Marrying Lucy Percy

On a cold day in February 1617, two young ladies walked through the gates of the Tower of London. They were Lucy Percy and her older sister, Dorothy, and they had come to visit their father, the earl of Northumberland.

Lucy Hay, née Percy by Anthony van Dyck 

The two young women, both still in their teens, made their way through the Tower complex to the Martin Tower and went inside. Their father greeted them warmly and exchanged pleasantries. After a while, though, his demeanour changed. Suddenly, he ordered Dorothy to go back home to her husband. As she was leaving, he gave her another order: to send Lucy’s maids to the Tower so they could attend her. Lucy was to become a prisoner in the Tower. Her gaoler was not the state, but her own father.

Lucy Percy was the second and youngest daughter of Henry Percy, ninth earl of Northumberland. Born at Michaelmas in 1599, she was only six years old when her father was detained in the Tower after being implicated in the Gunpowder Plot. Her mother was Dorothy Devereux, sister of the fallen favourite of Elizabeth I, Robert Devereux, earl of Essex. Her court connections, however, did not end there. Through the Devereux line, Lucy could trace her descent back to Mary Boleyn, sister of Anne Boleyn. Possibly, as a result of Mary’s affair with Henry VIII, Lucy could count the king as one of her ancestors.

Lucy’s mother had ambitions for her, and in 1614, when Lucy was in her fourteenth year, she introduced her daughter at court. The young lady’s beauty - it was agreed that she was ‘the most lovely damsel in all England’ – her accomplishments and her sparkling personality were such that her success in court circles was guaranteed.

For her part, Lucy embraced life at court. She loved the ceremony, the masques, the feasting and the society. Not unnaturally, she soon attracted a string of admirers. Young, handsome men paid court to her and, in theory at least, she could have had her pick of them. However, while she enjoyed the attention, her heart would be captured by a much older man: Sir James Hay.

James Hay, artist unknown

Born c.1580 in Pitcorthie in Fife, Sir James Hay had spent considerable time in France in his youth gaining an education and acquiring good taste and refinement. It is believed by some that he had later served in the Gardes Écossaises of Henri IV of France and that he was introduced to King James by one of Henri’s ambassadors.

Hay was graceful, with strong, handsome features. Nevertheless, the overall shape of his face would later inspire the Electress Elizabeth to call him ‘Camel-face’ and address him as such in her letters to him. It is an indication of his character that he took this in good humour.

Hay had come to England in late 1603. He had served King James prior to his accession to the English throne, and now Hay hoped that his career would escalate still further. His presence at court and his status as someone who enjoyed royal favour would not be overlooked. ‘Notice was taken of a rising favourite,’ writes the courtier and politician, Anthony Weldon, ‘the first meteor of that nature appearing in our climate.’

King James recognised Hay’s abilities and showered him with various marks of his favour. Hay was created Lord Hay, although without a seat in the House of Lords. Later, he was appointed Gentleman of the Robes and, from 1613-1618, would hold the post of Master of the Wardrobe. During this time, he was elevated to the peerage as Lord Hay of Sawley in Yorkshire.

As Master of the Wardrobe, Hay was given a house on Upper Thames Street in Blackfriars. Here, he would host the lavish entertainments for which he would become famous. Highly fashionable, it was said of him that he always had to be ‘set out after the last edition.’

Lord Hay was politically ambitious and desired to be a significant figure at the English court. He had observed that James favoured English courtiers over the Scots, and Hay became a naturalised Englishman in 1604. This was a natural progression, for he was fond of all things English and he made it his study to become the quintessential English gentleman. Hay, therefore, formed close links with the English rather than the Scottish members of James’s court, a move that very much pleased the king.

Another means by which Hay could become more ‘English’ was to take an English wife, and this was also in accordance with the king’s own preferences. In 1607, Hay married Honora Denny, daughter of Lord Edward Denny, a match made ‘by royal mediation.’ Honora give birth to two children, James and Anne, no doubt named after the king and queen. She died tragically after suffering a miscarriage in 1614, the same year Lucy made her debut at court.

Exactly when Hay began courting Lucy is not known, but they were recognised as a couple by early 1617. In an age when marriage within the nobility was seen as a matter of state, with families and fortunes, estates and titles marrying, rather than individuals, the marriage of Lucy Percy and Sir James Hay would, nevertheless, be a love match.

It is easy to see why Hay fell for Lucy, and why she was the perfect bride him. She had youth and beauty, with a clear ivory complexion, large and expressive brown eyes, and an oval face framed by luxurious brown curls. She was also accomplished. As an excellent horsewoman and dancer, she possessed two of the most important qualities a courtier could possess. Lucy was also intelligent despite her rudimentary education, which had covered only those subjects deemed appropriate for a young lady of her status. She was alert and, even at this early age, was wise to the ways of the world around her. Observant, she learned everything she needed to know by carefully watching others at court. In addition to these qualities, her most valuable asset, as far as Hay was concerned, was that she was English.

Lucy Russell, née Harington, countess of Bedford
by William Larkin

For his part, Sir James Hay also had his attractions. Although a widower several years older than Lucy, he was a successful courtier, who could facilitate Lucy’s own court career. He was well-connected, with a wide network of friends and associates. Hay was attractive, and he possessed a quality that most women find irresistible: charm. He was good humoured, affable and sophisticated. 

As it was, the lovers had a powerful ally in the form of Lucy Russell, countess of Bedford. Lady Bedford, who was related to the Bruces, understood the merits of accepting the Scots into English court circles. She served in the household of Queen Anna as Lady of the Bedchamber. This was an important post, one that brought her into intimate contact with the queen. Moreover, she was a friend of both Sir James Hay and Lady Northumberland. Indeed, Lucy’s mother had probably named her daughter after her. Now Lady Bedford was running Hay’s campaign to marry Lucy. With such a powerful person on his side, Hay had no trouble winning over Lady Northumberland so that she was as eager for the match as Lucy.

There was one major problem, however. Despite his imprisonment, the earl of Northumberland insisted upon exercising his fatherly duty of selecting suitable husbands for his daughters. Dorothy and Lucy had other ideas. Dorothy had recently married a man of her own choice, Lord Sidney, the future earl of Leicester. Knowing her father’s antipathy towards the Sidneys, the wedding had taken place in secret the previous year. They announced their union only when Dorothy’s pregnancy could no longer be concealed. Northumberland angrily expressed his disapproval, but he could do nothing about it. The marriage had taken place and that was the end of the matter. Now it was Lucy’s turn. When Northumberland found out who Lucy wished to marry, his fury knew no bounds.

Northumberland hated the Scottish courtiers who had come to England with King James. He regarded them as upstarts and resented their taking the places, as he saw it, of the established English aristocracy. Thinking he wanted Lucy for her inheritance, he wrote to Hay, telling him that Lucy would get none of his money if she married against his will. This protest, however, was of no avail. Hay’s love for Lucy was disinterested. He loved her for herself, not for her money.

Henry Percy, 9th earl of Northumberland
by  Anthony van Dyck

Nevertheless, Northumberland forbade Lucy to marry Hay, declaring that he ‘could not endure that his daughter should dance any Scottish jigs.’ He thought he could break Lucy’s will if he applied the right tactic. He tried persuasion in the form of an astonishingly large dowry of £20,000 – almost £3 million in today’s money - if she would allow him to choose her husband for her. He then used intimidation: he threatened to keep her in the Tower if she would not give in to his demands.

Lucy, however, was headstrong. She knew her own mind and she wanted Hay. When she refused to relent, Northumberland resolved to carry out his threat. When Lucy and Dorothy came to visit him on that February day in 1617, he received them well enough but ‘after some caresses he dismissed his daughter Sidney [Dorothy] to go home to her husband, and to send her sister’s maids to attend her.’ Imprisoning his intractable daughter in the Tower, he thought, would be the only way to break her. He ‘meant not to part with her but that she should keep him company.’

As it happened, Hay was hosting one of his famous events that evening. He had laid on an extravagant supper and masque for visiting French ambassadors. However, ‘the chief and most desired guest’ was missing. Lucy was to have been the real guest of honour, and her absence was noted.

 The young lady was now housed in the Brick Tower. This was adjoined to the Martin Tower in which her father lived by a section of the battlements that acquired the name Northumberland’s Walk because the earl was fond of taking walks there.

That April, King James went on progress to Scotland. Hay, who was expected to accompany him, lingered in London, ‘his vain hope of obtaining my L[ord] of Northumberland’s daughter, being the chief cause of his stay.’

This was not to be, at least not yet. Northumberland continued his attempts to bend Lucy to his will, but he had seriously underestimated her resolve. At some point it occurred to him that gentler persuasion might be of more use.

Lodged nearby in the Bloody Tower for the murder of Thomas Overbury, the earl and countess of Somerset were nevertheless allowed to receive guests. The earl of Northumberland was among those whose company Lady Somerset very much enjoyed. Indeed, his attentions to this lady so much affronted Lady Northumberland that she eventually refused to visit him and sent their daughters instead.

That May, Northumberland allowed Lucy the freedom to make daily visits to the Somersets. This concession was partly in the hope that they would persuade Lucy to see reason, and partly so that he had an excuse to see Lady Somerset.

What Northumberland had not taken into account was that Lady Somerset would understand exactly Lucy’s predicament and be sympathetic. She, too, had risked much to marry the man she wanted, and her chosen husband was also a Scot. In the event, Lady Somerset encouraged Lucy to marry whom she pleased, much to Northumberland’s chagrin. She even enabled secret trysts between Lucy and James Hay. The ‘matter was so plotted, that where he [Northumberland] thought he her safest, there he lost her.’

At this point, Northumberland gave up. He severed all relations with Lady Somerset, calling her a bawd. Then, seeing that ‘he could prevail no more’ with Lucy, he sent her away. However, if Lucy thought she could go home to her mother, she was mistaken. Although Lady Northumberland was usually more than a match for her husband, this time she was alarmed by his anger with Lucy and Lady Somerset. She was afraid to take in her daughter. Instead, Lucy took up residence at the home of her beloved sister, who was staying at Baynard’s Castle at the time.

This was only a temporary measure, however. Shortly after Lucy’s release, Hay travelled to Scotland to join the king. Before he left, he settled Lucy into his house at the Wardrobe, with £2,000 for her maintenance until his return.

In July, Lady Northumberland moved to Syon House, her home on the banks of the Thames that she had inherited through her first marriage. By this time she had overcome her fear of her husband’s anger and she took Lucy with her. Here, the two women could escape the worst of the summer heat, but they would not be alone for long.

The king’s progress had drawn to a close and the courtiers were beginning to make their way back to England. Among the first of them was Sir James Hay. He lost no time in attempting to win over the earl of Northumberland and, if possible, to have the £20,000 Lucy had been promised. In the end, he was unsuccessful in securing the money. This, however, was of little consequence to him, for he insisted that his ‘affection was above money,’ and he set ‘only a valuation upon his much-admired bride.’

At this point, the wedding was a certainty. It would take place without the blessing of the bride’s father, who continued to fume and seethe in his Tower apartment. The bride, of course, required someone to give her away, and King James was more than happy to oblige. Since he was still in Scotland, the happy couple had no option but to wait as patiently as possible for his return. As Chamberlain wrote, the impatient Lord Hay ‘thinks it long till the king’s coming that he may consummate his marriage.’

As it was, Hay sought to mitigate some of the frustration by taking a house in nearby Richmond Park. He would visit Lucy and her mother on a regular basis. Lady Northumberland, however, took her duties as chaperone very seriously and refused to allow Hay to dine with them. As such, he would be ‘commonly in her house from morning till dinner, from dinner till supper, and after supper till late in the night.’ Soon, his barge became a regular feature on the Thames. Still, 1617 was a good summer for venison and salmon, so it can be imagined that the fare was very good at both Richmond and at Syon House.

Lucy on the far left, looking over the
 shoulder of Henrietta Maria by Honthorst

Finally the long-awaited day dawned. The wedding took place on 6 November 1617 at the Wardrobe. That night, the wedding supper was attended by Prince Charles and the king’s new favourite, George Villiers, the future duke of Buckingham. The king, who had fulfilled his promise to give away the bride, was also ‘exceeding merry all supper time.’ Lucy ‘knelt while the king drank her health, and she drank his.’  

Throughout their long and eventful journey to the altar, Lucy and Sir James had never given up on their love or lost sight of their goal to marry. Although a love match, both partners also gained materially from their union. For Sir James, it was another important step on his journey to find his place as an Englishman at a court where two very distinct nationalities strived to co-exist. As for Lucy, the new Lady Hay, who was still only eighteen years old, her marriage to Sir James allowed her to make further progress towards a glittering and intriguing court career.

 

All quotations taken from The Letters of John Chamberlain, volume 2.

Katherine Howard, Thomas Culpeper and the ‘Master Culpeper’ Letter

The relationship between Katherine Howard and Thomas Culpeper has intrigued historians for many years, but what was its true nature ? The infamour 'Master Culpeper' letter might offer a hint.

The following is an extract from my 2016 biography, Katherine Howard (John Murray)...

The story of their supposed intimacy, as related by Thomas Culpeper in his own words, began when Katherine’s servant, Henry Webb, brought him to the entrance between her privy chamber and the chamber of presence. Here, she ‘gave him by her own hands a fair cap of velvet garnished with a brooch and three dozen pairs of aglets and a chain’. She then said to him, ‘put this under your cloak that nobody see it.’ Culpeper replied, ‘alas, madam, why did not you this when you were a maid?’ Katherine said nothing and the two parted.

A short while later, they met again; this time, Katherine was clearly put out. Piqued at Culpeper’s response to her gift, she asked him, ‘is this all the thanks you give me for the cap, if I had known you would have spoken these words you should never have had it.’ Katherine was angry because Culpeper’s response made it clear that he had wrongly taken it as a love token. At the most, she would have expected him to thank her, not to remind her of their past relationship. That she told him to hide the cap under his cloak shows that she feared that others might misconstrue its purpose, as Culpeper had done, and spread dangerous gossip about his apparent favour with the queen. Katherine herself had been very wary of letting others catch her with items that might be inter-preted as courting gifts, as the business of the French fennel clearly showed. 

However Katherine was incapable of remaining angry with anyone for very long. As with Henry Mannock before him, she soon forgave Culpeper his transgression. Shortly after their second meeting, Culpeper became ill. That Katherine sent him ‘at diverse times flesh or the fish dinner by Morris the page’, suggests that his illness lasted for at least two days. After that, the meetings ceased and Katherine, if not Culpeper, promptly forgot about them. The timeframe of these events can roughly be determined from Culpeper’s statement. They were initiated on Maundy Thursday, 14 April, and continued only while the court remained at Greenwich. Since the court left that palace on 27 May, it is evident that the three recorded incidences of contact between Katherine and Culpeper took place during a period of just over six weeks. By any standards, these encounters were sporadic to say the least and can hardly be taken as indication that Katherine was betraying Henry. 

What had prompted Katherine to arrange the reunion with Culpeper? Although he remembered their meetings vividly and could recount them in some detail, Culpeper never said why the queen had sent for him in the first place. The answer can be found in a letter written by Katherine to Culpeper at the time.

Master Culpeper, I heartily recommend me unto you, praying you to send me word how that you do. It was showed me that you were sick, the which thing troubled me very much till such time that I hear from you, praying you to send me word how that you do. For I never longed so much for [a] thing as I do to see you and to speak with you, the which I trust shall be shortly now, the which does comfort me very much when I think of it, and when I think again that you shall depart from me again it makes my heart to die to think what fortune I have that I cannot be always in your company, yet my trust is always in you that you will be as you have promised me and in that hope I trust upon still, praying then that you will come when my Lady Rochford is here, for then I shall be best at leisure to be at your commandment. Thanking you for that you have promised me to be so good unto that poor fellow my man which is one of the griefs that I do feel to depart from him, for then I do know no-one that I dare trust to send to you and therefore, I pray you take him to be with you that I may sometimes hear from you one thing. I pray you to give me a horse for my man for I had much ado to get one and therefore I pray send me one by him and in so doing I am as I said afore and thus I take my leave of you, trusting to see you shortly again and I would you was with me now that you might see what pain I take in writing to you. 

Yours as long as life endures, Katheryn 

One thing I had forgotten and that is to instruct my man to tarry here with me still, for he says whatsoever you behove14 him he will do it and… 

Intriguingly, Katherine breaks off at this point. It is possible that she added the postscript after she had summoned her messenger; then, he or she having arrived before she had finished, Katherine ended the letter anyway because she had said all that she wanted to say. Differences in handwriting and the colour of the ink show that this letter is written in two hands. The first eight words (in bold) are in the hand of an amanuensis. Katherine then took over and finished the letter herself. 

What, then, was Katherine trying to say to Culpeper? Lady Rochford once remarked that Katherine ‘trusted Culpeper above her own brother’, that is Charles Howard, who, like Culpeper, was a gentleman of the privy chamber. But Lady Jane did not elaborate upon in what regard Katherine trusted Culpeper. The answer lies in his position in the royal household. Culpeper was one of the king’s favourites and was known to have ‘succeeded Master Nourriz, who was in like favour with his master’. Henry Norris had occupied the senior position in the privy chamber until he was implicated in the downfall of Anne Boleyn and executed. Culpeper had intimate access to the king and was well placed to provide Katherine with information about her husband’s health and his ever fluctuating moods. More importantly, Culpeper could warn her of any indication that Henry was angry, perhaps because she was not yet with child; he could also listen out for any gossip about her, and report on speculation that her husband was considering repudiating her in favour of Anne of Cleves. Throughout Katherine’s queenship, this topic would surface time and again, to her consternation and grief. 

Katherine, therefore, cultivated Culpeper’s friendship. He was, in many ways, a good choice. Their previous relationship made him well-disposed towards her, he was related to her, albeit distantly, and was one of her husband’s favourites; more importantly, he was in the king’s confidence. For Culpeper, too, the arrangement had its uses. Considering that his master was ageing and increasingly infirm, it was prudent to look to the future. Although Prince Edward was a Seymour, and his family would play a major part in the regency, Katherine, as dowager queen, would still be in a powerful position. She was someone whose favour was worth cultivating.

The Death of Athos

Procession, service and interment of the defunct Armand Athos dautubiele, musketeer of the king’s guard, gentleman of Bearn, taken close to the market of Pré-aux-Clercs.

 

So reads an entry found in the mortuary register of the church of Saint-Sulpice in Paris and dated 22 December 1643. One short sentence to round off a life.

The entry was discovered by Auguste Jal, the historian, archivist, writer and art critic, who reproduced it in his Dictionnaire critique de biographie et d'histoire (1^st ed. 1867). As succinct as it is, the entry nevertheless reveals something about the man who was buried that day.

In the first instance, it gives his name as Armand Athos dautebiele. Autebiele is the Béarnais form of Autevielle, and the man referred to here is Armand de Sillègue d’Athos d’Autevielle, to give him his full name. This is the man upon whom Alexandre Dumas based his character, Athos.

As can be seen, Armand is associated with three places, all of which are situated in today’s département of Pyrénées-Atlantiques: Sillègue, now known as Arbérats-Sillègue; Athos, today’s Athos-Aspis and Autevielle, or Autevielle-Saint-Martin-Bideren to use its modern name. This cluster of three villages comprise farmland lying to the south-west of Salies-de-Béarn along the gave d’Oloron and all three had belonged to Athos’s family since the fifteenth century.

 Although his precise date of birth is not known, Armand came into the world at some point between 1615 and 1620, the son of Adrien de Sillèque d’Athos, seigneur d’Autevielle. His mother was the demoiselle N. de Peyré. Her given name is not known for certain, but she was a lady from a noble family of the Oloron valley. The demoiselle de Payré was first cousin to the comte de Troisvilles, or Captain de Treville as he appears in The Three Musketeers. Since it was not at all uncommon for serving Musketeers to assist younger family members to join the company, it is very possible that this connection aided the young Armand as he embarked on his military career.

As it was, Armand entered the Musketeers shortly after May 1640. Nothing is known about his service or what rank he achieved. Indeed, the only firm piece of evidence relating to him is the mortuary register, which shows that he was buried on 22 December 1643, having died the previous day.

The next item to note is that Armand is described as a Musketeer of the King’s Guard. Since he entered the Musketeers in 1640 and died in 1643, he would have served under two kings: Louis XIII, who had founded the Musketeers in 1622, and Louis XIV, who acceded to the throne upon the death of his father in May 1642. While Louis XIV would make several significant changes to the Musketeers in terms of service, lodgings and uniform among other things, these reforms were still many years in the future. As a Musketeer, Armand would have been physically fit, strong and capable of thinking on his feet. He would have been given military training, including rigorous drills and parades. This built upon the education he received as a child growing up in the country, which would have including learning to ride and to handle a sword. These essential skills were improved upon and practised once he was recruited into the Musketeers.

Armand is also described as a gentleman of Béarn. Indeed, as shown by the spelling of his name, dautebiele, as recorded in the register, it can be accepted that he and his associates spoke with a discernible Béarnais accent. Gentilhomme simply referred to a man born into a noble family.

As it was, Armand was the second son, meaning that, under the laws of the period, he would not inherit the titles, estates and any fortune the family might have. These would go, instead, to the eldest brother. As such, Armand would be obliged to make his own way in the world. His status, however, limited his choice of occupation. Under the law as well as the rules of society, there were only two professions open to him: the church or the military. As a relative of the comte de Troisvilles, he may have been encouraged to choose the latter, and this association, as previously noted, would have assisted him in this endeavour.

The mortuary entry goes on to state that Armand was found dead near the market of Pré-aux-Clercs. The wording is quite precise, specifying that he was ‘taken,’ which suggests an unexpected death, perhaps a violent one. This, and the laconic nature of the entry, strongly hints that Armand died as a result of a duel.

The Pré-aux-Clercs was a popular area for duelling. This practice had arisen during the mediaeval period, with young men settling their differences by the sword. Such differences were almost always personal, usually being matters of pride, and were often trivial. The slightest provocation, such as a slur or even a ‘wrong’ glance could result in anger that only a duel could assuage.

The practice of duelling, however, was disapproved of by the authorities. The Church, in particular, condemned it because it wasted the lives of so many young men. It has been estimated that some 10,000 might have died this way in the twenty years between 1588 and 1608. The first Bourbon king, Henri IV, forbade duelling by an edict issued in 1609, but this was largely ignored, and the practice continued much as it had before. It was not until Henri’s son and successor, Louis XIII, ascended to the throne that the law was revisited. In 1626, ten years after his accession, Louis issued a fresh edict outlawing the practice. Now, anyone caught duelling would lose not only his commission in the royal service but his pension as well. Sometimes, the penalty was much worse.

On the day this new edict was published, 24 March 1626, one François de Montmorency, comte de Bouteville, ignoring the new law, took part in a duel. In this instance, it played out on a busy thoroughfare, and many people were witnesses to it. The veteran of some twenty duels, Bouteville was arrested, condemned and beheaded. Such harsh treatment, over and above the prescribed punishment given in the edict, was meant to serve as a stern warning. Despite this, duels continued to take place, but now they were held in secluded areas, far away from prying eyes.

As such, the Pré-aux-Clercs, a meadow lying on the left bank of the Seine opposite the Louvre, became a favourite setting in which to hold duels. Initially, the area had been the preserve of students of the Sorbonne, but it eventually came to be used by anyone with a score to settle. In The Three Musketeers, Alexandre Dumas has Athos challenging d’Artagnan, newly arrived in Paris, to a duel near the Carmes-Déchaux, whose land was close to the Pre-aux-Clercs. Similarly, Porthos, whom d’Artagnan has also managed to offend, arranges to meet the young man behind the Luxembourg Palace, which is also in the same area.
Prior to this, the near-contemporary author, Gatien de Courtiltz de Sandras, mentions the Pré-aux-Clercs in his pseudo memoir, Mémoires de M. d’Artagnan. Here, he rightly notes that the meadow was a favourite meeting spot for duellists, but it also came to be used by Musketeers for drills.

That Armand was found ‘near’ the Pre-aux-Clercs suggests that the duel might have spilled into the surrounding areas. Alternatively, he might have been set upon either on the way to the duel or, having survived it, as he was leaving the area. Since the wording of the register is vague as to the precise whereabouts, it is impossible to say in which street he might have died.

Armand was carried to the nearby church of Saint-Sulpice, where he was buried. His interment is recorded in the church’s mortuary register, dated 22 December 1643. Given the slow speed at which news travelled and the distance between Paris and the Béarnais village of Athos, his family home, Armand would have been dead and buried before his family received the news of their loss.

Armand de Sillègue d’Athos d’Autevielle, Musketeer of the King’s Guard and gentleman of Béarn died very young, and almost certainly as a result of a duel. Unlike his beloved fictional counterpart, made so famous by Alexandre Dumas, the historical Athos would not live into old age. Instead, he died at no more than twenty-eight years old, after a mere three and a half years in royal service.

This, then, is what can be gleaned from a laconic entry hidden in the mortuary register at Saint-Sulpice. Had it not been for Gatien de Courtilz de Sandras and, after him, Alexandre Dumas, the memory of this young Musketeer would, in all probability, have been lost to time.

The Real Aramis and the Church

 

I do not enter the church – I re-enter it. It was the church that I deserted for the world; for you are aware that I did violence to my inclinations in taking the uniform of a musketeer.

 

These words, spoken by Aramis in Alexandre Dumas’s The Three Musketeers, explain with perfect clarity the spiritual calling of the young musketeer, but where did Dumas find the inspiration to endow the character of Aramis with a religious vocation?[1]

Aramis, book illustration

   As with Athos, Porthos and, indeed, d’Artagnan himself, Dumas found Aramis in the Mémoires de M. d’Artagnan, a pseudo memoir written by Gatien de Courtilz de Sandras. That is to say, he found Aramis’s name.

   Courtilz introduces Aramis as one of three brothers whom d’Artagnan encounters shortly after his arrival in Paris. The other two are Athos and Porthos, although Courtilz is not forthcoming about which of the brothers is the eldest and which the youngest. All three, however, are Musketeers. Indeed, the only information Courtilz gives his readers about Aramis is that he is a Musketeer.

   In the Mémoires de M. d’Artagnan, Aramis is introduced to d’Artagnan by Porthos, the first of the brothers the young cadet meets. As the story continues, Aramis will second d’Artagnan in various duels. The first of these is fought by the Musketeers and d’Artagnan against Cardinal Richelieu’s guards, and it provided Alexandre Dumas with the background for one of the great set pieces of The Three Musketeers. In another duel, Aramis fights alongside a group of Englishmen, one of whom turns out to be Milady’s brother. The final duel is fought after d’Artagnan is attacked in the street, apparently on Milady’s orders. Cornered by the enemy and in danger of being killed, d’Artagnan is forced to call for help, and his cry is answered by Athos, Porthos and Aramis, who fight off the assailants and, with d’Artagnan, save the day. That is the last view Courtilz gives his readers of Aramis, who plays no further part in the story.

   In Courtilz, Aramis has no connection to the church. Instead, Dumas’s inspiration to give Aramis his religious calling came from another character in Courtilz’s Mémoires, Rotondis. Rotondis is the brother of Jussac, Biscarrat and Cahussaz, all three of whom belong to the cardinal’s guards and are among the main participants in the iconic duel that Dumas would make his own. As Courtilz tells the story, Rotondis sees that his brothers are about to fight a duel with the Musketeers and d’Artagnan and are in need of a third. He offers his services despite his being on the eve of obtaining a benefice. He explains to his brothers that his ‘cassock was fastened by one button, and he would take it off to get them out of their difficulty.’[2] In the end, Rotondis is not required to fight, his brothers having found another to take his place, but compare his words with those spoken by Aramis in Twenty Years After. In this scene, the now ordained Aramis offers his sword in the service of Henriette, the queen of England. He assures her that: ‘My cassock only holds by one button, and I am quite ready to become a musketeer again.’[3]

   Dumas establishes very early in The Three Musketeers Aramis’s status as a priest-turned-Musketeer. In one of the first scenes in which Aramis is featured, M. de Treville, the captain of the Musketeers, is angry after learning that Athos, Porthos and Aramis had stayed beyond closing time at a tavern in the Rue Ferou the previous evening. As he rebukes them, he asks Aramis: ‘why the devil did you ask me for a tunic when you look so well in a cassock?’[4]

   The reasons for Aramis’s entry into the Musketeers differs also. In Courtilz de Sandras, Aramis and two of his brothers had been brought from their native Béarn to Paris by M. de Tréville. This was ‘because they had been concerned in some combats which had given them a great reputation in the province.’[5] Dumas, on the other hand, states that the king, Louis XIII, had greatly loved Aramis’s father, who had been killed at the siege of Arras, and it was for this reason that he had been granted the tunic of a Musketeer.[6]

   Dumas leaves it to Aramis himself to explain to his readers how the young man abandoned his vocation and became a Musketeer.[7] The scene takes place when d’Artagnan, having travelled to England to retrieve Queen Anne’s diamonds, returns to France. He seeks out his companions, all three of whom had been prevented from assisting him in the mission. Aramis had been wounded in the shoulder and is recovering at an inn at Crèvœur. As d’Artagnan enters his chamber, he finds his friend in the company of a curate and a superior of the Jesuits. Aramis has decided to take his vows and is discussing the thesis he plans to write in support of his ordination. Needless to say, d’Artagnan persuades him not to take such a step, but not before Aramis recounts his story.

Book illustration, abbé en soutane

   Aramis explains that he had been studying in the seminary since the age of nine. Three days before his twentieth birthday, he was on the eve of being made an abbé. He went, as was his custom, to the home of a friend who lived in the rue Payenne. Here, he would read the Lives of the Saints to the lady of the house. On this particular evening, he had translated the story of Judith into verse and was reading it out, with the lady innocently leaning her head on his shoulder so she could follow the words. At this point the gentleman of the house, an officer, returned. He saw the two together and misread the situation. The officer kept his silence, but when Aramis left, he followed him and caught up with him in the street.

   ‘Monsieur l’abbé,’ he said, ‘do you like being caned?’

   ‘I cannot say,’ replied Aramis, ‘no one has ever dared to give me one.’

   ‘Well, listen to me, monsieur l’abbé’ said the officer. ‘If you return to this house again, I will dare to cane you myself.’

   Aramis was afraid, so much so that he could find no answer to this insult. The officer laughed at him before turning on his heel and going back into his house. Aramis returned to the seminary. As a ‘gentleman born,’ his pride was naturally hurt, but he said nothing to anyone about the incident. Instead, he spoke to his superiors and told them that he did not feel sufficiently prepared for ordination. At his request, they agreed to postpone the ceremony for one year.

   Aramis used the time well. He sought out the best fencing master in Paris and took a lesson every day for the whole of that year. Then on the anniversary of the day he had been insulted, he hung up his cassock on a peg and assumed the costume of a cavalier. He went to a ball given by one of his friends, where he knew he would meet again the officer who had insulted him. Indeed the officer was there, entertaining a lady with a ballad. Aramis interrupted him.

   ‘Sir, do you still object to my going to a certain house in the rue Payenne, and would you cane me if I took it into my head to disobey you?’

   The officer looked at him in astonishment. He asked Aramis what he wanted, adding that he did not know him.

   Aramis replied that he was the little abbé who read the Lives of the Saints and who had translated Judith into verse.

   At this, the officer remembered. He sneered and asked Aramis what he wanted.

   Aramis answered that he wanted the officer to take a walk with him, at which the officer assured him that he would be happy to do so in the morning. Aramis, however, insisted that they go at that moment.

   The two men left the ball and Aramis took the officer into the rue Payenne. It was the exact spot and the same hour as the insult had taken place a year before. Under the brilliant light of the moon, the two men drew their swords, ‘and at the first pass,’ Aramis told d’Artagnan, ‘I killed him.’

   The affair caused a scandal, so much so that Aramis was obliged to abandon his calling to the priesthood, at least for a while. By this time he had already made the acquaintance of Athos and Porthos, who had taught him, ‘in addition to my fencing lessons, some merry thrusts.’ It was they who influenced his decision to become a Musketeer.

   Although he had seemingly put his vocation behind him, Aramis maintained close links with the church throughout his military career. His intention had always been to take holy orders, an objective he finally realises at the very end of The Three Musketeers.  The last time he and d’Artagnan speak, Aramis tells his friend that he intends to join the Lazarists. Here, Dumas makes one of his famous timeslips. Founded by Saint Vincent de Paul in 1624, the Lazarists were approved in 1633, too late for Aramis to join the order in 1628.

   The last sight the reader has of him, Aramis has taken a journey to Lorraine, after which he is heard of no more. He had even stopped writing to his friends. Later, they learn from Madame de Chevreuse, his former mistress, that he had taken the habit and entered a monastery at Nancy.

   Aramis is perhaps the most complex of the three Musketeers, his journey leading him along two distinct paths: that of the church and that of politics. As has been seen, Dumas found Aramis, or, more precisely, an undeveloped character called Aramis, in the pseudo-memoir written by Gatien de Courtilz de Sandras, but how do the fictional versions of Aramis compare with the historical one?

   It is probably superfluous to say, but the real Aramis was not René, chevalier d’Herblay, the abbé d’Herblay, the grand vicaire at Melun, the bishop of Vannes, the general of the Jesuits or the duke of Almeda. However, as shall be seen, Dumas was not too far off the mark when he decided to give his character of Aramis religious connections.

1750 map, Aramits lies in the centre (David Rumsey)

   Henri d’Aramits was a native of Béarn. He took his name from Aramits [or Aramitz], a small village in the verdant Pyrenean valley of Barétous in the sénéchaussée of Oloron. The village still exists and can be visited today, but the château d’Aramits no longer stands.

   Aramits belonged to the old nobility of France and could trace his ancestry at least as far as the fourteenth century. In 1376, the name of Jean, abbé d’Aramits, is listed among the gentlemen commissioned by Menaud du Beguer, comte de Foix and Béarn. Bringing with him a company of one hundred infantry from the Ossau valley, Jean answered the muster to the army of Gaston Phébus in Morlasà. Five years later, on 22 June 1381, Gaston Phébus honoured Jean by raising the status of his domain.[8]

   At this point, the Aramits family was Catholic, but they converted to l’église reformée during the second half of the sixteenth century. This move was probably inspired by the conversion of the queen of Navarre, Jeanne d’Albret. The region in which Aramits lived became a stronghold for the reformed cause. In 1569, during the Wars of Religion, Charles Durand, Baron du Sénégas, one of the lieutenants of Gabriel de Montgomery, comte de Lorge, entrusted the newly-captured Château de Mauléon to Pierre d’Aramits. Unable to hold the château for more than a few days, Pierre was obliged to abandon it to Catholic troops commanded by Charles de Luxe.[9]

   Pierre d’Aramits married Louise de Sauguis, the daughter of the nobleman, Louis de Tardets, écuyer and abbé laïque of Sauguis. A military man, Tardets had also served during the Wars of Religion in the company of Henri II, king of Navarre. He later served the châtelain of Mauléon in a military capacity. Pierre and Louise had three children: Charles, Marie and Phébus. Neither their dates of birth nor the order in which they came into the world is known. What can be said is that only Charles and Marie survived into adulthood.

   On 12 October 1597, Marie d’Aramits signed a contract of marriage with Jean de Peyrer, seigneur de Troisvilles, and was married soon afterwards. Their son, Arnaud-Jean de Troisvilles, would provide the inspiration for the celebrated Captain de Tréville of The Three Musketeers.

   Charles, the surviving son of Pierre d’Aramits, became the head of the family upon the death of his father. He married Catherine de Rague, daughter of Jean de Rague, écuyer and abbé laïque of Larins and Catherine de Badie-Casabant, heiress to the house of Espalunge. Although Charles took possession of the domain of Espalunge in right of his wife, he felt no need to add its name to his own, and he remained Charles d’Aramits. He also became abbé laïque of Aramits, having acquired the title from Captain Arnaud de La Salle.[10] At an unknown date, Charles joined the Musketeers, serving as maréchal de logis, a senior NCO, under the command his nephew, Troisvilles.[11]

   The marriage of Charles d’Aramits and Catherine de Rague also produced three children, one son and two daughters: Henri, Marie and Jeanne. Henri, the historical figure upon whom the character of Aramis is tentatively based, was born circa 1620. This makes him some seventeen years younger than his fictional counterpart as written by Dumas, but probably nearer to the age of the character created by Courtilz de Sandras. Of his childhood and education nothing is known. It can be accepted that, as the only son, he would have been brought up in the expectation that he would take over the family possessions in due course and trained accordingly. He would also have received at least some military training, including horsemanship and handling weapons, as well as lessons including reading, writing and maths. He would have spoken the Béarnais dialect, with French being virtually a second language.

   Henri d’Aramits joined the Musketeers at some point after May 1640.[12] In the Mémoires de M. d’Artagnan, Courtilz de Sandras asserts that Henri was brought to Paris by Tréville (Troisvilles). Since Henri and Troisvilles were first cousins, this might be true. However, sine Henri’s father was also a Musketeer at this point, he could equally have joined the company at his suggestion. More likely, his entering the Musketeers would have been inevitable. Henri, as has been seen, came from a long line of noblesse d’epée, or military nobility, so joining the most prestigious company in France was an obvious career move. Indeed, it was one of only two career paths open to him, the other being the church. In Henri’s case, the two overlap somewhat.

   No details of Aramits’s military service or the rank he might have achieved appear to have survived, and only brief glimpses of him are allowed to researchers. A tradition in his native Béarn has it that he served alongside his father for a time. Henri d’Aramits returned to Béarn from time to time. One such occasion was in 1650, when he married Jeanne de Béarn-Bonnasse, a local heiress whose family quality and status very much reflected his own.[13] The couple’s coat of arms featured a flame with two palms, positioned horizontally, one above the other.[14] Aramits is seen again two years later, on 19 June 1652, when he and his wife attended the wedding of his sister, Jeanne d’Aramits, to Armand de Casamayor, pastor of the church of Oloron.[15]

   According to Aramits’s will and testament, drawn up on 22 April 1654, the couple had three children, two sons and one daughter, Armand, Clément and Louise. The eldest, Armand, was designated as heir.[16] Why Aramits wrote his will at this time is not known. It might be speculated that he was ill and thought he might die, or perhaps he was taking care of family business before leaving home. However, at this point, the Musketeers had been temporarily disbanded, and would not be reinstated until January 1657. As such, Aramits might have served in another regiment or, like d’Artagnan, served in a civilian capacity. Given the near coincidence of dates, he could have provided some form of service at the coronation of Louis XIV, which took place at Reims in June 1654. Unfortunately, there is no way to know. Whatever the case, Aramits’s fourth and last child, a daughter named Madeleine, was born a few months after he had drawn up his will.

   The last sighting of Aramits occurs on 10 February 1657, when he and Jeanne witnessed the signing of the marriage contract of Jeanne’s sister, Anne de Béarn-Bonnasse to Arnaud de Juncas d’Oloron, a councillor at the parlement.[17]

The château d'Espalungue (La Rép des Pyrénées)

   From his father, Henri d’Aramits inherited the domains of Aramits and Espalungue, and became abbé laïque of Aramits. It is here, as well as his Huguenot heritage, that his religious connections come to the fore. However, as the name suggests, the abbé laïque, or lay father, was not an ordained minister. Instead, it simply meant that the Abbaye, that is, a convent or monastery, formed part of his domain and entitled him to receive the tithes and revenues. This arrangement was a staple of the feudal tradition of Béarn, and there were two such establishments at Aramits: the Abadie-Susan and the Abadie-Jusan.

   As to Aramits’s religious leanings, nothing is known. It is possible that he remained true to his Huguenot heritage. On the other hand, he could have converted to Catholicism, perhaps to make his life less complicated in the Musketeers, a Catholic regiment. Had he done so, he would perhaps have been inspired by Henri IV, who considered Paris worth a mass.[18]

   Dumas, however, knew about none of this. He found Aramis and his companions in arms in a pseudo-memoir and was intrigued by their names. He, with his collaborator Auguste Maquet, took the blank canvasses that were these characters and gave them personalities, relationships and stories before searching for a suitable backdrop against which to set them.[19] That he chose to associate Aramis with the church is a happy coincidence inspired by another of Courtilz’s characters, Rotondis.

   When it comes to the death of Henri d’Aramits’s, once again, the researcher is met with silence. Courtilz de Sandras offers no hint that might be followed up. He had quickly dropped his version of Aramis and his ‘brothers’ from his narrative, so no description of his death appears in Mémoires de M. d’Artagnan. In Alexandre Dumas, Aramis, along with his colleagues, survives into the last volume of the Musketeers cycle. However, while Athos, Porthos and d’Artagnan meet their various ends, Aramis alone remains alive at story’s end. The year and circumstances of the historical Aramits’s death must, therefore, remain a mystery. All that can be said is that it took place prior to 1681, which is when his

The gateway to the Abbaye, Aramits (Google Earth)

second son, Clément, inherited the family property. By this time, the eldest son and heir, Armand, had died without issue. The Abbaye d’Aramits, which had been held by the family since at least the fourteenth century, passed into new hands when Aramits’s daughter, Louise, pledged it to her brother-in-law, Antoine de Laure in February 1702.[20] Of the abbey buildings, only the gateway and part of the wall survive. The arch is decorated with the plumed hat of the Musketeer, and two plaques describe the history of the man whose life was lifted out of the ordinary by a master storyteller and transformed into the stuff of legend.

 

Notes

1, Aramis utters these words in chapter 26.

2, Courtilz de Sandras, vol 1, p.19.

3, Dumas, Vingt ans Après, chapter XLV; some English translations place it in chapter XLIV

4, Dumas, Les Trois Mousquetaires, chapter 3.

5, Courtilz de Sandras, p.13.

6, Dumas, Les Trois Mousquetaires, chapter 26.

7, Aramis tells his story in Les Trois Mousquetaires, chapter 26.

8, Jaurgain, pp.218-219.

9, Jaurgain, p.219.

10, Jaurgain, pp.219-220.

11, Jaurgain, p.221.

12, Jaurgain, p.221.

13, Jaurgain, p.226.

14, Jaurgain, p.230.

15, Jaurgain, p.227.

16, Jaurgain, pp.227-228.

17, Jaurgain, p.228.

18, Horne, p.76.

19, Dumas’s method of working and his collaboration with Maquet requires an article of its own.

20, Jaurgain, pp.228-230.

 

Bibliography

Bell, A Craig, Alexandre Dumas, A Biography and Study (London: Cassell, 1950)

Courtilz de Sandras, Gatien de, Mémoires de M. d'Artagnan: capitaine-lieutenant de la 1ère compagnie des mousquetaires du roi, volume I (Paris: Montgredien et C^ie, 1896)

Courtilz de Sandras, Memoirs de Monsieur d’Artagnan, Captain-Lieutenant of the First Company of the King’s Musketeers, translated by Ralph Nevill, volume I (Boston: Little, Brown, and Company, 1903)

Dumas, Alexandre, Les Trois Mousquetaires et Vingt Ans Après, edited by Claude Schopp (Paris: Éditions Robert Laffont, 1991)

Dumas, Alexandre, The Three Musketeers, edited and introduced by David Coward (Oxford: Oxford World’s Classics, 1991)

Dumas, Alexandre, The Three Musketeers, translated and edited by Lord Sudley (London: Penguin Books, 1952)

Hall, Geoffrey F. and Joan Sanders, D’Artagnan, the Ultimate Musketeer (Boston: Houghton Mifflin Company, The Riverside Press Cambridge, 1964)

Horne, Alistair, Seven Ages of Paris (New York: Vintage Books, 2004)

Jaurgain, Jean de, Troisvilles, d’Artagnan et les Trois Mousquetaires (Paris: Librairie Ancienne, 1910)

Le Brun, Dominique, Richard Noury, Sure les Traces de d’Artagnan (Toulouse: Éditions Privat, 2006

Maund, Keri and Phil Nanson, The Four Musketeers, (Stroud: Tempus, 2005)

Schopp, Claude, Alexandre Dumas: Genius of Life, translated by A.J. Koch (New York: Franklin Watts, 1988)