Dangerous ambitions – of a failed coup and its consequences

In one of my books about Adam de Guirande (Ah! Almost my favourite hero, this knight so torn between his allegiances to the lord who saved him and raised him, Roger Mortimer, and the young boy-king, Edward III . . . Your favourite? Matthew Graham growls. Aye, what about the rest of us? asks Robert FitzStephen. You shouldn’t have favourites, Duncan Melville chimes in. Sheesh!!! Give me a break. You’re all my favourites, OK? But for different reasons and qualities)

Right: where was I? In one of my books about Adam de Guirande and his Kit, there is a short scene with a young boy. We are in Paris and Edward is as yet not king, but is in France with his Maman, Queen Isabella. He’s been sent over by his father to do hommage for the French lands still under English control, but once he’s in Paris, he becomes Isabella’s pawn. She–and Roger Mortimer–need her son to challenge her husband’s reign and so, there is Edward. And little Charles. Except his name is really Wenceslaus.
“No it isn’t!” Charles protests. Heatedly.

But it was his baptismal name, no matter how much he wanted to deny it. Thing is, our Wenceslaus was just as caught up between the bitter rivalry between his parents as the future Edward III was, which is how a child ended up imprisoned by his father before being transferred to the substantially more pleasant environment of the Capet court.

At the time, the French king was Charles IV, who had previously been married to Wenceslaus’ paternal aunt, Marie, so he was, in effect, the boy’s uncle by marriage, albeit he was now married to someone else (Marie died—somewhat famously as she fell out of the bottom of her coach while travelling to Avignon. The poor lady was pregnant, miscarried and died)  At some point, Wenceslaus formally took his royal uncle’s name as his own. But I imagine he used it much earlier, seeing as Wenceslaus doesn’t exactly roll off the tongue of you’re not Bohemian.

So why, exactly, was Wenceslaus/Charles exiled to France? Ah, well . . . I give you the adult protagonists: John of Luxembourg, a.k.a. John the Blind and famous for riding into battle against the English at Crecy despite not being able to see, and Elisabeth of Bohemia.

John of Luxembourg was the son of Holy Roman Emperor Henry VII of Luxembourg and Margaret of Brabant, as such closely connected with the French royal family, the Capets.

Now, where John seems to have had a relatively stable childhood, Elizabeth’s had been one of constant changes—starting with the death of her mother when Elizabeth was a child. She’d lived through her father marrying again and thereby claiming the title of King of Poland, she’d spent time with her aunt Kunegunda in a nunnery, she’d lived through the assassination of her older brother, the death of her father when she was only thirteen, had then been taken in by her older sister Anne and her hubby, Henry of Gorizia, refused to marry as Anne and Henry wanted her to—all, in all, by the time Elizabeth was in her late teens, life had been something of a rollercoaster.

She was also, by some accounts, quite a handful: moody and temperamental, haughty and ambitious, Elizabeth wanted more than to be an irrelevant younger sister. Much, much more.

Refusing to wed as requested by brother-in-law Henry caused a break between Elizabeth and her sister. It also made her the figurehead of those in Bohemia unhappy with Henry as their king. Quite the opportunity for someone eager to expand their territories, and one such person was the Holy Roman Emperor who just happened to have a son of marriageable age.

Which is how John found himself wed to Elizabeth at the tender age of fourteen and leading what was effectively an invasion of Bohemia, forcing Anne and Henry to flee. Ha! At last! Elizabeth was now the Queen of Bohemia, with a much younger husband she’d likely be able to control. Ummm… Turns out John had no intention of being hen-pecked.

The Elizabeth-John union did not get off to a great start. Leaving aside the thorny issue of who should rule, to Elizabeth John must have been a mere boy. Not, however, incapable of doing his husbandly duty, but it was frustrating for everyone involved  that the years passed and there was no son. To cement his hold on Bohemia, John needed a male heir, so the birth of Margaret and then Bonne was a disappointment. But then, in 1316, six years after marrying Elizabeth, John could finally cradle a precious son in his arms.
“Wenceslaus,” Elizabeth told him. “We will call him Wenceslaus.”
And they did.

As Elizabeth was Bohemian, I imagine she felt her husband should appreciate her insight and at least listen to her political advice, given that he was disinclined to let her rule the roost. At first, it seems John humoured her—to a point—but as he became more comfortable in his role as king, he was less inclined to take her advice. This did not go down well with our Elizabeth. This was her country, not his! It was because of her and her bloodlines that he had his backside perched on her ancestral throne. By rights, it should be her ruling—I mean, what did he, a foreigner,  really know about Bohemia, hey?

It didn’t help that John was usually out and about, travelling far and wide. In his absence, he relied on some of his Bohemian nobles to manage things—not his wife. Factions soon arose, and Elizabeth supported one side, John the other. It almost came to civil war, and John had to exert quite some efforts before he was firmly back in control.

Elizabeth was less than pleased with this outcome. She wasn’t the only one, and soon enough she was listening to those disenchanted with John who whispered that now that there was a son, she didn’t really need John. No, three-year-old Wenceslaus would be so much easier to manage. She’d be the power behind the throne, teaching her precious son everything he needed to know. A free Bohemia, the conspirators whispered, a Bohemia ruled by Bohemians, not by the Emperor’s get.

In 1319, someone informed John about the potential plot. He acted swiftly, punishing the conspirators harshly. As to his wife, he decided there and then that she was to have no hand in raising their children and also took the precaution to imprison his young son. I am hoping little Wenceslaus’ captivity was less than harsh—the child was an innocent victim in all this.

So Wenceslaus was locked up, the conspirators were punished, and it is evident John no longer trusted his wife. But he still engaged in intimate activity with her, resulting in a son born in 1322. I am thinking he felt he needed an heir, in case locked up little Wenceslaus turned out a rotten apple…

Meanwhile, John had made arrangements for his son. In 1323, Wenceslaus was carried off to France to be raised among his Capet relatives. He’d not seen his mother since 1319, and while he didn’t know it at the time, he would never see her again.

Elizabeth was no longer welcome in Bohemia—John was slowly gaining the trust of the Bohemian nobility, and she was increasingly isolated. Worried that she’d end up her husband’s captive, she disguised herself and fled to Bavaria. At the time, she was pregnant, and in 1323 she gave birth to twin girls.

John seems to have offered her some financial support—I am thinking he felt obliged to do so: an impoverished starving wife with two infants wasn’t a good look. But he refused to allow her to return to Bohemia, so Elizabeth languished in exile. In 1325, she was finally allowed to return with the one surviving twin. Not that she returned to cheers and jubilation: Elizabeth was to return to a life where she had no contact with her husband, no contact with her children. Nor did she have any money—definitely not enough to live in the style she was accustomed.

In 1330, Elizabeth died. Alone. And in far away Paris, her eldest son, now named Charles, likely didn’t care. Why would he? He’d not seen her since he was three, and everyone close to him would have told him she was a terrible mother, prepared to use her own little son against said son’s father.

Elizabeth’s attempts at ousting her hubby failed. But maybe she inspired another lady, another mother to do exactly the same. After all, wasn’t that what Isabella of France did when she used her son, Edward, against his father, Edward II? The difference, of course, is that Isabella succeeded. . .

And as to Charles, previously Wenceslaus, he was to grow up to become quite the mover and shaker in 14th century Europe, the pinnacle of his career being elected as Holy Roman Emperor in 1356. And while he never used the name Wenceslaus, his eldest surviving son and heir to the Kingdom of Bohemia was baptised Wenceslaus. I am thinking Elizabeth would have been pleased…