The Awful End of Prince William the Silent: The First Assassination of a Head of State with a Hand-Gun
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Lisa Jardine
EPIGRAPH
Politics in a work of literature are a pistol-shot in the middle of a concert, something crude which it is impossible to ignore.
We are about to speak of very ugly matters.
Stendhal, The Charterhouse of Parma1
CONTENTS
Cover
Title Page
Epigraph
Foreword: The Making History series
Introduction: Accidents of History
Map: The Netherlands in the Seventeenth Century
Family Tree: The House of Orange
1: How the Prince of Orange Came to Have a Price on his Head
2: Murder Most Foul
3: A Miraculous Escape
4: The Wheel-Lock Pistol – Killing Conveniently
5: English Aftermath 1 – ‘She is a Chief Mark they Shoot at’
6: English Aftermath 2 – Pistols and Politics
Finale
APPENDIX 1
APPENDIX 2
APPENDIX 3
APPENDIX 4
APPENDIX 5
Keep Reading
Notes
Further Reading
Index
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Praise
Also by the Author
Copyright
About the Publisher
FOREWORD
When Prince William the Silent was gunned down in the hallway of his Delft residence in 1584, his death rocked the cause of Protestantism in the Low Countries. Without their charismatic leader, the Dutch opponents of the occupying Catholic forces of Philip II of Spain looked likely to be brought permanently under the domination of the Habsburgs.
In the event, the Dutch Protestant cause managed to carry on its opposition to the Habsburgs, and eventually succeeded in establishing an independent Dutch Republic. But the assassination of William of Orange with a small, concealed, self-igniting handgun had lasting repercussions across the face of Europe. William had been a marked man for many years, with a Catholic price on his head. Honour and riches had been publicly promised to anyone who could assassinate him. Yet in spite of elaborate security, a lone assassin armed with a hidden pistol was able to penetrate William’s ‘ring of steel’ and shoot him at point-blank range in his own home. After that, no head of state would ever feel safe again, and regimes across the Continent enacted legislation attempting to ban small hand-guns entirely, or to restrict their use in the vicinity of a prominent political figure or head of state.
The assassination of William the Silent, then, marked the moment when new technology intruded into the lives of public figures, emphasising their perpetual vulnerability to violent assault. The event was one of those milestones in history – a marker, a turning point, an epoch-making incident, a directional laser-beam of light from the past to the future – on which our understanding of the past depends. Lisa Jardine’s account highlights the extraordinary way in which events on the ground at key moments in history influence forever what comes after them.
The Awful End of Prince William the Silent is the second title in an exciting series of small books edited by Amanda Foreman and Lisa Jardine – ‘Making History’– each of which covers a ‘turning point’ in history. Each book in the series will take a moment at which an event or events made a lasting impact on the unfolding course of history. Such moments are of dramatically different character: from the unexpected outcome of a battle to a landmark invention; from an accidental decision taken in the heat of the moment to a considered programme intended to change the world. Each volume of ‘Making History’ will be guaranteed to make the reader sit up and think about Europe’s and America’s relationship to their past, and the key figures and incidents which moulded and formed its process.
Amanda Foreman Lisa Jardine
Introduction
Accidents of History
William of Nassau, scion Of a Dutch and ancient line, I dedicate undying Faith to this land of mine. A prince I am, undaunted, Of Orange, ever free, To the king of Spain I’ve granted A lifelong loyalty.
(First verse of the Dutch national anthem, the ‘Wilhelmus’)2
FROM THE SIXTEENTH CENTURY down to the present day, Dutch history is saturated with heroic memories of the house of Orange. The Dutch football team wears an orange strip, while its fans sport the Prince of Orange’s colours in everything from scarves to face-paints. The Dutch national anthem celebrates the courage of a ‘prince undaunted of Orange’, prepared to stand up against the tyranny of the King of Spain and his occupying forces, in verses second only to the French ‘Marseillaise’ in their patriotic fervour (the Low Countries have suffered many occupations over the centuries).
Beyond the borders of the Netherlands, too, there are orange-coloured memorials to the lasting influence of a succession of princes who headed the Orange dynasty. Every July, Orangemen march in Northern Ireland, decked out in orange to remember and to celebrate the victory of a Protestant king of the house of Orange over a Catholic Stuart.3 The orange and black insignia of Princeton University in the United States is a reminder that the prince of that foundation was a Dutch one, of the house of Orange-Nassau.4
In English-language history books, the only member of the Orange dynasty in the Low Countries to feature prominently is William III (1650–1702), who in 1689 ascended the throne of England with his wife Mary Stuart, replacing his Catholic father-in-law King James II, who had been forced to abdicate following the so-called ‘Glorious Revolution’ of the previous year. Yet the life and actions on the public stage of William III’s great-grandfather, William I of Orange (1533–1584) – known to contemporaries as William the Silent (because of his reluctance to speak his mind) and the man celebrated in the Dutch national anthem for his courage against foreign oppressors – played a prominent part historically in the policies of his royal neighbour Queen Elizabeth I and exerted lasting influence over European affairs of state. The manner of William’s assassination in 1584 provoked panic at the English court and alarmed Protestant administrations across Europe. It resulted in the decision to commit English forces on the European mainland against the Spanish Habsburg troops of Philip II in 1585 – an eventuality Queen Elizabeth had avoided with characteristic determination throughout almost twenty years of her reign, and a decision which led directly to the launch of the Spanish Armada against England in 1588.
This is the story of William the Silent’s murder. Apart from its seismic effect on the European political scene, it was the first assassination of a European head of state in which the weapon used was the new, technically sophisticated wheel-lock pistol – the first pocket-sized gun capable of being loaded and primed ready for use ahead of time, then concealed about the user’s person and produced and fired with one hand, in a single, surprise movement. The murder of William of Orange was the first in a long line of iconic killings of major political figures using handguns, stretching down to our own day. These include the assassination of Abraham Lincoln during a visit to the theatre, and of the Archduke Ferdinand at Sarajevo which triggered the First World War. As a violent intervention by one man with a gun, calculated to put paid to a political party or movement and to rock a nation to its foundations, William the Silent’s murder anticipated the assassinations of Martin Luther King, J. F. Kennedy and Robert Kennedy in the 1960s. The very metaphor of such an action ‘triggering’ momentous world events derives from the sudden and irrevocable act of firing a pre-primed gun.5
The second half of the sixteenth century saw its fair share of sensational gun crimes. Pistols may have been regarded as new-fangled and unreliable by military strategists, who doubted their tactical reliability as weapons of war and mistrusted the highly manoeuvrable light-horse cavalry pistoleers who used them, but they caught on rapidly with civilians bent on mischief. In February 1563, Francis, Duke of Guise was killed while out hunting, by a pistol-wielding Huguenot on horseback. In 1566 a pistol was held to the belly of Mary, Queen of Scots, while assassins stabbed her secretary Rizzio to death in the adjacent room. It was allegedly the sound of a pistol shot close by that led the French queen mother Catherine de Medici to believe that an assassination attempt against the Catholic faction was under way, and thereby set in action the chain of events leading to the infamous St Bartholomew’s Day massacre of French Huguenots in 1572.
Religious sectarian conflict figures prominently as a motive for audacious attempts at pistol assassination of key political figures in the early modern period. The internal rifts caused by the doctrinal antagonisms between Catholics and Protestants led to civil war in France, political fragmentation and violent confrontation in the Low Countries, and corrosive political mistrust in England. A brother might betray a brother, or one neighbour might reveal another’s secret religious observance. The new handgun was a weapon perfectly matched to the times – a hidden source of confidence, providing its wearer with a ready defence against attack, or a means of sudden, violent death in the hands of a hitherto undetected enemy.
In a Europe saturated with intelligence-gatherers working on behalf of both Catholic and Protestant causes (and the regimes which supported one or other religious party), almost every court and great household had been infiltrated by somebody covertly retained by a contrary faction to carry out local espionage and collect intelligence. A number of these individuals were double agents, serving whichever party currently had the political upper hand. William the Silent’s eventual assassin was believed by William’s household to be a loyal Protestant recruited as an agent to spy in the Spanish camp on behalf of the Protestant Dutch. In fact he was a secret agent of Philip II, a devout Catholic, who had insinuated himself into the very heart of the Prince of Orange’s entourage. His resolute adherence to the Habsburg and Catholic causes in the Netherlands was only uncovered during his interrogation after the event. Then as now, and all too like the suicide bombers of the twenty-first century, intense commitment to his faith gave the assassin the determination to commit an atrocity in circumstances which made it unlikely that he himself would survive the attempt.
In the sixteenth century the handgun – swift, convenient and efficient – became the weapon selected by the high-born individual bent on taking his own life, too. In 1585 Henry Percy, Earl of Northumberland, committed suicide in the Tower of London with a handgun loaded – like the one that killed William of Orange – with three bullets inserted into a single chamber. Because of the disbelief at the idea that a single pull on the trigger could unleash such a triple carnage, it was widely held that Northumberland’s death was murder rather than suicide – the shots that killed him were assumed to have been fired by three separate assassins.
William the Silent’s assassination preyed on the minds of European heads of state and haunted the imaginations of those responsible for maintaining their security. It was an emblem of the impossibility of preventing a determined intruder, armed with a deadly concealed weapon, from penetrating the most closely guarded of royal enclaves. With some justification those who sought to protect the Prince of Orange believed that the new weapons of war (guns, explosives, potent poisons) made an eventual successful attempt on his life an inevitability. Balthasar Gérard’s attack in 1584 was virtually a copycat version of an earlier unsuccessful attempt on William’s life, also employing a concealed wheel-lock pistol, also carried out in the prince’s private apartments by a supposedly trusted member of his entourage, two years previously.
The pocket pistol became an emblem for the utter impossibility of keeping the sovereign secure. In a vain attempt to prevent the possibility of death-delivering devices being smuggled into the presence of the queen, the English government enacted a law prohibiting anyone from carrying a concealed handgun or firing one within two miles of a royal palace. And in the atmosphere of hysterical mistrust and anxiety that surrounded Elizabeth’s person, as the Spanish threatened to strengthen their hold on the Dutch coastline across the North Sea following Orange’s demise, several of the litany of supposed plots uncovered in the years immediately afterwards were claimed to have involved audacious attempts on Elizabeth’s life with a pistol.
Map: The Netherlands in the Seventeenth Century
Family Tree: The House of Orange
1 How the Prince of Orange Came to Have a Price on his Head
BECOMING A DYNASTY
THE PROTESTANT PRINCE who fell victim to a Catholic assassin’s three bullets in July 1584 had not been destined from birth to lead a nation. When William of Nassau was born in the castle of Dillenburg, in Nassau in Germany, in 1533, nobody could have imagined that he would one day become the greatest of all national heroes remembered in the Netherlands – Holland’s ‘pater patriae’, the ‘father’ of his adopted country, celebrated down to the present day in the rousing stanzas of the Dutch national anthem.6 The eldest son of William the Rich and Juliana of Stolberg, and a German national, William inherited from his father the comparatively modest title of Count of Nassau. But in 1544 his uncle René of Chalon, hereditary ruler of the small independent principality of Orange in southern France, died on the battlefield, leaving no direct descendants. Orange was a Habsburg possession. After delicate negotiations between the Habsburg Emperor Charles V (of whose extensive empire the Orange territory ultimately formed a part) and William’s father, the eleven-year-old William unexpectedly became heir to the Chalon titles. He was immediately removed from his family home and sent to reside at the ancient seat of the Nassau family in Breda in the Low Countries. From there he could be conveniently introduced into Charles V’s court at Antwerp, to be raised in a manner befitting the designated ruler of a Habsburg territory.
The suddenness of William’s elevation, at such a formative moment, left its lasting mark. Throughout his life his reputation was as a man of considered actions and a steady temperament – or, according to his enemies, a man who hedged his bets and would never speak his mind. In the public arena he displayed a combination of humanity, seriousness and personal restraint derived from his early modest upbringing, coupled with an easy ability to operate smoothly in the midst of all the magnificence of European court protocol and the procedural intricacies of diplomacy and power politics. His considerable skill as a negotiator depended on a relaxed familiarity with the forms and ceremonies of international power-broking, acquired during his period in the household of Charles V. Over and over again in the course of the ‘Dutch Revolt’ these were the skills needed to persuade ill-assorted parties to sign up to a political alliance, to retrieve lost ground by negotiation, or to gain time or a vital truce, in the all-too-evenly balanced conflict in which William became caught up – most probably against his better judgement – and which consumed the last twenty years of his life.
If William the Silent was not the kind of candidate we might expect for political leadership in the northern Netherlands, neither was he an obvious choice as the leading European protagonist on behalf of the Protestant cause. Although his family was Protestant, he himself was by no means a settled adherent to any sect of the reformed religion by birth or upbringing. One important outcome of the circumstances of his youth was William’s complicated attitude towards the religious disputes of the day. During his father’s lifetime, the house of Nassau moved closer to the evangelical Protestant princes in Germany. From puberty, however, amid the magnificence of the Catholic Antwerp court of Charles, where the Prince of Orange entered the Council of State on the succession of Philip of Spain as ruler in the Low Countries in 1555, and was elected a Knight of the Order of the Golden Fleece by Philip in August 1559, it was assumed that William would uphold the Catholic confession of his Habsburg imperial masters. And indeed during his early tenure he showed no inclination to do otherwise.
When Charles V resigned the sovereignty of the Netherlands in 1555 in favour of his son Philip, the ageing Habsburg emperor gave his farewell address to the great assembly in Brussels leaning on the shoulder of Prince William, thereby proclaiming to the world the trust he placed in the young nobleman. Philip II in his turn appointed William governor general or ‘stadholder’ of the counties of Holland and Zeeland and the land of Utrecht (and other adjacent territories) in 1559, with the task of looking after Habsburg interests in the northern occupied Low Countries territories, and maintaining Philip’s ‘rights, highness and lordship’ there.
In spite of this careful grooming, William of Orange did not live up to the Habsburgs’ hopes for him as a loyal servant and administrator of their imperial rule. Instead, the care that had been taken with his upbringing, and the trust placed in him by Charles V, added emotional intensity to the later confrontations between William and Philip II. Philip considered that William had been privileged to have been succoured and supported by the Habsburgs. When the Prince of Orange subsequently became one of their most prominent and dangerous political opponents, the self-appointed defender of the Protestant faith in the Low Counties which the Habsburgs had pledged themselves to root out as a ‘vile heresy’, this was, for Philip, a personal betrayal.
The principality of Orange was, and is, of relatively small importance on the international scene. Then as now, its main claim to fame was its magnificent Roman amphitheatre and triumphal arch, which dominated the town. Nevertheless, it was William’s tenure of that Orange title which singled him out for leadership in the struggle of the Low Countries against the Habsburgs. The Princes of Orange were sovereign princes, and thus, in theory, William was of comparable rank to Philip II – King of Spain – himself. William always maintained that his status as prince removed from him the obligation to pay allegiance to Philip as ruler of the Netherlands. Contemporary political theory maintained that those subordinate to a reigning prince might not challenge his authority unless his rule amounted to tyranny. An equal prince, on the other hand, might voice concern without threatening the established hierarchy or sovereign entitlement to rule. In this respect William was unique among the Habsburgs’ provincial governors in the Netherlands and an obvious choice as spokesperson when it came to freely expressing opposition to the way the policies of the Habsburgs were being implemented by those locally appointed to administer the Low Countries territories.
In spite of his theoretically key political position, William for many years avoided any course of action that might set him on a collision course with Philip II. It was apparently this political reticence that led to William’s being dubbed ‘le taciturne’ (‘the tight-lipped’), in Dutch ‘de Zwijger’, which was turned in English into ‘the Silent’. The soubriquet suggested an irritating tendency in the prince to hold back from expressing his true opinions and a reluctance to take sides. It turned out to be particularly inappropriate as an enduring nickname for a man renowned in his everyday conduct of affairs in private and in public for his eloquence and loquacity.
Following the early death of William’s first wife,7 his second marriage to Anna of Saxony in 1561 was the first public intimation of his desire to distance himself from the Habsburg cause in the Netherlands, doctrinally and politically. Anna was the daughter of the staunchly Protestant Maurice of Saxony, who had died in battle fighting for the Protestant cause in 1553; her guardians were two of the Habsburgs’ most prominent opponents in Germany, Augustus, Elector of Saxony and Philip of Hesse (who had been held prisoner by Charles V for a number of years). As anticipated by both camps (Philip opposed the match), William and Anna’s marriage created a political focus for anti-Catholic feeling in the northern Netherlands, which came to a head in the mid–156os.8
The immediate issue which provoked confrontation between Philip II and the nobility in the Netherlands was the reorganisation of the bishoprics in the Low Countries undertaken in 1559, and designed to rationalise the existing system of Church authority. Under the reorganisation, direct responsibility for the Church and (above all) its revenues passed to Philip’s appointed regent Margaret of Parma and Antoine Perrenot, a prominent attorney from Franche-Comté and influential adviser to Philip II, who had been conveniently appointed Cardinal (at the request of the Habsburg administration), under the title of Cardinal Granvelle. In 1562 the Dutch nobility formed a league aimed at the overthrow of Granvelle (who had been appointed to the key bishopric of Mechelen), on grounds of his excessive zeal in persecuting Protestant heretics, and his complicity in eroding the nobility’s secular power and diverting their Church revenues.
Led by William of Orange, the Dutch nobles refused to attend any meetings of the Council of State until such time as Granvelle should be removed from office, thereby bringing the administration of the Netherlands to a standstill. Faced with what amounted to a boycott by the key local figures in the Low Countries administration, Philip withdrew Granvelle in 1564. The gesture, however, came too late to halt a growing tide of opposition against the strong-arm way in which the Low Countries were being run, particularly insofar as this involved a ruthless repression of all reformed religious observance which went beyond anything imposed in Philip’s Spanish territories.
At first William, with typical caution, held back from direct defiance of Spanish rule, and it was a group whose leaders included instead his brother, Count John of Nassau, which delivered a petition on behalf of the Dutch people to the regent, Margaret of Parma, in April 1566. Margaret responded by dispatching William of Orange (as local stadholder) at the head of an armed force to subdue the unrest and re-establish full Catholic observance in Holland and Utrecht. William, however, characteristically negotiated a compromise with the States of Holland at Schoonhoven, under which Calvinists – the radical wing of Protestantism – would be given limited freedom to observe their religion openly. This was a position he would take repeatedly in his negotiations over more than fifteen years with local provinces, and it does suggest that he did not consider the strict imposition of either Catholic or Protestant worship a matter of particular importance, temperamentally preferring a broad toleration (though whether for strategic reasons, or on grounds of his own moderate beliefs, is less clear). In 1566 his expressed opinion was that Catholics and Protestants ‘in principle believed in the same truth, even if they expressed this belief in very different ways’, and this was a view to which he remained committed, although he was unable to prevent those serving under him from taking more extreme positions with regard to the prohibition of alternative forms of worship.9