From portrait to Protestantism – a post about Sibylle of Cleves

Anyone who has a thing about Tudor England will have heard of Anne of Cleves, Henry VIII’s fourth wife—the second one he divorced. Some say he felt tricked by Thomas Cromwell (and, I suppose, by Holbein) stating the real-life Anne was a far cry from the beautiful woman in her portrait.

Whatever the case, Anne was smart enough to acquiesce to the king’s demand for a divorce, and was to remain in England for the rest of her life. I’m thinking this reflects the fact that Anne had much, much, much more freedom in England than she’d ever had in Cleves, because her daddy, John of Cleves, was old-fashioned and strict.

However, this post is not about Anne. It is about her older sister, Sibylle. Sibylle of Cleves—not quite as much of a household name, is it? As to why I am writing about Sibylle, well, I must admit to coming across this gorgeous portrait of her by Lucas Cranach, making me very curious about this young beauty. Plus, of course, she married the Elector of Saxony, and after my recent visit to Dresden I have developed quite the interest in Saxony.

Sibylle was raised in the Frauenzimmer—the ladies’ rooms—where she and her sister grew up safely out of sight of any male over the age of twelve. Well, I assume that now and then they’d see their father or their brother, but otherwise, no men. Their education was not the best: the sisters were taught to read and write—but only in German. They were taught to embroider, but not to dance—too frivolous for dear Papa. They weren’t taught any languages other than German—a tad unusual, one would think in an age where so many young noble brides were married to men in other countries. They were, of course, taught the word of God, but when it came to religion, the Cleves household had a bit of everything: John of Cleves was a follower of Erasmus, attempting to forge a path between the Catholic and Protestant factions. Sibylle’s mother was a staunch Catholic. Sibylle’s only brother, William, was to become a fervent Lutheran.

Sibylle was also a Lutheran—fortunate as her intended, Johann Friedrich I, future Elector of Saxony, was of the same faith. The Electors of Saxony were early supporters of Luther who taught at the University of Wittenberg, at the time the capital city of Saxony.

In 1527, a fifteen-year-old Sibylle wed the nine years older Johann Friedrich, and by all accounts theirs was an affectionate relationship. Two years later, they welcomed a son, Johann Friedrich II, to the world. A year later came Johann Wilhelm, a few years after that a baby who died very young and then, nine years after their eldest son, came Johann Friedrich III. Very confusing that, naming two boys after the father!

By the time their youngest son was born, Sibylle’s hubby had been the Elector of Saxony for six years. He was also one of the leaders of the Schmalkaldic League, and this, dear reader, is where this post derails from being about Sibylle’s life to dive deeper into the religious conflicts that plagued 16^th century Germany. Why this derailment? Because Sibylle’s life was deeply affected by all these conflicts.

So, let us take a few steps back: in 1517, Martin Luther, Augustinian monk and professor at Wittenberg University, posted his famous theses. Tradition has it that he nailed them to the door of the Wittenberg church, but these days a majority of  historians think this is more the stuff of legends. Whatever the case, his theses were extremely challenging to the established church.  Obviously, Luther wasn’t the first man to demand church reform. John Wycliffe and Jan Hus had done so well before Luther, to name a few. But Luther had access to something neither Wycliffe nor Hus had: the printing press. Ergo, his beliefs spread like wildfire.

The Holy Church did what they could to stop this development. At the Diet of Worms—presided over by the very young Holy Roman Emperor Charles V—Martin Luther was declared a heretic, the Edict of Worms forbidding the propagation of his beliefs. Too late for that, and as the Emperor himself had given Luther a safe conduct, they couldn’t arrest him.  Just in case, Friedrich III, Elector of Saxony (the man who’d requested that safe conduct) decided it would be best if Luther disappeared for a while, so he arranged a “kidnapping” and had Luther taken to Wartburg Castle where Luther was safely hidden from the Inquisition while he translated the Bible from Latin to German.

In 1531, various Lutheran princes and cities within the Holy Roman Empire founded the Schmalkaldic League to protect the Protestants and their rights from the Catholic Emperor. Effectively, it was not only a religious pact, it was also a military alliance: the various participants promised to come to each other’s’ aid should the Holy Roman Emperor move against one of them.

Initially, the league focused on confiscating church land and spreading Lutheranism throughout Northern Germany.  Meanwhile, Charles V was busy elsewhere: he had an ongoing conflict with the Ottoman Empire and France (seeing as these two countries were allies) so it took like fifteen years before Charles decided it was time to turn his attention to these dratted heretics.

Charles was sick and tired of opinionated German princes, and more specifically he was dead tired of Johann Friedrich, Elector of Saxony, who, together with Philip of Hesse, led the opposition. But Charles had a plan. Ever devious, this intelligent if not always entirely likeable man (what successful ruler is?) decided to outsource the fighting by dangling a tempting price in front of Johann Friedrich’s cousin, Moritz of Saxony. “How would you like to become the new Elector?” he asked Moritz.
Now, Moritz, for some reason, detested Johann Friedrich (They’d butted heads over lands they co-ruled). Plus, he really, really wanted to become Elector. But—a big, big but—he was very fond of Philip of Hesse, who was also his father-in-law. So, he made a deal with the Emperor whereby Charles promised Philip would receive nothing more than a slap over his fingers—should Moritz win.

Another big but—or so I assume—was the fact that Moritz himself was a Lutheran and as critical as most other Protestant princes against the Augsburg Interim. The Augsburg Interim was an attempt by Charles V to sort of allow Protestantism—but not without some significant adjustments which most die-hard Lutherans refused to accept. Mortiz’s religious beliefs had not stopped him from fighting with the Emperor on several other campaigns, but in this case, he would openly be fighting his Protestant brethren. Still, when Charles invoked the Imperial ban on the members of the Schmalkaldic League, Moritz took up arms against his co-religionists.

This is where I suspect Sibylle cursed false Moritz to hell and back. Johann Friedrich most definitely did so, but unfortunately curses did not help. Initially, Johann Friedrich held Moritz (who’d invaded his lands) off. But when Moritz evidently wasn’t capable of sorting things on his own, Emperor Charles and his brother joined the fray. The Schmalkaldic League was defeated in April of 1547.

Sibylle, meanwhile, had remained at home in Wittenberg. She assumed personal responsibility for the defence of  her home town, refusing to surrender even when besieged. But the emperor had an ace up his sleeve. He hauled out Johann Friedrich and sentenced him to death, but offered a loop-hole: if Johann Friedrich surrendered the Electorate and Wittenberg, the sentence would be commuted to life imprisonment.

Johann Friedrich had no choice. He signed the Capitulation of Wittenberg and ordered his loyal wife to surrender. He was whisked off to captivity, Sibylle and their sons retired to Weimar. Over the coming years, Johann Friedrich and Sibylle would only be able to communicate via letters.

Moritz now had to face the opprobrium of his fellow Protestant princes. “Traitor”, they whispered, and Moritz squirmed. He was also twisting with guilt: he’d promised his father-in-law he’d get out of this scot-free as long as he submitted, but instead, Philip was also locked up. Moritz decided to blame the emperor for being an oath-breaker rather than himself for taking up arms against his father-in-law in the first place.

When it became apparent Emperor Charles had every intention of suppressing the Protestant faith within the empire, Moritz decided it was time to change sides. When ordered to take the Lutheran city of Magdeburg, he refused. Instead, he entered into an alliance with France and other Protestant princes and went on the offensive. In 1552, he chased the emperor out of Germany—so hasty was Charles’ flight he had to leave his baggage train behind. A peace treaty was signed in 1552 and Moritz returned home to the acclamation of his people—here rode a Protestant hero!—and kiss from his wife, as the treaty called for the release of Philip of Hesse.

It also called for the release of Johann Friedrich—not necessarily something that made Moritz happy. It did, however, make Sibylle happy. After five long years, she could at last welcome her hubby home. Not, unfortunately, to Wittenberg, but Weimar was not bad.

Sibylle and Johann Friedrich were not destined to live long lives. Both of them died in 1554, she a month before him. But at least they both lived long enough to be able to privately celebrate the death of their personal Judas, cousin Moritz. Schadenfreude, as they say, is a very, very satisfying emotion!

All, in all, Sibylle’s life was short—she was not quite forty-two when she died. She left behind three sons and it is somewhat ironic that her eldest, Johann Friedrich II, married Moritz’ widow, Agnes of Hesse. A very short marriage, ending with Agnes’ death. It is also somewhat ironic—if sad—that this son would spend thirty years as an imperial prisoner, and die in captivity, this due to his stubborn attempts to regain the Electorate.

As to all those religious conflicts, Moritz’ attack on Charles V eventually led to the treaties of Passau and Augsburg, treaties in which the Holy Roman Emperor conceded the right to Protestants to retain lands and titles and worship as they pleased—assuming they lived in a region ruled by a Protestant. All in all a good thing, but unfortunately not much help for Protestants living in regions under Catholic rule. Over the coming decades, the tensions between Catholics and Protestants would increase before culminating in yet another war—The Thirty Years’ War.

Although, to be honest, all these religious wars were rarely genuinely about religion: Catholic France supported the Schmalkaldic league (while actively persecuting French Protestants) and would happily bankroll very Lutheran Sweden in the Thirty Years’ War. No, wars may be dressed up as being about religion, but they were always about something else: power. France resented the power of the Holy Roman Empire, the empire was reluctant to lose the power they had. Sweden may have portrayed itself as defender of the new faith, but Gustav II Adolf really wanted an empire—and had no problem in allowing his soldiers to terrorise the German population that got in his way. But this, dear peeps, has nothing to do with Sibylle!