith and Elfrieda Dubois (eds), France et Grande-Bretagne de la chute de Charles Ier à celle de Jacques II (1649–1688) (Norwich, 1990), 115–28. Salmon, John Hearsey McMillan., ‘Catholic Resistance Theory, Ultramontanism, and the Royalist Response’, in James Henderson Burns and Mark Goldie (eds), The Cambridge History of Political Thought, 1450–1700 (Cambridge, 1991), 219–53. ———, ‘Gallicanism and Anglicanism in the Age of the Counter-Reformation’, in idem, Renaissance and Revolt. Essays in the Intellectual and Social History of Early Modern France (Cambridge, 1987), 155–88. ———, The French Religious Wars in English Political Thought (Oxford, 1959). Samson, Alexander (ed.), The Spanish Match: Prince Charles’s Journey to Madrid, 1623 (Aldershot, 2006). Sandberg, Brian, Warrior Pursuits. Noble Culture and Civil Conflict in Early Modern France (Baltimore, 2010). Sarmant, Thierry and Mathieu Stoll, Régner et gouverner. Louis XIV et ses ministres (Paris, 2010). Sauzet, Robert, Au Grand siècle des âmes. Guerre sainte et paix chrétienne en France au XVIIe siècle (Paris, 2007). Schaich, Michael (ed.), Religion and Monarchy: The Transformation of Royal Culture in Eighteenth-Century Europe (Oxford, 2007). Schaub, Jean-Frédéric, La France espagnole: les racines hispaniques de l’absolutisme français (Paris, 2003). Schilling, Lothar, ‘Bossuet, Die Bibel und der “Absolutismus”’, in Andreas Pečar and Kai Trampedach, Die Bibel als Politisches Argument, Historische Zeitschrift, Beiheft 43 (Munich, 2007), 349–70. Schilling, Ruth, ‘Monarchische Herrschaft und politisch-religiöse Legitimation. Die Sakralität des französischen Königs im 17. Jahrhundert’, in Matthias Pohlig, Ute Lotz-Heumann, Vera Isaiasz, Ruth Schilling, Heike Bock and Stefan Ehrenpreis(eds), Säkularisierungen in der Frühen Neuzeit: Methodische Probleme und empirische Fallstudien (Berlin, 2008), 124–58. Schlögl, Rudolf, Alter Glaube und moderne Welt. Europäisches Christentum im Umbruch, 1750– 1850 (Frankurt am Main, 2013). Schmidt, Peer, Spanische Universalmonarchie oder ‘teutsche Libertät’: Das spanische Imperium in der Propaganda des Dreißigjährigen Krieges (Stuttgart, 2001), 217. Schochet, Gordon J., ‘Between Lambeth and Leviathan: Samuel Parker on the Church of England and Political Order’, in Nicholas Phillipson and Quentin Skinner (eds), Political Discourse in Early Modern Britain (Cambridge, 1993), 189–208. Schumann, Jutta, Die andere Sonne. Kaiserbild und Medienstrategien im Zeitalter Leopolds I (Berlin, 2003). Schwinn, Thomas, ‘Multiple Modernities: Konkurrierende Thesen und offene Fragen Ein Literaturbericht in konstruktiver Absicht’, Zeitschrift für Soziologie 38 (2009), 454–76. Scott, David, ‘Rethinking Royalist Politics, 1642–9’, in John Adamson (ed.), The English Civil War (Basingstoke, 2009), 36–41. Scott, Jonathan, Algernon Sidney and the English Republic, 1623–1677 (Cambridge, 1988).

266 | Bibliography

———, Commonwealth Principles: Republican Writing of the English Revolution (Cambridge, 2004). ———, England’s Troubles: Seventeenth-Century English Political Instability in European Context (Cambridge, 2000). Scribner, Bob, ‘Reformation and Descralization: From Sacramental World to Moralised Universe’, in idem and Ronnie Po-Chia Hsia (eds), Problems in the Historical Anthropology of Early Modern Europe (Wiesbaden, 1997), 75–92. Seaward, Paul, ‘Shaftesbury and the Royal Supremacy’, in John Spurr (ed.), Anthony Ashley Cooper, First Earl of Shaftesbury, 1621–1683 (Farnham, 2011), 51–76. ———, The Cavalier Parliament and the Reconstruction of the Old Regime, 1661–1667 (Cambridge, 1989). Sedgwick, Alexander, Jansenism in Seventeenth-Century France: Voices from the Wilderness (Charlottesville, Va., 1977). Seligman, Adam B., Robert P. Weller, Michael J. Puett and Bennett Simon, Ritual and its Consequences. An Essay on the Limits of Sincerity (Oxford, 2008). Senellart, Michel, Les arts de gouverner. Du regimen médiéval au concept de gouvernement (Paris, 1995). Shagan, Ethan Howard (ed.), Catholics and the ‘Protestant Nation’: Religious Politics and Identity in Early Modern England (Manchester, 2005). Sharpe, Kevin, ‘“An image doting rabble”: The Failure of Republican Culture in SeventeenthCentury England’, in idem, Remapping Early Modern England: The Culture of SeventeenthCentury Politics (Cambridge, 2000), 223–65. ———, Image Wars. Promoting Kings and Commonwealths in England, 1603–1660 (New Haven, Conn., 2010). ———, ‘Private Conscience and Public Duty in the Writings of Charles I’, in idem, Remapping Early Modern England: The Culture of Seventeenth-Century Politics (Cambridge, 2000), 172–98. ———, ‘Private Conscience and Public Duty in the Writings of James VI and I’, in idem, Remapping Early Modern England: The Culture of Seventeenth-Century Politics (Cambridge, 2000), 151–71. ––––, Rebranding Rule 1660–1714: The Restoration and Revolution Monarchy (Newhaven, Conn., 2013). ———, Selling the Tudor Monarchy. Authority and Image in Sixteenth-Century England (New Haven, Conn., 2009). ———, ‘The King’s Writ: Royal Authors and Royal Authority in Early Modern England’, in idem and Peter Lake (eds), Culture and Politics in Early Stuart England (Basingstoke, 1994), 117–38. ———, The Personal Rule of Charles I (New Haven, Conn., 1992). ———, ‘“Thy Longing Country’s Darling and Desire”: Aesthetics, Sex and Politics in the England of Charles II’, in Julia Marciari Alexander and Catherine MacLeod (eds), Politics, Transgression and Representation at the Court of Charles II (New Haven, Conn., 2007), 1–32. Shaw, Dougal, ‘The Coronation and Monarchical Culture in Stuart Britain and Ireland, 1603–1661’ (Ph.D. thesis, University of Cambrige, 2002). Sherlock, Peter, ‘The Monuments of Elizabeth Tudor and Mary Stuart: King James and the Manipulation of Memory’, Journal of British Studies 46 (2007), 263–89. Silver, Allan, ‘Friendship and Trust as Moral Ideals: An Historical Approach’, Archives Européennes de Sociologie 30 (1989), 274–97, p. 288.

Bibliography | 267

Skerpan Wheeler, Elizabeth, ‘Eikon Basilike and the Rhetoric of Self-Representation’, in Thomas N. Corns (ed.), The Royal Image: Representations of Charles I (Cambridge, 1999), 122–40. Skinner, Quentin, ‘Classical Liberty and the Coming of the English Civil War’, in Martin van Gelderen and Quentin Skinner (eds), Republicanism: A Shared European Heritage, 2 vols (Cambridge, 2002), vol. 1, 9–28. ———, ‘Classical Liberty, Renaissance Translation and the English Civil War’, in idem, Visions of Politics, vol. 2, 308–43. ———, ‘From the State of Princes to the Person of the State’, in idem, Visions of Politics, 3 vols (Cambridge, 2002), vol. 2: Renaissance Virtues, 368–413. ———, Hobbes and Republican Liberty (Cambridge, 2008). ———, ‘John Milton and the Politics of Slavery’, in idem, Visions of Politics, 3 vols (Cambridge, 2002), vol. 2: Renaissance Virtues, 286–307. Sluhovsky, Moshe, ‘La Mobilisation des saints dans la Fronde parisienne d’après les Mazarinades’, Annales HSS 54 (1999), 353–74. Smith, David L., Constitutional Royalism and the Search for Settlement, c.1640–1649 (Cambridge, 1994). Smith, Hannah, Georgian Monarchy: Politics and Culture, 1714–1760 (Cambridge, 2006). Smith, Jay M., The Culture of Merit: Nobility, Royal Service, and the Making of Absolute Monarchy in France 1600–1789 (Ann Arbor, Mich., 1996). Smuts, R. Malcolm, Court Culture and the Origins of a Royalist Tradition in Early Stuart England (Philadelphia, Pa., 1987). ———, ‘Force, Love and Authority in Caroline Political Culture’, in Ian Atherton and Julie Sanders (eds), The 1630s: Interdisciplinary Essays on Culture and Politics in the Caroline Era (Manchester, 2006), 28–49. Solé, Jacques, Le Débat entre protestants et catholiques français de 1598–1685, 4 vols (Lille, 1985). ———, Les origines intellectuelles de la Révocation de l’Edit de Nantes (Saint-Etienne, 1997). Sommerville, Johann P., ‘James I and the Divine Right of Kings: English Politics and Continental Theory’, in Linda Levy Peck (ed.), The Mental World of the Jacobean Court (Cambridge, 1991), 55–70. ———, ‘King James VI and I and John Selden’, in Daniel Fischlin and Mark Fortier (eds), Royal Subjects: Essays on the Writings of James VI and I (Detroit, Mich., 2002), 290–322. ———, ‘Papalist Political Thought and the Controversy over the Jacobean Oath of Allegiance’, in Ethan H. Shagan (ed.), Catholics and the ‘Protestant Nation’. Religious Politics and Identity in Early Modern England (Manchester, 2005), 162–84. ———, Royalists and Patriots: Politics and Ideology in England 1603–1640 (2nd edn, London, 1999). ———, ‘The Royal Supremacy and Episcopacy “iure divino”, 1603–1640’, Journal of Ecclesiastical History 34 (1984), 548–58. Sowerby, Scott, ‘James II’s Revolution. The Politics of Religious Toleration in England, ­1685–1689’ (Ph.D. thesis, Harvard University, 2006). ———, Making Toleration. The Repealers and the Glorious Revolution (Cambridge, Mass., 2013). ———, ‘Of Different Complexion: Religious Diversity and National Identity in James II’s Toleration Campaign’, English Historical Review 124 (2009), 29–52. ———, ‘Pantomime History’, Parliamentary History 30, 2 (2011), 236–58.

268 | Bibliography

Springborg, Patricia (ed.), The Cambridge Companion to Hobbes’s Leviathan (Cambridge, 2007). Spurr, John, England in the 1670s: ‘This Masquerading Age’ (Oxford, 2000). ———, ‘Rational Religion in Restoration England’, Journal of the History of Ideas 49 (1988), 563–85. ———, ‘Religion in Restoration England’, in Lionel K.J. Glassey (ed.), The Reigns of Charles II and James VII & II (Basingstoke, 1997), 90–124. ———, The Restoration Church of England, 1646–1689 (New Haven, Conn., 1991). Staines, John D., The Tragic Histories of Mary Queen of Scots, 1560–1690: Rhetoric, Passions and Political Literature (Farnham, 2009). Starkie, Andrew, The Church of England and the Bangorian Controversy, 1716–1721 (Woodbridge, 2007). Stater, Victor L., Noble Government. The Stuart Lord Lieutenancy and the Transformation of English Politics (Athens, Ga., 1994). Stewart, Alan, The Cradle King. A Life of James VI and I (London, 2004). Stewart, J. Douglas, ‘A Militant, Stoic Monument: The Wren–Cibber–Gibbons Charles I Mausoleum Project: Its Authors, Sources, Meaning and Influence’, in W. Gerald Marshall (ed.), The Restoration Mind (London, 1997), 21–64. Stewart, Laura A., ‘The Political Repercussions of the Five Articles of Perth: A Reassessment of James VI and I’s Religious Policies in Scotland’, Sixteenth Century Journal 38 (2008), 1013–36. Stiefelhagen, Benno, ‘Die Bedeutung der französischen Königskrönung von Heinrich IV. bis zum Sacre Ludwigs XIV.’ (Ph.D. thesis, University of Bonn, 1988). Stollberg-Rilinger, Barbara. Des Kaisers alte Kleider. Verfassungsgeschichte und Symbolsprache des Alten Reiches (Munich, 2008). Storey, David, ‘Charles Taylor’s A Secular Age: Breaking the Spell of the Immanent Frame’, in Herbert de Vriese and Gary Gabor (eds), Rethinking Secularization: Philosophy and the Prophecy of a Secular Age (Newcastle upon Tyne, 2009), 179–208. Strong, Roy C., Coronation. A History of Kingship and the British Monarchy (London, 2005). Stumberg Edmunds, Martha Mel, Piety and Politics. Imagining Divine Kingship in Louis XIV’s Chapel at Versailles (Newark, Del., 2002). Surridge, Robert, ‘“An English Laodicea”. The Influence of Revelation 3: 14–22 on MidSeventeenth-Century England’, in David J.B. Trim and Peter J. Balderstone (eds), Cross, Crown and Community. Religion, Governemnt and Culture in Early Modern England, 1400– 1800 (Oxford, 2004), 143–76 Sutch, Victor D., Gilbert Sheldon Architect of Anglican Survival (The Hague, 1973). Sutherland, Nicola M., Henry IV of France and the Politics of Religion, 2 vols (Bristol, 2002). Tallon, Alain, Conscience nationale et sentiment religieux en France au XVIe siècle (Paris, 2002). ———, La Compagnie du Saint-Sacrement (1629–1667): spiritualité et société (Paris, 1990). ———, ‘Raison d’État. Religion monarchique et religion du roi. Un aperçu de l’historiographie française et de ses évolutions’, in Philippe Büttgen and Christophe Duhamelle (eds), Religion ou confession? Un bilan franco-allemand sur l’époque moderne (XVIe–XVIIIe siècles) (Paris, 2010), 355–71. Tanghe, Fernand, ‘Marcel Gauchet and the End of Religion’, in Herbert de Vriese and Gary Gabor (eds), Rethinking Secularization: Philosophy and the Prophecy of a Secular Age (Newcastle upon Tyne, 2009), 153–77. Tapsell, Grant, The Personal Rule of Charles II, 1681–85 (Woodbridge, 2007). ______ (ed.), The Later Stuart Church, 1660–1714 (Manchester, 2012).

Bibliography | 269

Taylor, Charles, A Secular Age (Cambridge, Mass., 2007). Thomas, Andrew, ‘Crown Imperial: Coronation Ritual and Regalia in the Reign of James V’, in Julian Goodare and Alisdair A. MacDonald (eds), Sixteenth-Century Scotland: Essays in Honour of Michael Lynch (Leiden, 2008), 44–67. Thompson, Andrew C., Britain, Hanover and the Protestant Interest, 1688–1756 (Woodbridge, 2006). ———, ‘Early Eighteenth-Century Britain as a Confessional State’, in Hamish Scott and Brendan Simms (eds), Cultures of Power in Europe during the Long Eighteenth Century (Cambridge, 2007), 86–109. Thuau, Étienne, Raison d’État et pensée politique à l’epoque de Richelieu (Paris, 1966). Thurley, Simon, ‘A Country Seat Fit for a King: Charles II, Greenwich and Winchester’, in Eveline Cruickshanks (ed.), The Stuart Courts (Stroud, 2000), 214–39. Tietz, Manfred, ‘Saint Louis roi chrétien. Un mythe de la mission intérieure du XVIIe siècle’, in La Conversion au XVIIe siècle, Actes du colloque de Marseille (Marseille, 1983), 59–69. Tournu, Christophe, ‘Le Débat Milton/Saumaise: droit des rois face aux rois des peuples’, in Anne Dunan-Pagé and Marie-Christine Munoz-Teulié (eds), Les Huguenots dans les îles britanniques de la Renaissance aux Lumières. Écrits religieux et représentations (Paris, 2008), 135–74. Trevor-Roper, Hugh, ‘Laudianism and Political Power’, in idem, Catholics, Anglicans and Puritans: Seventeenth-Century Essays (London, 1987), 40–119. Turchetti, Mario, Tyrannie et tyrannicide de l’Antiquité à nos jours (Paris, 2001). Tutino, Stefania, Empire of Souls: Robert Bellarmine and the Christian Commonwealth (Oxford, 2010). ———, Law and Conscience. Catholicism in Early Modern England, 1570–1625 (Aldershot, 2007). ———, Thomas White and the Blackloists: Between Politics and Theology during the English Civil War (Aldershot, 2008). Tyacke, Nicholas, Anti-Calvinists: The Rise of English Arminianism, c.1590–1640 (Oxford, 1987). ———, ‘Archbishop Laud’, in Kenneth Fincham (ed.), The Early Stuart Church, 1603–1642 (Basingstoke, 1993), 51–70. Van Dam, Harm-Jan, ‘De imperio summarum potestatum circa sacra’, in Henk J.M. Nellen and Edwin Rabbie (eds), Hugo Grotius Theologian. Essays in Honour of G. H. M. Posthumus Meyjes (Leiden, 1994), 19–40. Van Kley, Dale, ‘The Rejuvenation and Rejection of Jansenism in History and Historiography: Recent Literature on Eighteenth-Century Jansenism in French’, French Historical Studies 29 (2006), 649–84. ———, ‘The Religious Origins of the French Revolution, 1560–1791’, in Peter R. Campbell (ed.), The Origins of the French Revolution (Basingstoke, 2006), 160–90. ———, The Religious Origins of the French Revolution. From Calvin to the Civil Constitution, 1560–1791 (New Haven, Conn., 1996). Veevers, Erica, Images of Love and Religion: Queen Henrietta Maria and Court Entertainments (Cambridge, 1989). Vivanti, Corrado, ‘Henry IV the Gallic Hercules’, Journal of the Warburg and Courtauld Institutes 30 (1967), 176–97. Volland, Frauke, ‘Konfession, Konversion und soziales Drama. Ein Plädoyer für die Ablösung des Paradigmas der “konfessionellen Identität”’, in Kaspar von Greyerz

270 | Bibliography

(ed.), Interkonfessionalität – Transkonfessionalität – binnenkonfessionelle Pluralität: Neue Forschungen zur Konfessionalisierungthese (Gütersloh, 2003), 91–104. Vovelle, Michel, La Révolution contre l’Église. De la Raison à l’Être Suprême (Brussels, 1988). ———, Religion et révolution. La déchristianisation de l’an II (Paris, 1976). Wagner, Marie-France, Les Entrées royales et solennelles du règne d’Henri IV dans les villes françaises, 2 vols (Paris, 2010). Walker, Anita M. and Edmund H. Dickerman, ‘The King Who Would Be Man: Henri III, Gender Identity, and the Murders at Blois, 1588’, Historical Reflections 24 (1998), 253–91. Walker, Julia M. (ed.), Dissing Elizabeth. Negative Representations of Gloriana (Durham, N.C., 1998). ———, ‘Reading the Tombs of Elizabeth I’, English Literary History 26 (1996), 510–30. Walkling, Andrew R., ‘Court Culture and Politics in Restoration England’, 2 vols (Ph.D. thesis, Cornell University, 1997). Walsham, Alexandra, ‘“A Very Deborah?” The Myth of Elizabeth I as a Providential Monarch’, in Susan Doran and Thomas S. Freeman (eds), The Myth of Elizabeth (Basingstoke, 2003), 143–68. ———, Providence in Early Modern England (Oxford, 1999). ———, ‘The Reformation and “The Disenchantment of the World” Reassessed’, Historical Journal 51 (2008), 497–528. Wanegffelen, Thierry, Une difficile fidélité. Catholiques malgré le concil en France, XVIe–XVIIe siècles (Paris, 1999). ——— (ed.), De Michel de L’Hospital à l’Édit de Nantes. Politique et religion face aux Églises (Clermont-Ferrand, 2002). Weber, Harold M., Paper Bullets: Print and Kingship under Charles II (Lexington, Ky., 1996). Webster, Tom, ‘Early Stuart Puritanism’, in John Coffey and Paul C.H. Lim (eds), The Cambridge Companion to Puritanism (Cambridge, 2008), 48–66. Weiser, Brian, Charles II and the Politics of Access (Woodbridge, 2003). Werner, Michael (ed.), De la comparaison à l’histoire croisée (Paris, 2004). Werner, Michael and Bénédicte Zimmerman, ‘Beyond Comparsion: Histoire Croisée and the Challenge of Reflexivity’, History and Theory 45 (2006), 30–50. Western, John R., Monarchy and Revolution. The English State in the 1680s (Basingstoke, 1985). Weyer, Stefan, Die Cambridge Platonists. Religion und Freiheit in England im 17. Jahrhundert (Frankfurt am Main, 1993). White, Michelle Anne, Henrietta Maria and the English Civil Wars (Aldershot, 2008). White, Peter, Predestination, Policy and Polemic: Conflict and Consensus in the English Church from the Reformation to the Civil War (Cambridge, 1992). White, Stephen, Sir Edward Coke and the Grievances of the Commonwealth (Manchester, 1979). Wilkinson, Alexander S., Mary Queen of Scots and French Public Opinion, 1542–1600 (Basingstoke, 2004). Williams, Penry, The Later Tudors. England 1547–1603 (Oxford, 1995). Williamson, Arthur H., Scottish National Consciousness in the Age of James VI (Edinburgh, 1979). Willson, D. Harris, King James VI and I (London, 1956). Wilson, John F., Pulpit in Parliament. Puritanism during the English Civil Wars, 1640–1660 (Princeton, N.J., 1969). Wilson, Peter H., Europe’s Tragedy: A History of the Thirty Years War (London, 2009).

Bibliography | 271

Wintroub, Michael, ‘Words, Deeds, and a Womanly King’, French Historical Studies 28 (2005), 387–413. Wolfe, Michael, ‘Exegesis as Public Performance: Controversialist Debate and Politics at the Conference of Fontainebleau (1600)’, in Alison Forrestal and Eric Nelson (eds), Politics and Religion in Early Bourbon France (Basingstoke, 2009), 65–85. ———, The Conversion of Henri IV. Politics, Power and Religion in Early Modern France (Cambridge, Mass., 1993). ———, ‘The Strange Afterlife of Henri III. Dynastic Distortions in Early Bourbon France’, Renaissance Studies 10 (1996), 474–89. Wollenberg, Jörg, Richelieu: Staatsräson und Kircheninteresse. Zur Legitimation der Politik des Kardinalpremier (Bielefeld, 1977). Woods, Robert, ‘Charles II and the Politics of Sex and Scandal’, in Charles H. Carlton, Robert L. Woods, Mary L. Robertson and Joseph S. Block.(eds), State, Sovereigns and Society in Early Modern England: Essays in Honour of A. J. Slavin (Stroud, 1998), 119–36. Woolrych, Austin, Britain in Revolution, 1625–1660 (Oxford, 2002). Wootton, David, Paolo Sarpi, between Renaissance and Enlightenment (1st edn, 1983; Cambridge, 2002). Worden, Blair, Literature and Politics in Cromwellian England: John Milton, Andrew Marvell, Marchamont Nedham (Oxford, 2007). ———, ‘Marchamont Nedham and the Beginnings of English Republicanism, 1649–1646’, in David Wootton (ed.), Republicanism, Liberty and Commercial Society, 1649–1776 (Stanford, Calif., 1994), 45–81. ———, ‘The Question of Secularisation’, in Alan Houston and Steve Pincus, A Nation Transformed: England after the Restoration (Cambridge, 2001), 40–60. Wormald, Jenny, ‘Ecclesiastical Vitriol: The Kirk, the Puritans and the Future King of England’, in John Guy (ed.), The Reign of Elizabeth I. Court and Culture in the Last Decade (Cambridge, 1995), 171–91. ———, ‘James VI and I – Two Kings or One?’, History 68 (1983), 187–209. ———, ‘The Headaches of Monarchy: Kingship and the Kirk in the Early Seventeenth Century’, in Julian Goodare and Alisdair A. MacDonald (eds), Sixteenth-Century Scotland: Essays in Honour of Michael Lynch (Leiden, 2008), 365–93. Wright, Anthony D., The Divisions of French Catholicism 1629–1645: ‘The Parting of the Ways’ (Farnham, 2011). Wynne, Sonya, ‘The Mistresses of Charles II and Restoration Court Politics’, in Eveline Cruickshanks (ed.), The Stuart Courts (Stroud, 2000), 171–90. Yardeni, Myriam, La Conscience nationale en France pendant les guerres de religion (1559–1598) (Louvain, 1971). Zaller, Robert, ‘Breaking the Vessels: The Descacralization of Monarchy in Early Modern England’, Sixteenth Century Journal 29 (1998), 757–78. ———, The Discourse of Legitimacy in Early Modern England (Stanford, Calif., 2007). Ziegler, Hendrik, Der Sonnenkönig und seine Feinde. Die Bildpropaganda Ludwigs XIV. in der Kritik (Petersberg, 2010). Zoberman, Pierre, Les panégyriques du roi (Paris, 1991). Zwicker, Stephen N., Lines of Authority: Politics and English Literary Culture, 1649–1689 (Ithaca, N.Y., 1993).

Index

Abbott, George, 66 absolutism, 4, 11, 41, 43, 46, 62, 101, 105, 109, 122, 134, 221n87 Albert, Archduke of Austria, 32 Alet, 119 Alexander the Great, 76, 113 Amalou, Thierry, 31 Andrewes, Lancelot, 34–5, 46–8, 136 Anjou, François de Valois, Duc d’, 41, 139 Anne of Austria (Anne d’Autriche), Queen Consort and Regent of France, 97 Anne of Denmark, Queen Consort of Scotland and England, 67 Anne, Queen of England, 153 anointing, act of in coronation, 26, 47, 80–1, 130, 136–7, 186n191 Antichrist, 57, 66 Antwerp, 21 Apollo, 113 Arcadia, 73 Armada, 16 Arnauld, Antoine, 117, 121, 219n65 Arroy, Besian, 80–1 assemblée du clergé, 119 Augustus, Emperor, 113 Avignon, 29–30 Balzac, Jean-Louis Guez de, 76 Bancroft, Richard, 39, 65 Barclay, William 24, 186n188 Barlow, Thomas, 136–7 Baxter, Richard, 125–6, 222n101 beauty of holiness, 71 Bellarmine, Robert, Cardinal, 43 Belloy, Pierre, de, 41–2 Benoist, Pierre, 79 Bérulle, Pierre, 102, 214n253 Bishop, William, 17 Blackwood, Adam, 20, 32, 186n189

Bloch, Marc, 4 Blois, 19 Bodin, Jean, 42, 89 Bond of Association, 20, 35 Bordeaux, 99 Bossuet, Jacques Bénigne, 115, 120–1, 218n50 Boucher, Jean, 19, 27, 32–3, 35–6, 174n35 Boulainvilliers, Anne Gabriel Henri Bernard, Comte de, 61 Bourbon, Charles, Cardinal de, 23 Bradshaw, John, 91 Breda, Cornelius, 45 Brittany, 105 Brouncker, Edward, 74 Brussels, 33 Buchanan, George, 20, 42 Buckeridge, John, 46–8 Burgess, Glenn, 84 Burnet, Alexander, 139 Burnet, Gilbert, 126 Burton, Henry, 86–7 Butler, Martin, 72 Bye Plot, 17 caesaropapism, 127, 146–7, 151, 232n233 Callow, John, 143 Calvin’s Case, 61 Calvinism, Calvinists, 6, 9, 13, 38, 46, 50, 57, 65, 68, 75, 78, 125, 155; see also Puritanism, Presbyterians Camisards, 105 Canterbury, 18 Caroll, Stuart, 21 Catholicism, Tridentine, 30, 56 Caulet, François-Etienne de, 119 Caussin, Nicolas, 77 ceremonialism, 46, 68, 89 Chaline, Olivier, 113 chapelle royale, Versailles, 116

274 | Index

Charlas, Antoine, 120 Charles I, King of England, 6, 9, 53, 58, 61, 67–70, 74–5, 78, 84–95, 97, 99, 101, 130, 132–3, 136, 155–6, 164; Eikon Basilike, 70, 86, 91–2, 99, 100, 130–1, 152, 213n242 Charles II, King of England, 7, 9, 90, 94, 103–6, 117, 123, 125, 128–42, 150 Charles IX, King of France, 14, 29 Charles Louis, Prince Palatine, 72 Charles VI, Emperor, 162 Chartres, 28, 106, 130 Châtel, Jean, 28, 32, 36, 182n129 chivalry, 72, 94 Cicero, 60 Clement VII, Pope, 126 Clement VIII, Pope, 32 Clément, Jacques, 14, 16, 21, 23 clericalism, 49, 73, 152–3 Coke, Sir Edward, 61, 168n14 Collins, Jeffrey, 6 Collinson, Patrick, 64 Common Law, 60, 74, 85 conciliarism, 56, 83, 120–1, 123, 125, 151 Condé, Louis II de Bourbon, Prince de, 97 confessionalization, 2 conformists, religious, 66, 68, 73 Constantine the Great, 45, 152 Constantinople, 63 Convocation, 138, 163 Cook, John, 91 Cornette, Joël, 31–2, 101 coronation and sacre, 25–6, 40–2, 58–9, 67–8, 70, 76, 80, 101, 106, 112, 120, 130–1, 198nn52–3, 214n249, 221n78 corps mystique, the king’s, 57–8, 102 Council, General, 51, 119; see also Trent, Council of court culture, 30, 67–8, 70–1, 110–18, 112, 134 Covenant, National, 84 Covenanters, 84, 92, 99, 130, 135–6 Cranmer, Thomas, 146 crisis of representation, 113–14, 131 Cromwell, Oliver, 93, 107, 132 Crouzet, Denis, 14, 23, 28, 29 crown of thorns, 117, 219n60

crusade, 22, 77 Cyrus, King of the Persians, 47 David, King of Israel, 36–7, 48–9, 89, 131 Davies, Julian, 70 De Franceschi, Sylvio Hermann, 53, 83 Deborah, 36 Declaration of Indulgence, 145–6 Descimon, Robert, 24, 59, 64 Devlin, Eoin, 127 dévots, 9, 64–5, 67–8, 73, 79, 154, 203n117 Dialogue d’entre le maheutre et le manant, 26 Dissenters, 106, 108, 124, 128, 137 dissimulation, 27 Donatism, 81 Dorléans, Louis, 21, 24, 40 Douglas, Robert, 130 Dover, treaty of, 128, 135 Dryden, John, 7, 8, 9, 106, 133, 139, 141–2 Du Perron, Jacques-Davy, Cardinal, 27, 54–6, 119–20 Duindam, Jeroen, 105 Duplessis Mornay, Philippe de, 27 Dutch Republic, 108, 128, 148, 215n17 Edward the Confessor, 152 Edward VI, King of England, 124 effigy, at funeral, 95 Egerton, Thomas, Lord Ellesmere, 61 Ehud, 23 Eikon Basilike, see Charles I Eikonoklastes, see Milton, John Elizabeth I, Queen of England, 8, 14–16, 19, 20–1, 23, 33–8, 43, 65, 83, 124, 149, 155, 185n170 enthusiasm, 133 episcopacy iure divino, 48–9, 74–5, 136, 140, 152, 155, 201n90, 201n98 Erastianism, 12, 14, 74, 123, 125, 138, 149, 163, 228n183 eschatology, 43–4, 52, 57, 66–7, 86, 188n201, 197n39 Estates General, French, 18, 19, 26, 98, 119; of 1614, 54–5, 62–3, 119 Exclusion Crisis, 15, 133, 139–41 Ferrell, Lori, 45 Ferrier, Jérémie, 204n131 Filmer, Robert, 89

Index | 275

Forest du Chesne, Nicolas, 81–2 Four Articles of the French Church (1682), 119–20, 124 Francis I, King of France, 13 Francogallia, see Hotman, Jean Francophilia, 135, 147 Frederick William I, King of Prussia, 162 French Revolution, 2, 34, 165, 163 Fronde, 3, 9, 63, 97–8, 100, 102 funeral, royal, 95, 210n215 Gallicanism, 17, 18, 25, 53–6, 108, 119, 122, 125, 150, 162, 172n15, 173n23, 192n259, 206n149, 228n176, 231n221 Garter, Order of, 36, 72, 131 Gauchet, Marcel, 1, 3, 161 Gauden, John, 91–2, 130, 156 Geneva, 65 George I, King of Great Britain, 158 George III, King of Great Britain, 164–5 Glasgow, 139 Glorious Revolution, 8, 12, 109, 121, 163–4 glory/gloire, 112 Goldie, Mark, 12, 108, 137 Goodwin, John, 87 Gowrie Conspiracy, 34–5 Grégoire, Pierre, 42 Grotius, Hugo, 124 Guise family, 19, 22, 33, 106; see also Mercœur, Duc de and Mayenne, Duc de Guise, Henri de Lorraine, Duc de, 20, 22, 29 Guise, Louis II de Lorraine, Cardinal de, 20, 22 Gunpowder Plot, 9, 51 Hampton Court Conference, 48 Hanover, house of, 158, 162; see also George II and George III Harrington, James, 85 Henrietta Maria, Queen Consort of England, 9, 69, 72, 99, 199n62, 209n204 Henry III, King of France, 7, 14–16, 19, 21, 26, 29, 37, 51, 61, 93, 132, 139, 155, 175nn46–7 Henry IV, King of Navarre and France, 7, 16, 18, 20, 26–30, 33–4, 37, 51, 53, 61, 63, 76, 83, 93, 97, 101, 106, 126, 130–2, 149, 157, 160, 162

Henry VIII, King of England, 12, 74, 124, 126, 127, 146 Hercules, 29–30, 51, 76 hero, heroic image of monarchy, 23, 29–30, 32, 36–7, 51, 58, 72–3, 76, 92–4, 112–13, 132–4, 158, 176n62, 200n80, 200n85, 217n40 Heylyn, Peter, 74, 92, 138 Hobbes, Thomas, 6, 55, 60, 89, 107, 138, 140, 228n175 Holy Land, 63 Hotman, Charles, 21 Hotman, Jean, 43, 187n193; Francogallia, 43 Howson, John, 39 Huguenots, 10, 16, 23, 51–2, 63, 71, 106, 108–9, 104–10, 123, 127, 141–2, 148, 176n52 humanism, 12; civic, 85 idolatry, 38 Ingolstadt, 20 Innocent XI, Pope, 118–20, 147 Isabella of Austria, Infanta of Spain, 32 James II, King of England, 6, 7, 103, 104–8, 116, 122–3, 127, 142–9, 153, 157–8, 160, 229n196 James VI and I, King of Scotland and England, 5, 6, 8, 17–18, 34, 39, 44–57, 61–2, 65–6, 74, 97, 155; True Law of Free Monarchies, 42; Basilikon Doron, 43, Apology for the Oath of Allegiance, 52–3 Jansen, Cornelis, 80–2 Jansenism, 9, 11, 73, 82–3, 121–2, 151, 160–1, 221n87 Jerusalem, 23 Jesuits, 16, 24, 39, 118, 147, 203n115 Josiah, 33 Judith, 23, 36 Juliers and Cleves, 33 Jurieu, Pierre, 127 Justices of the Peace, 106 Keay, Anna, 141 Kelsey, Sean, 131 Kéroualle, Louise-Renée, de, Duchess of Portsmouth, 134

276 | Index

king, body politic of, 3, 53, 58, 60–1, 90, 102; fusion with body natural, 112, 159 kingship iure divino, 5, 15, 41–5, 62, 75, 90, 113, 156, 206n149 kingship, sacerdotal, 9, 25, 114, 144–5, 152–3, 159, 218n46 kingship, sacral, 2, 4, 47, 68, 71, 79, 90, 107, 136, 138, 143, 154, 161, 183n135 Kléber Monod, Paul, 30, 58, 69, 116 Knoppers, Laura Lunger, 132 Knox, John, 44, 156, 225n129 La Rochelle, 63, 77 Lacey, Andrew, 62 laïcité, 163, 166 Lake, Peter, 41 Laney, Benjamin, 137 Laodicea, 65, 207n164 Laud, William, 65, 71, 73, 138, 156–7 Le Gall, Jean Marie, 95 Le Vassor, Michel, 127 League, Catholic, 8, 14, 15, 20, 21–4, 32, 35, 57, 63, 76–7, 83, 98, 106, 120, 139, 155, 157, 211n225 Leigh, William, 36 Leopold I, Emperor, 109, 117 Leslie, Charles, 123–4, 126 libertinage, 133–4 Littleton, Sir Thomas, 140 Locke, John, 129, 145 London, 68, 86 Lorraine, house of, see Guise Louis XIII, King of France, 33, 58, 65, 67, 68, 70, 72, 75–84, 102, 107, 121, 154, 159; death of, 94–7 Louis XIV, King of France, 5, 6– 9, 11, 31, 64, 78, 97, 98, 103, 105–7, 116, 127–8, 132–3, 147, 150–1, 157–9, 161–2 Louis XV, King of France, 159, 164 Louvaine, 45 Lowth, Simon, 137 Lyon, 80 Machiavelli, 78 Madrid, 111, 115, 117 magic, 29, 50 Maimbourg, Louis de, 7, 106, 141 Maire, Catherine, 122

Mancini, Hortense, 134 Marcelline, George, 45 Maria Anna of Austria, Infanta of Spain, 67 Marie de’ Medici, Queen Consort of France, regent, 29, 63, 97 Marly, 114 marriage between king and kingdom, 59, 194n3 Marsys, François de, 100 Martin, John Jeffries, 27 martyrdom, 9, 32, 90, 94, 103, 107, 116, 133, 174n40 Marvell, Andrew, 228n175, 228n183 Mary Stuart, Queen of Scots, 5, 8, 15, 19–21, 24, 35, 39, 42, 96 Mary Tudor, Queen of England, 74 mass/eucharist, 9, 13, 18, 25, 27, 34, 57, 80, 199n62 Mayenne, Charles II de Lorraine, Duc de, 98 Mazarin, Jules, Cardinal, 28, 62, 64, 97, 99, 101 Melchizedek, 23 Melville, Andrew, 38, 44, 57 Mercœur, Philippe-Emmanuel de Lorraine, Duc de, 63 Meurier, Hubert, 26, 40 Milanovic, Nicolas, 114–5 Milton, John, 9, 85, 93, 103, 145; Eikonoklastes, 93, 103 monarchy, universal, 109 Monmouth, Duke of, see Scott, James Monmouth’s Rebellion, 220n66 Montague, Richard, 66 Montgaillard, Bernard de, 22, 32 Morley, George, 131 Morrice, Roger, 147 Moulin, Pierre du, 51, 56 mysticism, 64, 115, 129, 160 mythology, 29–30, 160, 217n39 Nantes, Edict of, 31; revocation of, 148 Nedham, Marchamont, 85 Nelson, Eric, 86 Neo-Platonism, 115, 181n107 Neo-Stoicism, 29, 37 Néraudau, Jean-Pierre, 116 Nevers, Charles de Gonzague, Duc de, 63 Nicodemism, 27

Index | 277

noblesse d’epée, 111 noblesse de robe, 111, 216n27 nonjurors, 137–8 Notre-Dame de Paris, 21 Oath of Allegiance, 18–19, 45, 51–7, 192n251 Old Testament, 85, 91, 93, 131 opus operatum, 81 Osborne, Thomas, Earl of Danby, 139 Ottomans, 63, 117, 127 Oxford, 105 Pamiers, 119–20 Papacy, 6, 11, 22, 25, 51–3, 67, 74, 83, 109, 117–19, 124–5, 151 Paris, 13, 16, 18, 21, 27–8, 30, 44, 77, 79, 95, 113 parlement, Parisian, 5, 13, 31, 53, 83, 97, 99, 111, 118, 151, 160, 212n229 Parliament, English, 14, 19, 43, 46, 71, 74, 84, 87, 99, 105, 140 Parsons, Jotham, 54 Parsons, Robert, 40–1, 186n180 Particelli d’Émery, Michel, 97 Pasquier, Etienne, 17, 24 Pavillon, Nicolas, 119 Peace of Westphalia, 97 Pečar, Andreas, 50 Père Joseph, see Tremblay de Maffliers, François-Joseph Le Clerc du Perkins, William, 38, 185n170 Perth, Five Articles of, 48 Petitfils, Jean-Christian, 32 Philip II, King of Spain, 109 Philip III, King of Spain, 67 Philip IV, King of Spain, 80 Phineas, 23 Pincus, Steve, 108, 123, 127, 143, 147 politiques, 17, 24, 89 Pont-à-Mousson, 42 Popish Plot (1678), 17, 109 Port Royal, 64, 121–2 Porthaise, Jean, 28 Pragmatic Sanction (1438), 230n205 Presbyterianism, Presbyterians, 39, 48, 57, 61, 66–7, 74, 107, 124, 129, 155 Priezac, Daniel de, 81 Prometheus, 30

providence, providentialism, 12, 31, 58, 67, 86, 158, 164 Prynne, William, 74, 136 Puritanism, Puritans, 9, 18, 38, 51, 64–6, 73, 82, 86, 100, 124, 154 Querelle des anciens et des modernes, 113, 217n41, 217n44 Quesnel, Pasquier, 121 Ramsey, Ann, 31 rationalism, theological, 129, 133, 161 Ravaillac, François, 33 reason of state, 77–9 reconfessionalization, 152, 158 régale, 118, 123, 223n109 regicide, regicides, 9–10, 15, 18–19, 21, 32, 84, 91, 99, 101, 132 Reims, 21, 40, 75 religion royale, 6, 9, 13, 28, 32, 74, 82, 157, 159, 163 religion, voluntary, 64, 196n29 republic, monarchical, 11, 15 republicanism, 3, 12, 84–5, 91, 131–2, 206n156 Restoration, 6, 9, 10, 106–7, 128–42, 152, 156 Retz, Jean-François Paul de Gondi, Cardinal de, 98, 212n229 Reynolds, William, 24–5, 40; see also Rossaeus, Guillelmus Richard II, King of England, 74 Richelieu, Armand-Jean du Plessis, Cardinal de, 28, 62, 64–5, 70, 76–9, 82–3, 94–8, 100, 111, 154 Richer, Edmond, 21, 54–5, 121, 162, 193n269 Rickard, Jane, 50 rigorism, 64, 66, 118 ritual, 9, 27, 30, 46–8, 67, 124, 143, 169n25, 170nn31–2, 177n65, 181n114, 226n149 Rossaeus, Guillelmus, 24 royalism, English, 62, 88–94, 125–6 Rubens, Peter Paul, 72 Rutherford, Samuel, 84 Sabatier, Gérard, 112 sacerdotium ands imperium, 12, 163

278 | Index

sacre, see coronation sacrifice, 33, 61 sacrilege, 74 Saint-Cyran, Jean du Vergier de Hauranne, Abbé de, 82 Saint-Denis, 96, 26, 33, 115, 157, 211n219, 211n221 Saint Louis, 130, 132, 152, 159 Sainte-Chapelle, Paris, 117 Salic Law, 41, 105 Salmon, J. H. M., 15 Samuel, prophet, 24 Sancroft, William, 139, 146 Santarelli, Antonio, 83, 205n148 Saul, King of Israel, 24, 47 Schlögl, Rudolf, 166 Scott, James, Duke of Monmouth, 117, 148, 220n66 Scott, Jonathan, 91, 109 Scott, Thomas, 50 scrofula, healing of, 4, 28, 36, 81, 132, 141, 164, 190n231 secularization, 1, 28, 153, 162, 221n89, 233n21, 233n27 Selden, John, 138 Senlis, 31 Servin, Louis, 23 Sharpe, Kevin, 36, 38, 70, 92, 102 Sheldon, Gilbert, 138 Sidney, Algernon, 108 Sighs of France in Slavery (Soupirs de la France esclave), 126 sincerity, 27, 143 Skinner, Quentin, 84–5 Smuts, Malcolm, 48, 77 Solomon, King of Israel, 36, 45 Sorbonne, 17–18, 22, 53, 83, 119 sovereignty, 60, 107 St. Dionysius Areopagita, 115 Suárez, Francisco, 53 supremacy, royal, 49, 70, 125 Susannah, 36 Te deum, 69, 199n62 Test Acts, 128, 141 theocracy, 14, 23, 57, 77, 87, 91, 152, 157

Thirty Years War, 87 toleration, 17, 52, 129, 135, 137, 145, 148, 208n107 Tonneins, Synod of, 51 Tories, 122–3, 137–8, 142, 146, 152, 156 Tournai, 32 Tremblay de Maffliers, François-Joseph Le Clerc du (Père Joseph), 63, 79 Trent, Council of, 17, 64, 159 Trianon, 114 Turner, Robert, 20 tyrannicide, 22, 23, 52; see also regicide Unigenitus (Papal Bull), 122 Union between Scotland and England, 61 Valladier, André, 30, 33, 75 Van Dyck, Anthonis, 72 Van Kley, Dale, 14 venality of offices, 111 Venice, Interdict of, 52 Versailles, 100, 110–14, 123, 164 Verstegan, Richard, 21 Vienna, 113, 117, 152 Villiers, George, Duke of Buckingham, 69, 71 Vineam domini (Papal Bull), 122 Virgin Mary, 36, 78 Watson, William, 17 Wenworth, Thomas, First Earl of Strafford, 95 Westminster Abbey, 96 Whigs, 7, 12, 106, 136, 139 Whitelocke, Bulstrode, 230n205 Whitgift, John, 65 William III, King of England, 33, 107, 126, 146, 148–9, 158, 164 William of Orange, ‘the Silent’, 20, 36 Winchester, 141 Windsor, 141 Worcester, battle of, 131, 135 Zaller, Robert, 87 Zurich, 65