All language subtitles for A.History.of.Britain.08of15.The.British.Wars.DivX5-AC3.www.MVGroup.org

England and Scotland,
two realms divided until now.

In 1603, they had come together
in one person,

James VI of Scotland, and First of England.

He wanted to be known
as the king of Great Britain.

But what was this new thing
in the world, this Great Britain?

In the first years of the 17th century,
only the map makers could tell you.

One of them,
a busy ex-tailor called John Speed,

published his atlas of 67 maps called
"The Theatre of the Empire of Great Britain",

and covering every inch
of Scotland, Wales, Ireland and England.

What lay behind Speed's atlas
was an optimistic vision

of happy, harmonious Britannia
coming together under a king

who was determined to bring unity
after centuries of war and hatred.

And in the Vale of the Red Horse
in Warwickshire,

John Speed had a glimpse of what
this British heaven on earth might look like.

Meadowing pastures with the
green mantle so embroidered with flowers

that from Edgehill
we might behold another Eden.

On October 23rd, 1642,
another man, King Charles I,

surveyed the same landscape
from the same ridge.

The meadows were now full,
not with cows and harebells,

but cannon, pikes and musketeers.

By nightfall, there would be 3,000
British corpses lying in the freezing mud.

Here at Edgehill,
Eden had become Golgotha.

Over the next long years,

the nations that both James and Charles
yearned to bring together

would tear each other apart
in murderous civil wars.

Hundreds of thousands of lives would be lost
in battles, sieges, epidemics and famine.

A raw body count fails to measure
the full enormity of a disaster

which reached
into virtually every part of Britain,

from Cornwall to County Connaught,
from York to the Hebrides.

It tore apart communities
of the parish and the county,

which all through the turmoil
of the Reformation had managed to agree

on how the country should be governed
and who should do the governing.

Men who had broken bread together
now tried to break each other's heads.

Men who had judged together
now judged each other.

At the end of it all, there would be
a united Britain as the Stuarts had hoped,

but it would not be a united kingdom,
it would be a united republic.

The civil wars were not
just an unfortunate accident

or an occasion to dress up
as Cavaliers and Roundheads.

They were that most un-British event,
a war of ideas,

ideas that mattered deeply to contemporaries

because at the heart of them was an
argument about liberty and obedience.

That argument became lethal at Edgehill,

and it would echo for generations
down through British history,

and as a matter of fact,
that argument has never really gone away.

To the survivors,
looking back, the issue was simple.

Whether the king
should govern as a god by his will

and the people governed
by force as beasts,

or whether the people
should be governed by their own consent.

Yes, that's the voice
of a republican in exile, Edmund Ludlow,

but that same voice, that same memory,
would be heard through the centuries

and in revolutions far beyond our shores -

in America in 1776, in France in 1789.

It goes against the grain, doesn't it?
A bit embarrassing, not to say painful,

to be thought of as the fountainhead
of revolutions. It's not very British.

All that shouting,
all that Bible waving, all that killing.

So was it all an aberration, then?

Well, no, actually.

These wars were the crucible of our modern
history, for out of the fires of these wars

came eventually a genuinely
parliamentary monarchy.

Of course, no one
understood that at the time,

no one was reading from a script which
commanded, "Go forth and be democratic."

So when the 24-year-old
Charles became king,

no one in their right mind
could possibly have imagined

a war between parliament and the Crown.

No succession in over two centuries
had been as settled or as unthreatened.

Charles may have been smaller
than life, long faced, painfully formal,

private to the point of being secretive,
a stickler for decorum,

as cool, as still and as pallid as marble,

but to many this was rather
a welcome contrast with his father, James,

who'd been loud-mouthed,
pedantic and uncouth.

From the beginning,
for those paying attention,

there was something ominously distant
about this small man on a big horse,

too lofty to bother
with a coronation procession.

A man who believed
that kings were little gods on earth.

Charles saw himself as the father of the
nation, and like any 17th-century father,

he thought he was responsible
for the well-being of his family,

but in return he expected
to be strictly obeyed.

Of course, like James before him,

he would listen to the people
through their representatives in parliament,

but only when he chose
and on matters he saw fit to be discussed.

But the House of Commons
was filled with historians and lawyers,

and for them parliament was not
simply a matter of royal convenience.

Ever heard of Magna Carta?

For these men, parliamentary history,
the history they were reading and writing,

was an ongoing epic of liberty,
and they were the keepers of the flame.

The countdown to the civil wars
started now, though nobody heard it.

It was a countdown that could have
been stopped time and again,

but the ticking grew louder and louder.

By 1642 it would be deafening.

And what triggered that countdown? Money.

One of the first things this young king
did was declare war on Spain,

and nothing was more ruinously expensive
than foreign war.

There was the added
complication that in England,

even little gods on earth had to go cap
in hand to parliament for the money to fight.

For Charles, the issue was personal.

Wars of religion were tearing Europe apart.

Protestants and Catholics were killing
each other from Sweden to Hungary

with unspeakable cruelty.

They'd forced his own sister,
the Queen of Bohemia, into exile.

In his quiet way,
Charles burned to be a Christian warrior.

There was also the matter
of his older brother, Henry.

A champion of the joust,
celebrated by the poets as a Protestant hero,

Henry was supposed to have been king,
but he had died when Charles was a boy,

and his armour had passed on to him.

It was too big.

All his life, Charles would try to fit the steel,

try to become the gartered
Charlemagne beneath the British oak.

And this war against Spain
would be his big chance.

Surely parliament would cough up money
for the great Protestant crusade?

Oh, yes, was the answer, but -and it was
a big but - with all due respect,

we don't much care for your choice
of commander, the Duke of Buckingham.

So while we're happy to fork over subsidies,
we think we'll make it a short-term contract.

Renewable, to be sure,
if he turns out all right.

But parliament knew
perfectly well it wouldn't.

From the start,
parliament had Buckingham's number.

To them, he was an upstart nobody,
a peacock with a pretty face

who'd been promoted outrageously
above the great earls of the land.

He'd been James' favourite -

well, actually more than a favourite
if the court scandal was to be believed -

and now he'd wormed
his way into Charles's favour too.

The pair of them had travelled
together incognito to Spain

in a bid to woo
the Spanish Infanta for Charles.

They'd returned
from their escapade empty-handed.

But to the young, insecure Charles, glamorous,
worldly Buckingham had become his idol.

To the rest of the court however,
Buckingham was a parasite, a pest, a viper.

Why, in God's name,
give him a blank cheque?

It was obvious what would
happen to the money and it did.

Buckingham blew a cool �240,000
in a raid on France

so botched it seemed
the act of a saboteur, not a supremo.

So if Charles wanted
a penny more, his darling had to go.

Presume to talk to the king about
his choice of trusted generals and ministers?

Presume to tell the king?
Presume to lay down the law?

Why, that was an end of kingship itself.

So in 1626, Charles did what he assumed
kings worth the name were entitled to do.

He would dismiss parliament and collect
the money himself through a forced loan.

It was the politest bullying.
Charles was always polite.

The gloves were off.

Loan refusers were threatened, prosecuted.

Two of them, Sir Francis Barrington
and Sir Edmund Hampden died,

either in prison or shortly afterwards.

Many did pay up, but their compliance
spoke of fear as much as loyalty.

There had always been
professional grumblers when it came to tax,

but these country gentlemen were
speaking a new and dangerous language.

No tax could be lawful without
the consent of parliament, they said.

The money ran out again in 1628,

and Charles was forced
to call another parliament.

Speaker after speaker rose to the rostrum
in defence of the liberties of England.

They drafted a formal list
of their grievances in a Petition of Right,

which Charles graciously conceded as
the price for saving his beloved Buckingham.

Any slight chance of Charles honouring it,
and it was slight enough to begin with,

went out of the window when later, in 1628,

Buckingham was assassinated
to national cheering.

Convulsed with grief and hardened by rage,
Charles shut parliament down.

As the doors were being closed,
one MP, Sir John Eliot, stood up and roared

that anyone imposing a tax
without parliament's consent

would be a capital enemy
to this kingdom and commonwealth.

Charles disagreed, Eliot was the traitor,

so off to the Tower of London he went,
where he died in 1632.

But for Charles, the rainstorm of words
had now mercifully stopped.

In their place beamed
sunlight from the heavens.

Triumphantly too,
the war with Spain was now over.

So no more begging for money,
no more of that aggravation.

So in 1630,
as far as Charles was concerned,

peace had broken out in Britannia.

His father James
had always preached peace,

and James was much on Charles's mind.

Charles decided his father's memory
deserved something special,

and courtesy of the Flemish Catholic painter,
Peter Paul Rubens, he would get it.

Not one, but three huge painted tributes.

A go-for-broke manifesto
for the Stuart dynasty.

(CHORAL MUSIC)

They would be placed high on the ceiling
of the building he had inherited from James,

Inigo Jones's masterpiece,
the Banqueting House in Whitehall.

In 1636, they were triumphantly
hoist aloft for all the world to see.

There are three visions here
of James' benevolent rule.

In one panel, James is depicted
as the bringer of peace and prosperity.

In the central panel, Rubens gives us
James being carried to Heaven as a god.

In the third, he is Solomon being offered
the two crowns of England and Scotland.

The Banqueting House in Whitehall
simply takes your breath away

by the sheer cheek
with which it ignores the English Channel.

It's a piece of Italy transplanted into Britain.

Classical columns, tall windows,
the ultimate architectural light box,

designed to flood
the Stuart monarchy with brilliance.

It was also meant to pin
any unbelievers to the floor

through the heavyweight power
of its muscled allegories,

singing the virtues of the godlike king.

So when you walked
in here and you remembered

that when the Stuarts had described
kings as 'little gods on earth',

you realised they were not kidding.

The Banqueting House
was Charles's absolutist dreamland.

It was here that Charles
could act out the grandest of his fantasies,

that his three kingdoms, England, Scotland
and Ireland, were finally yoked together

in harmony under the ruler
who was firm but just.

What better way to give
this new British court a European makeover,

to turn it into a byword
for baroque gorgeousness?

There would be a stunning new royal art
collection gathered from all over Europe,

of a quality to make popes
and emperors moan with envy -

Mantegnas, Titians, Rembrandts.

Charles's unprepossessing
French Queen, Henrietta Maria,

with her sallow skin and discoloured teeth,
was airbrushed into stardom

by the glossiest glamourist
of them all, Anthony Van Dyke.

And beyond the palace, the king
was satisfied to see his will being done,

people he disapproved of
being made to desist.

I like not this.

Out in the shires,
his taxes were being collected,

his justice was being carried out,
and the skies had not fallen in.

Who missed the talkers,
the parliament now? Surely nobody.

Sooner or later, Charles
was going to have to come down to earth,

and when he did he'd notice
that his earthly kingdom

was ruled not by images but by words.

Now, unlike the invitingly soft scenery
of Rubens's fantasy kingdom,

words were hard things,
black and white things.

And in the hands of wordsmiths,
lawyers, preachers, printers,

they had a razor-sharp edge

that would cut right through
all that Stuart mush about British union

and bring the playground of the gods
crashing to the ground.

The nay-sayers had not gone away,
and they had not shut up.

The men who had declared taxes without
parliamentary consent to be illegal in 1625,

still thought this in 1635.

Yes, they reluctantly forked up,
but it didn't stop them smouldering with rage.

Typical was a Buckinghamshire
landowner called John Hampden.

John Hampden was not some abrasive,
unworldly hothead.

He was a very well respected and important
member of the county community.

Hampden had been deeply moved
by the plight of Sir John Eliot in prison.

He'd visited him
and looked after his teenage boys.

Now he would inherit the mantle of
tax resister, this time against ship money,

the tax that paid for the upkeep of the navy.

Why should counties
with no coastlines pay this?

It was iniquitous.

It may only have been a few shillings,
and in the end Hampden lost his case,

but he won the argument.
The embers were hot again.

And alongside the lawyers in parliament,

Charles now faced
another group of intransigent critics

who had something even more
unanswerable than Magna Carta -

Holy Scripture -
and they of course were the Puritans.

For the hotter kind
of Protestants, the Puritans,

the Stuart obsession with harmony
and unity was at best meaningless claptrap,

and at worst it was a plot to delude the
gullible into bending the knee to Rome again.

For them, the reality was conflict,

the unbridgeable division
between the saved and the damned.

There was an endless battle between
the saints and the legions of the Devil.

The fires had already been lit
in Europe, for the Reformation was a war,

and that war had not yet been won.

The Puritans looked around them,
but all they could see from this king

was a betrayal of the godly Reformation.

Peace with Catholic Spain abroad,
and at home, even worse,

a church ruled by bishops
who were little better than Papists -

bishops who berated the Puritans
for having taken the Reformation too far.

In the face of this cosmic battle, to stay still,
to keep silent, was a sin and a crime.

For the Puritans, Charles I
ought to have been a custom-built king,

austere, decorous and chaste.

The fact was, his religion still
seemed to need Protestant mumbo-jumbo,

all those signs and mysteries.

Even this would have been palatable had
he not wanted to foist it on everyone else,

to force everyone to kneel at its shrine.

The Puritans declared war against any
creeping signs of Romanism in the Church -

paintings and statues,
crucifixes and altar rails.

And it escaped nobody's notice
that Charles was married to a Catholic.

These men were very much in a minority.

But of course, being the elect, they expected
to be in a minority - the party of redemption.

In fact, they glorified
in the slightness of their numbers,

the self-purifying troop of Gideon's Army.

Men like the London wood-turner, Nehemiah
Wallington, would be in the front line,

a storm trooper of the Reformation,
ready to fight every waking hour.

You may see now how Antichrist doth plot
against the poor church of God.

But so long as we put our trust in the Lord,
let us once again take note

of his great deliverances from those
great and devilish bloodsucking Papists.

Of course,
Charles was not going to lose any sleep

over the Nehemiah Wallingtons of this world.

But Puritanism was not just the faith
of merchants and artisans.

There were plenty among
the gentry and the nobility too,

who believed just as passionately
in the word of scripture,

and for all of them it was an article of faith
that nobody, neither pope nor king,

would ever be allowed
to flout the word of God.

And Charles would never
be allowed to forget it.

Yes, finally, they were a minority.

But it was one of Charles's
most costly errors to let so many

in the Protestant middle
of the country come to regard him

as a greater threat to their church
than the Puritan militants.

And for this fatal error, Charles
had one man to thank, William Laud,

whom he made
Archbishop of Canterbury in 1633.

Poor Laud. Is there anything good to be
said for Laud and the principles he stood for?

He's gone down as one of the most
arrogant and destructive men in our history.

But put yourself in his vestments
and it looks different.

Far from being an elitist, Laud thought it was
the Puritans who were the authoritarians.

Thou shalt smite them
and utterly destroy them,

Thou shalt make no covenant with them,
nor show mercy unto them,

It was the Puritans, with their obsession with
reading and preaching, their gloomy fatalism,

their endless battle cries,
who deprived the ordinary people

of what they needed from
the Church - colour, spectacle,

the Saviour's cross upon the altar,

the comforts of ritual,
sacrament and ceremony,

a fence to keep dogs off the
communion tray, and most of all,

the consoling possibility that sinful souls
might at the end be received into Christ.

What was so very wrong with that?

Well, what was wrong was that Laud was
not presenting his programme as an option.

He was presenting it as an order.

Believe this, worship like this,
pray like this, or take the consequences.

Anyone who defied him
found himself before a special tribunal.

Dissidents like Prynne, Burton and Bastwick
became Laud's highest-profile victims.

They had their ears cut off.

Laud's iron fist
went unopposed for the time being.

By the mid-1630s,
Charles could see no obstacle

to consummating the great Stuart plan
of harmony across the three kingdoms,

whether they wanted it or not.

England was under control,

and thanks to the brutal tactics
of his Lord Deputy in Ireland,

Charles's other right-hand hard man,
Thomas Wentworth, so too was Ireland.

That just left Scotland.

And in particular its obstinate,
cantankerous Presbyterian Kirk.

It had a galling, and to Charles,
completely unacceptable,

contempt for the authority of bishops.

Charles was determined to break this.

Then the whole realm
could pray and worship as one.

But the obsession with union
which so consumed both James and Charles

would in the end turn out to guarantee
nothing but hatred and division.

Charles, born in Dunfermline,
was himself Scottish.

So surely there could be
no problem with this?

Well, yes, there could.

It had taken Charles eight whole years

to even bother travelling
to Edinburgh for his Scottish coronation.

He'd become Scotland's very first absentee
king, and there would be a price to pay.

Charles was completely
incapable of appreciating

Calvinism's call for a great moral purification.

As far as he was concerned, Scotland
and England were not all that different.

If one kingdom had been bent to his royal
will by a show of well-intentioned firmness,

so would the other one.

But of course, the Scottish Reformation
had been nothing like England's.

South of the border, changes had happened
in the church at a slow and fitful pace.

In Scotland, Calvinism had struck in great
electrifying bursts of charismatic conversion,

backed up by preachers,
teachers and ministers,

and only forced into
reluctant and periodic retreat by James I,

who unlike his son,
had known when to stop.

So when Charles announced the introduction
into Scotland of the new prayer book,

he would discover just how little
he understood of the kingdom of his birth.

The royal council had
very obligingly let it be known

that the prayer book had to be introduced,
at the latest, by Easter 1637.

Then there was a printing delay.

This gave ample time
for the Calvinist preachers and lords

to organise exactly
what they were going to do.

Archbishop Laud, the king, the council, the
bishops, everyone fell straight into the trap.

Whoever thought a little thing
like this would start a revolution?

The British wars began here,
in St Giles's Cathedral, Edinburgh,

on the morning of July 23rd, 1637,

and the first missiles that were launched
were not cannonballs, they were footstools.

They were launched
straight down the nave,

and their targets were the dean
and bishop of the cathedral.

The right reverends had just started to read
from a royally authorised new prayer book,

and it was this attempt
to read from the liturgy

which had triggered a deafening
outburst of shouting and wailing,

especially from the many women
gathered in the church.

The prayer book riots,
though, were just the fuse.

What those who lit it wanted
was to blow up the bishops

and the whole royal church
establishment in Scotland.

On February 28th, 1638, a national covenant
was signed in a four-hour ceremony

along with sermons and psalms
exhorting the godly to be the new Israel.

The next day, the covenant was brought
here to the open churchyard at Greyfriars,

where hordes of ordinary Scots
added their signature.

Copies were made and distributed
the length and breadth of Scotland.

For countless thousands of Scots,
signing the covenant was just an extension

of the vows they took in Kirk,
banding them with God.

But very rapidly, the document assumed
the status of a kind of patriotic scripture,

determining who and who was not a real
Christian, who and who was not truly a Scot.

For Charles, there was
no question of negotiating.

They were all rebels,
they must all be punished.

There was just one snag -

it wasn't Charles
who had the formidable army, but the Scots,

veterans of the wars of religion in Europe.

Facing his first really crucial test,
Charles, the British Charlemagne,

found he couldn't raise money
and he couldn't raise men.

It took one bruising skirmish for Charles
to see the folly of further fighting.

A truce was hastily signed.

But he wouldn't back off.

By now, Charles was desperate
enough for men and money

to do what he must have hoped he'd never
have to do again: Call a parliament.

After eleven years of gathering dust,

the House of Commons would once again
be full of passionate argument and legal fury.

If Charles thought that eleven years meant
the old quarrels had been forgotten,

he was ignoring a force new
to British politics - the news.

For the great political dramas
of the last 20 years

had been hotly consumed
by a reading public addicted to newspapers,

pamphlets, woodcuts
and the so-called sixpenny separates,

recording all the debates and controversies
and dispatched around the shires.

The 1640 parliament took up
exactly where it had left off in 1629,

when Charles had closed it down.

It must have come
as an unpleasant surprise

when this new parliament, instead
of laying imagined grievances aside,

immediately began to resurrect them.

This parliament
lasted only three short weeks

before, once again, Charles suspended it.

But his list of options was getting shorter
by the day, and they were all bad.

He wasn't going to cave in to the Scots
and he wasn't going to re-open parliament.

But there was a third way, courtesy of his
Lord Deputy in Ireland, Thomas Wentworth.

Why not use an Irish Catholic army
to crush the Presbyterian Scots?

Grateful for his advice, Charles made
Wentworth Earl of Strafford, but hesitated.

Charles knew that Protestant England
was hardly likely to approve

of a Catholic army
attacking their brother Scots.

What followed in 1640 was a breakdown
of deference of frightening magnitude.

Officers were being attacked
by their own men.

The latest round of fighting
with the Scots was a disaster.

Newcastle, with its priceless coal,
was captured.

To get it back, to get the Scots
out of England, Charles needed cash fast.

He had no choice now,
he would have to re-open parliament.

There'd never be
a better opportunity for John Pym

and his fellow parliamentary leaders
to rein in the king.

Pym had discovered, whether he understood
the word or not, the elixir of revolution.

Yesterday's truism - obey the king -
is tomorrow's bad joke.

Yesterday's unthinkable - abolish all bishops -
seems to be tomorrow's necessity.

All around London
were enormous seething crowds,

practically laying siege to Westminster.

John Pym's demands
were simple and blunt:

No taxes ever without parliament's say-so,
parliaments to be elected every three years,

and most decisively of all,
looking right into Charles's eyes,

no parliament, especially not this one,
could be dissolved without its own consent.

When Charles,
through gritted teeth, conceded,

it was the destruction
of the absolute monarchy.

Or was it?

The king still had one card he could play -

that Catholic army that Wentworth,
the Earl of Strafford, had raised in Ireland.

Pym now knew
he would have to annihilate Strafford

if he was to defend parliament
from this threat.

So in the spring of 1641,
Strafford was impeached.

Sick and grey-haired, he proved
frustratingly impossible to convict of treason,

so Pym resorted
to an Act of Attainder instead.

This merely required a burden of suspicion.

When Strafford had spoken
of an Irish army reducing the kingdom,

hadn't he meant England, argued Pym.

But there was one problem: The Act of
Attainder needed the signature of the king.

Poor Charles. Memories of Buckingham
must have flooded back into his mind.

For a king obsessed by loyalty, how could
he abandon Strafford, his most faithful ally?

It was Strafford himself
who spared Charles the agony of indecision.

He knew that only
his own death could save the king

and the country from further upheaval.

In a final letter written to Charles, Strafford
begged the king to do what had to be done.

May it please your sacred majesty,

I understand that the minds of men
are more and more incensed against me,

and to set your majesty's
conscience at liberty,

I do most humbly beseech
Your Majesty, for preventing of evils

that may happen by your refusal,
to pass the bill.

Weeping, Charles signed the warrant.

Strafford was led out onto Tower Green,

surrounded by jeering crowds,
and beheaded.

Charles never forgave himself
for this act of betrayal.

But it had never occurred
to Strafford that his death

would actually make things worse
for Charles rather than better.

And what happened next
was the worst that could happen.

Ireland erupted.

With Strafford executed, Irish Catholics
felt unprotected against Protestant reprisals.

In a pre-emptive strike, they attacked first.

Late in 1641, news of Irish killings
began filtering through England,

graphically illustrated
by a campaign of atrocity prints.

Now, bad things did happen, but the
usual fantasy pictures of impaled babies

tripped the wire
of Anglo-Protestant paranoia.

Even worse, it was rumoured
that the Catholic rebels claimed

to be acting on behalf of the king.

The Puritan press
hit the streets screaming, "We're next".

Charles was painfully aware how costly
his dream of a united Britain had become.

First, the Presbyterian Scots
had brought down his personal rule,

now the mass panic
triggered by the Catholic Irish

threatened to finish off his power altogether.

With events spiralling out of control,
Pym saw this was

the moment to try and strip the king
of virtually all his authority.

Charles's response was to try to arrest him.

But Pym and four other
parliamentary leaders had been tipped off

that the king was marching
on parliament with an armed guard.

They waited till the last moment
and slipped out of the back.

Charles was left empty-handed.

It was an unmitigated fiasco.

The gamble had only been worthwhile
so long as Charles was sure of total success.

Exposed now, just as Pym had wanted,
as a naked, abject failure,

Charles appeared to be something worse
than a despot - a blundering despot.

Both sides were moving fast
beyond any point of reconciliation.

Pym made it clear that parliament
now needed to protect itself

and England from the king.

It set about raising an army.

In July 1642, Bulstrode Whitelocke thought
out loud about the abyss facing the country.

It is strange to note
how insensibly we have slipped into this

beginning of a civil war
by one unexpected accident after another,

as waves of the sea would have brought
us this far and which we scarce know how.

What the issue shall be,
no man alive can tell.

Probably few of us here
may live to see the end of it.

What's truly amazing and touching
about the spring and summer of 1642

is the abundance of evidence
we have about the agonies of allegiance:

The real soul searching
that people went through

when they were pondering the most painful
and weightiest decision of their lives -

which side to join themselves to,
and how earnestly and how honestly

they tried to justify
that decision to their families,

their friends and not least, to themselves.

Cruellest of all,
it tore fathers away from sons.

The sad history of one
Buckinghamshire family says it all.

The Verneys had been the very model
of a loving, companionable gentry family,

but they were torn apart in this crisis.

Ralph had sat next to his father
during the great parliaments of 1640,

but now he not only expressed
support for the parliamentary cause

but actually swore the oath required
of all members after the militia ordinance.

Now, oaths were very serious things
in the 17th century,

and taking this one
split Ralph not only from his father,

but from his hothead
younger Royalist brother Edmund,

who failed to see why Ralph should not
be honouring not only his father but the king.

And yet, and yet,
the Verneys did remain a family.

Ralph had made his vow to parliament,

but his father felt under obligation to Charles.

It was a bond of personal loyalty which held,

despite Edmund having
little enthusiasm for what the king had done.

I do not like the quarrel and do
heartily wish that the king would yield

and consent to what they desire,
so that my conscience is only concerned

in honour and gratitude
to follow my master.

I have eaten his bread
and served him near 30 years

and will not do so base
a thing as to forsake him.

In the third week of August, 1642,
Charles raised his standard.

The Rubicon had been crossed.

The honour of holding Charles's personal
flag in the battle fell to Sir Edmund Verney.

He swore only death
would prise it from his hands.

By the time
the Royalist army arrived at Edgehill,

its prospects had been transformed.

It was now about 20,000 strong,

about 14,000 of whom took up position on
the ridge in the afternoon of October 22nd.

At the top of the hill
were the king and his two sons,

Charles, the Prince of Wales,
and the nine-year-old James, Duke of York,

along with Prince Rupert
and his toy poodle, Boy.

It was here that Charles I planted his flag.

In mid-afternoon, the commander
of the parliamentary army, the Earl of Essex,

began to cannonade the Royalist infantry.

Balls thudded and hissed in the grass,
taking a life here, a limb there.

Then Prince Rupert
led his cavalry forward down the hill.

For the men in the parliament lines,
watching a distant trot turn into a canter

and then a charge,
and seeing their own muskets have no effect

on the suddenly terrifyingly hurtling
horsemen, the moment of truth had arrived.

War slammed into them.

Big dark horses, bright, deadly steel.
They panicked and broke,

Rupert's horsemen following fleeing
troopers all the way to the baggage train.

Rupert must have thought
this was going to be easy.

But by now the parliamentary infantry
had crawled forward,

the two great phalanxes of pikemen
heaving and pushing at each other

amidst the musket fire
until they dropped of exhaustion.

Somewhere amidst the smoke,
fire and steel was Sir Edmund Verney.

The royal standard clenched
in his hand made him an obvious target.

They never even found his corpse.

# There lies a knight slain
under his shield, with a down... #

In the following months, the war
broke down into grim, grinding local conflicts.

Parliament held on to London,

the king tried to nail down bases
of strength in the north and south-west.

The south-western
campaign was especially savage.

Towns like Exeter
and Taunton changed hands.

Local families were divided
between brothers and cousins.

Old friends became new enemies.

Two such opponents, men in every
other respect virtually indistinguishable,

were William Waller, a parliamentary
general, and Ralph Hopton, a Royalist.

In a lull in the fighting,
Hopton wrote to Waller asking for a meeting.

Waller felt he had to turn him down,

but wrote back in terms which spoke of the
deep sorrow he felt at their broken friendship.

It's the classic lament of this terrible civil war.

To my noble friend, Sir Ralph.

Sir, my affections to you
are so unchangeable

that hostility itself cannot
violate my friendship to your person.

But I must be true
to the cause wherein I serve.

That great God which
is the searcher of my heart

knows with what a sad scene
I go upon this service,

and with what a perfect hatred
I detest this war without an enemy.

But I look upon it as an opus domini,
enough to silence all passion in me.

We are both upon the stage and must act
parts that are assigned us in this tragedy.

Let us do it in a way of honour

and without personal animosities,
whatsoever the issue be.

I shall never relinquish the dear title

of your most affectionated friend
and faithful servant, William Waller.

The scythe of mortality,
always busy, never fussy,

swept up all kinds and conditions
of men - officers and rank and file,

musketeers and troopers,
camp whores and sutlers,

young apprentices who put on
a helmet for the very first time,

and hardened old mercenaries
who'd grown rusty along with their cuirasses,

soldiers who had no idea where to get
a pair of boots or anything to fill their bellies,

and peasants who simply
had absolutely nothing left to give them,

drummer boys and buglers,
captains and cooks.

By the autumn of 1643,
parliament was utterly demoralised.

Bristol had fallen to the Royalists,

the king had established a court
and a military government in Oxford.

Many parliamentarians,
weary of the poverty and slaughter,

were making noises about peace.

Bulstrode Whitelocke wrote:

Women are weary
of their being robbed of children,

of their chastity and their parents.

Is it not time for us
to be weary of these discords

and to use our utmost endeavours
to put an end to them?

This was not what John Pym
wanted to hear.

Even as he was dying,
tortured by cancer of the bowel,

to squash a peace movement, he pulled off
a last coup which would transform the war.

On September 25th, 1643, an alliance was
struck between parliament and the Scots:

The Solemn League and Covenant.

In 1637, Scotland had begun
the resistance against Charles I.

Seven years later,
the Covenant would all but finish him off.

At Marston Moor, outside York,
on a wet afternoon in July 1644,

the full force of the Anglo-Scots
alliance hammered the Royalist army.

It was the bloodiest battle of the war,
the cream of Charles's army was annihilated.

Among the victors
was the MP for Cambridge,

a cavalry officer with iron in his soul.

His name was Oliver Cromwell, and he was,
he thought, doing the Lord's work.

Cromwell was himself
an East Anglian country gentleman,

but he knew that gentility was no use
in this war, only effective fighting men.

After Edgehill, he had told John Hampden:

I had rather have
a plain russet-coated captain

that knows what he fights for
and loves what he knows

than that which you call
a gentleman and is nothing else.

In the winter of 1644-45,

Cromwell and a Yorkshire general,
Sir Thomas Fairfax,

set about to make a new kind of army,

prepared to accept discipline in return for
decent supplies of food, boots and shelter.

And it would be an army
that knew what it was fighting for.

I fight for the preservation
of our parliament,

in the being whereof, under God, consists
the glory and welfare of this kingdom.

At Naseby, in June 1645,

the two wings of the New Model Army closed
in on a Royalist force about half their size.

At the end of the fighting,
nothing was left of the royal army

except the dead
left strewn across the fields.

The last Royalist strongholds
were taken one by one: Bristol, Carlisle.

At Basing, in Hampshire, one of the most
vicious sieges in a war full of them

came to a long drawn out bloody conclusion.

The war was over and parliament had won.

So finally, God had spoken.

Surely even Charles could see that?

Surely that would end the bloodshed and
the country could return to reasonableness?

And there were many
in parliament aching for just this -

a settlement that would
allow Charles to keep his throne,

some kind of return
to what had been on the table back in 1642.

Surely, after all the blunders and bloodshed,
the botched coups and the futile slaughters,

he would do the right thing,
he would share power?

But Charles was constitutionally incapable
of being a constitutional king.

He gagged at the idea of being reduced to a
subaltern monarch, taking, not giving, orders.

The war might be over, for now,
but for Charles the plotting was not.

For the next two years,
in a bid to reverse his defeat,

Charles tried to play off parliament against
the army, the army against parliament,

and the Scots against both.

Oliver Cromwell finally realised
that as long as Charles was around,

he was always going to be
a rallying point for the discontented,

and there were bound to be a lot of them.

But Cromwell was also enraged by Charles's
presumption at defying the verdict of God,

so clearly revealed at the battles
of Marston Moor and Naseby.

It was evident then that Charles had to go.

Whether or not he had to die,
that was another matter.

A second civil war flared up,

once more requiring from Cromwell
all his military ruthlessness.

With his annihilation of the Royalist
Scottish army in 1648 at Preston,

Charles's final hope had gone.

Any thought of conciliation
with the king was now purest folly.

Those MPs who persisted in the idea
that Charles could be reasoned with

now had a furious
and vengeful army to answer to.

When Colonel Thomas Pride
used his troops to weed out

any MP suspected of going soft on Charles,

the country realised
there was a new power in the land.

This was the soldiers' show now.

Britain belonged to them,
and they belonged to God.

They had no desire to go back to a country
of princes, lords and gentlemen.

They wanted Jerusalem now.

And they wanted the biggest sinner
of them all, the man of blood,

Charles Stuart, to feel the fire of God's wrath.

The final question could be addressed -
what should happen to Charles?

Cromwell agonised, prayed and wept,

beseeched the Lord of Hosts
to give him an answer.

In the end, politics, not prayer, decided it.

The king would have to die
if the country was ever to heal.

But not done away with in some dark corner.

No, Charles was going to be tried
in the open, then beheaded in public.

Cut his head off with the crown on it.

This would be THE great turning point
in British history.

The trial would kill one kind of Britain
and give birth to another,

a republic, a kingless state of God.

So for both Charles and Oliver Cromwell,
the final act would become a theatre,

a classroom, a debating chamber.

Charles will play the classic Stuart part,
that of holy martyr,

as his grandmother,
Mary, Queen of Scots, had done.

Imposing, dignified, tragic.

But he knew as well as Oliver Cromwell
did that the outcome was never in doubt.

The king would die.
The only question was as what?

Martyr or traitor? What had he learned?

In the end, the answer was... nothing.

On January 30th, 1649, he was
led out through the Banqueting House

onto the scaffold
erected right outside in Whitehall.

The windows were all boarded up,
so Rubens's great anthem

to the god-like omnipotence of kings
was invisible in the gloom,

the light gone out of it.

But Charles didn't need the pictures,
he had the script off by heart.

A subject and a sovereign
are clean different things.

So the last words
out of Charles I's mouth were the truth.

With nothing left to lose for himself
and everything to gain for his son,

he was not about to confuse anyone

about the nature of the kingdom
that God had ordained.

It was the same kingdom
that Rubens had painted on that ceiling -

the anointed sovereign
answerable only to the Almighty,

laying down laws
for the benefit of his subjects.

He offered justice
and he expected obedience.

That was it. Take it or leave it.

It had always been about that really,

and all the pious hopes of turning
Charles into a parliamentary monarch

were just so many castles in the air.