4
Queen of Bohemia
ELIZABETH AND FREDERICK LEFT HEIDELBERG in the company of an extensive entourage designed to signal the seriousness of their commitment to Bohemia politically, ceremonially, and, most important, militarily. “The Prince and Princess Palatine are going with as much speed as such a train can admit,” reported an ambassador from England, who had been sent specifically by James to appraise the situation. “For they have a fair representation of court, and a fair representation of an army together (her guard being of 800 horse)… I daresay he goes… truly with such a zeal in weighing the cause, such a magnanimity in pursuing it, and such a providence for the safety of the country which he leaves, as may well become a person of that rank to which God had brought him,” the envoy observed with frank admiration. Along the way, the couple picked up a further escort of some three thousand foot soldiers and an additional thousand horsemen levied from Frederick’s possessions in the Upper Palatinate, another show of strength designed to impress not only their new subjects in Bohemia but their imperial opponents as well. Both Frederick and Elizabeth were well aware that their every move was under scrutiny by Ferdinand and the other European powers and that it was necessary to behave in a way that instilled confidence in their allies and uncertainty in their enemies, although with so much at stake, it was unfortunately sometimes very difficult to tell who was who.
By the middle of October, they had arrived at the outskirts of Bohemia, where an official delegation, representing all of the most distinguished noblemen of the realm, waited to greet them. A short ceremony ensued in which the Bohemians formally offered Frederick the crown, and he accepted, and pledged to abide by the all-important Letter of Majesty. Then, one by one, his new subjects went down on one knee and paid homage first to their new king, and then to his queen.
Elizabeth was aware that her presence by Frederick’s side was of enormous assistance to her husband, and this was one of the reasons she had insisted on accompanying him. Afraid for her safety and that of the child she was carrying, he had at first suggested she stay home, but she had rejected the idea absolutely, and he now reaped the benefits of her decision. The Bohemian delegation, as well as the crowds of ordinary citizens who thronged the streets of Prague eager for a view of their new sovereigns, adored Elizabeth. Young, beautiful, and glamorous, she provided exactly the diversion the kingdom needed from its troubles. “The queen’s free and gracious demeanor doth win as much love as was lost by the Austrian [Ferdinand],” declared an eyewitness to these events. Even better, the fact that she was seven months pregnant and had elected to have her baby in her new realm bespoke a tremendous trust in her husband and his allies, particularly England. For what father would allow so ethereal a creature, his only daughter, in her vulnerable state, to enter into so dangerous an environment if he were not determined to protect her?
Frederick V in his coronation robe
The procession made its way to the great castle of Prague, long the majestic residence of the Habsburgs, now home to the newly elected king and queen. A tour of the château’s numerous apartments was conducted with pride by a local nobleman the very next day. Rudolf’s extensive collection of art and curiosities, untouched since his death, was a natural focus of interest. “Their Majesties are very cheerful,” this courtier reported in a letter to the English ambassador stationed in Holland. “I showed them the day before yesterday the chamber of rarities of the emperor. The queen was much pleased with them, and said to me smiling, ‘Really, Ferdinand has left us a great number of fine things.’” To which her tour guide, charmed to be treated as a familiar by royalty, chivalrously assured her that “they were not his [Ferdinand’s] at all.”
The coronations—first Frederick’s on October 25th, followed by Elizabeth’s on the 28th—were conducted with solemnity and splendor. Where traditionally an archbishop would have officiated at the ceremony of a Habsburg, Frederick, a Calvinist, received his crown and scepter from the aged hand of the senior member of the Protestant ministry, a Moses-like figure whose long white beard and stern appearance were considered testament to his moral authority. The same elderly minister was employed to inaugurate the queen, whose coronation ceremony was a replica of her husband’s except that the guests and witnesses were the highborn women of the kingdom rather than the men.
For the occasion, Elizabeth wore a coronation robe and gown magnificently adorned with pearls, with matching pearl earrings and a similarly ornamented comb to pin up her hair. She sat on a throne of velvet; her crown was gold, as was her scepter; a Te Deum was chanted, the bells of the city were rung, and the cannons fired. It was all as legitimately regal as if it had been conducted at Westminster, and Elizabeth’s satisfaction was obvious. She was, after all, only twenty-three years old and may perhaps be forgiven for wearing her crown a little longer than was strictly necessary. “The queen appeared very joyous in going to the church and in the street leading from the palace, having the crown on her head, as she was also at table, and at the royal banquet in the great chamber of the palace; where, instead of the great lords, the great ladies filled the offices worthily, and in such fine order, that never before had anything more fine or magnificent been seen,” enthused a newsletter describing this event.
Even better, the diadem had no sooner settled on Elizabeth’s brow than news arrived of a promising Protestant offensive against the emperor. The kingdom of Hungary, taking its cue from Bohemia, had also deposed Ferdinand, selecting instead a Transylvanian prince by the name of Bethlen Gabor. Like Frederick, Bethlen Gabor had taken up the challenge, but this time Ferdinand, who’d had enough of his subjects giving away his thrones, sent troops to discourage his opponent from accepting the crown. Unfortunately for the emperor, he had chosen the wrong man to confront. Bethlen Gabor turned out to be a violent and experienced warrior who went to claim his realm at the head of a fearsome force of cavalry. “Bethlen Gabor hath made a great progress in Hungary, having cut in pieces 1000 foot and 500 horse which were sent by the count of Bucquoy [the general in charge of Ferdinand’s army],” reported the English ambassador at The Hague. The diplomat further noted that Bethlen Gabor had seized Pressburg, the capital, “and possessed himself of the crown of Hungary: which whether he will put upon his own head, or make other use of it… is very doubtful… some saying that he will make presentation thereof to the new King of Bohemia.”
Bethlen Gabor’s success was greeted with great excitement by Frederick’s government, particularly when the Transylvanian let it be known that he wished to form an alliance with Bohemia against the emperor. Suddenly, with the Protestants of Hungary, Silesia, Moravia, Germany, Holland, the Netherlands, and England all allied against him, it was Ferdinand, and not Frederick, who seemed vulnerable. With pride, Elizabeth could assure herself that the risks she and her husband had taken in accepting the Bohemian throne had been entirely justified. Frederick was now not only the established ruler of a kingdom but also the acknowledged leader of a united Protestant movement against the Habsburgs. She and her husband were finally of equal rank, so there were no more uncomfortable episodes regarding precedence when they went out in society. More important, their children’s standing had improved. When, on November 26, 1619, Elizabeth was delivered of a healthy son, whom the couple named Rupert, the bells in Prague rang out with joy at the birth of a royal prince.
BUT THE DANGER OF success is that it hardens opposition and provokes counterattacks. Just how close Frederick, Elizabeth, and their Protestant allies were to subverting the empire may be measured by the seriousness with which Ferdinand, and indeed the entire Habsburg dynasty, took the threat. And the resources that this family could call upon, especially when they were united, were formidable.
After the defeat of the imperial forces by Bethlen Gabor, Ferdinand took the precaution of appealing to his cousin Archduke Albert, who ruled the Spanish Netherlands (on the northern border of France). Albert in turn wrote to his brother-in-law, the king of Spain, asking for help. Philip III’s response was a model of what can be achieved by a veteran sovereign acting with decision. “By your Highness’s letter of the 28th of last month,” he wrote briskly on November 5, 1619, “I have received information of the bad state of affairs in Bohemia… and, considering how important it is that there should be no failure in the application of a remedy… I have resolved and ordered that seven thousand infantry… are to start at once for Alsace… and until the arrival of the provision of money which will be needed to support the troops which will from henceforward be maintained in Bohemia on my account… I have directed that 200,000 ducats… shall be immediately sent.” On January 2, 1620, Philip again contacted the archduke. “I have resolved and given orders that… two thousand other soldiers of the Spanish infantry who are present in Naples, and four thousand Neapolitans who are also there, may be sent to you, as well as the regiment of Lombards… all of them being veteran and serviceable troops… Arrangements have been made to provide 1,000,000 ducats… besides the 130,000 ducats of ordinary supply for that army… that there may not be a moment lost in getting together the money and men, and in setting to work in the Spring.” Then, just to make sure his brother-in-law understood that he would countenance no excuses and that no expense was to be spared, on February 3, 1620, the king of Spain again took pen to paper. “I have wished here apart to charge your Highness seriously, as I now do, to direct that there may be much haste in carrying out the invasion of the Palatinate. Everything that is possible will be done here for the provision of money for this object in time, so that there will be no failure.”
Nor was there any secrecy surrounding the movements of these troops or the magnitude of the funds that had been allocated for their maintenance. As early as November 28, 1619, an English ambassador wrote to the principal member of James’s government that “this last week’s letters out of Germany… all of them, as well as those out of Italy and other parts, mention the sedulous care there is of raising men by the Catholic king and Catholic league against the next Spring.” Another English envoy in Germany warned the same minister on January 20, 1620, “In our neighboring provinces… there are levies made daily both of horse and foot… to succor the Emperor and invade the Inferior [Lower] Palatinate.” And, finally, from the English ambassador in Turin came the information on March 4 that “this last week… he [the Duke of Savoy] received order from the King of Spain to require… passage through his State for two regiments of Napolitans and one of Lombards, which the said King did pretend to send into Burgundy, and from thence to Flanders.” The diplomat went on to report that this was so patently a ploy, and that the soldiers were so clearly intended to be used against Bohemia, that the duke of Savoy had requested that the king of England be made aware of this development.
In vain did the members of James’s own government, overwhelmingly in favor of defending Frederick and Elizabeth, urge the need for speed in responding to this ominous massing of Catholic forces. “For commonly he that is first in the field, hath the advantage of that year; and the first year, though the quarrel may last longer, will in all reasonable conjecture either settle the crown forever on the new king’s [Frederick’s] head, or bring that kingdom, as a kingdom of conquest, into perpetual subjection under the house of Austria,” admonished the English representative stationed at The Hague. “All of his Majesty’s ministers except three or four, as I have already told you… [and] the whole nation takes the same side [Frederick’s], and all the kingdom declares its impatience of this prolonged irresolution,” the Venetian ambassador reiterated in a report to the doge from London on January 30, 1620.
But James stubbornly refused to commit himself to his son-in-law’s defense. Intimidated by Spain, whose friendship he craved, and vexed at Frederick and Elizabeth for forcing him to depart from his comfortable position of detached neutrality, he took a scholar’s refuge in disputation and minutiae. He demanded detailed evidence, supplemented by reams of written depositions from the various participants, that the election in Bohemia had been legitimate and not the work of a single faction. He parsed the clauses of the defensive treaty he had signed with the Princes of the Union to prove that he was not, after all, obligated to honor the terms that he himself had provided. He refused to refer to Frederick publicly as a king or to allow anyone else in England to do so. And he deliberately ignored the evidence of Spanish armament, observing to the Dutch ambassador as late as January 24, 1620, “his belief that, now that his son-in-law… was, as he understood, tolerably well established, he could not be in any need or danger for a year to come.”
So concerned was James with projecting an image of strict impartiality so that Philip III would not think that he had anything to do with his daughter and son-in-law’s advancement that he even declined to mark the birth of Rupert, his latest grandchild, by the ringing of church bells, a departure from tradition that caused the prince of Orange, who had agreed to honor his defensive commitments, to despair aloud that “he is a strange fellow that will neither fight for his children nor pray for them!”*
But of course James wasn’t being impartial or statesmanlike or above the fray. He was taking a side—the imperial side—and everybody knew it. “If the cause had been good, the King… would have declared himself before now,” the duke of Guise stated flatly, and France went to the empire. The duke of Savoy “doth still profess that if his Majesty will command him to stop the passage [of Spanish troops], he hath both the means and the will to do it,” the English ambassador at Turin reported as late as March 4, 1620. “But because that cannot be done but by violence… before he do embark himself, he would gladly be assured of protection against the Spaniards.” When no such promise was forthcoming, Savoy too, however reluctantly, sided with Ferdinand. In the absence of leadership or any encouragement whatsoever from England and faced with the certainty of an imperial onslaught, Protestant Germany also reneged on its agreement with Bohemia, especially as it was well known that Spain intended not simply to oust Frederick from Prague but also to annex his home territory of the Palatinate as a warning to others of the consequences of defying the Habsburgs. No one wanted to give Ferdinand an excuse to turn his army loose on one of their duchies.
It didn’t have to be this bad. There were ways of keeping the enemy guessing, so that Frederick did not lose so many allies so quickly, or at least of providing funds toward the war effort. But even when it came to finance, James managed to sabotage his son-in-law’s standing. When Frederick applied for a loan of £100,000 from the City of London, James refused to assist him. At this, even Bethlen Gabor, understanding that it took money to wage battle, gave up and made a side deal with Ferdinand. The king of England could not have been more destructive to Elizabeth and her husband, or to the cause of Protestantism in Europe in general, if he had been in the pay of Philip III. Indeed, the Spanish ambassador was so emboldened that, to the great bitterness of the members of the English government, he openly canvassed James’s Catholic subjects for donations to support the imperial cause.
Rarely in history has an experienced ruler of mature years deliberately allowed himself to be manipulated so obviously by a foreign power.* Philip III knew that he had only to question England’s neutrality to send James scurrying to refute the charge. The king of Spain could blithely deny that he was levying troops to invade Bohemia and the Palatinate, and his English counterpart would take him at his word and continue his round of hunting, refusing to credit the communiqués of his own agents. With disgust, the Privy Council realized that the Spanish ambassador could say anything, no matter how ridiculous, and the king would swallow it, as was witnessed in September 1620 when the news arrived that the Palatinate had been invaded by an imperial army led by a general named Spinola. The Spanish ambassador, called in and confronted with the charge of breach of promise, responded fatuously that “he was glad of it, and wished Spinola had all the rest, that his Majesty might see his power in having it released and restored!”*
ALL THROUGH THE WINTER and into the spring and summer of 1620, aware that Ferdinand and Philip III were at work assembling an army with which to take back Bohemia, Frederick and Elizabeth did what they could to prepare for an attack. Frederick made a progression throughout the realm and into Silesia and Moravia to recruit soldiers and raise funds. He secured a commitment from Bethlen Gabor (who, uncertain which side would ultimately prevail, was hedging his bets) to send a troop of Hungarian cavalry to supplement the Bohemian army. At a meeting of the diet in Prague in April, Frederick gave the prince of Anhalt, the general in charge of the Bohemian forces, 200,000 florins out of his own pocket to pay the soldiers’ wages. As a result of these efforts, when the general left the capital on May 15, 1620, he had an impressive army of 30,000 men under his command with which to defend the kingdom.
For her part, Elizabeth sent a flood of letters to England pleading for aid, if not for Bohemia, then at least for her husband’s home territory of the Palatinate, which had been left in the care of her mother-in-law. “My only dear brother,” she wrote to Charles in a missive that demonstrated her understanding of the deteriorating diplomatic and military situation she and her husband faced, “I… beseech you earnestly to move his Majesty [James] that now he would assist us… for, to speak freely to you, his slackness… doth make the Princes of the Union slack too, who do nothing with their army; the King hath ever said that he would not suffer the Palatinate to be taken; it was never in hazard but now… I doubt not but you will do it, since you have hitherto solicited his Majesty for us… which I beseech you to continue to her that is ever… your most affectionate sister.” But cautious Charles was no Henry. Although he supported his sister and brother-in-law and even contributed his own funds to their defense, he was unwilling to cross James.
This was all very worrying, of course, but Frederick and Elizabeth were both still in their early twenties, with the natural optimism that accompanies youth, and neither had any experience of war. The Bohemian army had already demonstrated its ferocity by trouncing Ferdinand’s troops the previous year, when they had far fewer regiments at their disposal. And then again, everything felt so normal in Prague. Ambassadors and friends came and went; the royal couple picnicked in the summer with Frederick’s mother, who arrived for a short visit to see her new grandchild. There were the usual rounds of hunting and dinners. Elizabeth found herself pregnant again. Frederick rather scandalized his subjects by his habit of bathing naked on hot days, and Elizabeth’s fashionable gowns were considered to show a little too much décolletage, but these were minor irritants. The greatest controversy to erupt in the first nine months of the year was when Frederick ordered the religious statues that adorned the main bridge in Prague destroyed as idolatrous, but he quickly reversed his decision when he saw the outcry this caused among the citizenry. In truth, Frederick and Elizabeth were much more concerned about Frederick’s home territory of the Palatinate than they were for themselves. They had an army of 30,000 war-hardened troops standing between them and the empire, more than enough to handle anything Ferdinand could throw at them. The Palatinate, which they had left to the good offices and army of the Princes of the Union, did not.
Frederick’s mother knew better. On August 17, 1620, as the Spanish soldiers mustered by Philip III descended on the Lower Palatinate, she sent an urgent letter to James. “My Lord,” she wrote, “seeing the necessity to which my children, who are also those of your Majesty, are reduced… it is impossible that this should not touch your Majesty’s heart, mine being so smitten with grief… I supplicate you most humbly to look at the peril in which they are, and to hasten a signal aid, by money or some diversion; otherwise it will be impossible for us to… preserve your dear children from the bloody hand of our enemies.” And as if this were not enough to send a chill through any parent’s soul, she continued forcefully: “Your Majesty will also know in what pain is the queen your daughter, and that she is about to be entirely surrounded with enemies; indeed the state in which I lately left her [a reference to Elizabeth’s pregnancy] makes me doubly pity her.”
It had begun.
THE IMPERIAL ATTACK PLAN was straightforward. Ferdinand had done everything he could in advance of the actual invasion to isolate Bohemia and the Palatinate and limit the scope of the war. Toward that end, he had offered incentives to Frederick’s German allies to switch sides, or at least remain neutral during the conflict. To the Protestant electors and the Princes of the Union, he promised that none of their lands would be touched by imperial forces, nor would their past support for Frederick be held against them if they remained loyal to the empire. So when the 24,000 Spanish troops under General Spinola destined for the Lower Palatinate began pouring into Germany in August, the army Frederick had solicited to protect his homeland before he left for Bohemia never materialized. Similarly, Ferdinand cleverly offered Frederick’s neighbor, the duke of Bavaria, the Palatinate itself, including the coveted title of elector and its concomitant imperial voting rights, as a reward if he would command the Catholic forces allied against Bohemia. This proposition turned out to be too tempting to resist, so the duke of Bavaria set out for Prague with a force of 22,000 men, intent on joining with the imperial army under General Buquoi, which was already marching through Austria on its way to Bohemia.* He sent a further 7,000 soldiers to the elector of Saxony, who had also taken the imperial side against Frederick, to be used in an attack from the north.
The duke of Bavaria’s army crossed into Bohemia at Linz, on the border with Austria, on September 8. They met so little resistance that they caught up to Buquoi’s forces by the 20th and together the two generals converged on Budweis, about 150 miles south of Prague. The imperial soldiers, resolved on looting and murder, were brutally merciless to the civilians who stood in their path. Even their commanding general was appalled. “I cannot conceal from your Imperial Majesty that, notwithstanding my many well-intended admonitions, this army has spread along the line of its march robbery, plundering, fire, and the indiscriminate slaughter even of innocent Catholics of both sexes, attended with demands of ransoms from the loyal, seductions of matrons and maidens, and the most ruthless plundering of churches and monasteries,” the duke of Bavaria wrote grimly to Ferdinand. “The common people are ruined, and driven to the extreme of desperation, and will not in many years be able to recover themselves.” So destructive were the invaders, and so intent on stealing everything they could lay their hands on, even to stripping the houses of wood, that an eyewitness described the villages left in their wake as so empty that they looked as though they had been “swept with a broom.”
The progress of the enemy troops was carefully monitored in Prague, and by the second week of September the situation was regarded as sufficiently threatening that Elizabeth’s guard recommended that the queen retire from the capital and seek the safety of friendly territory. This Elizabeth adamantly refused to do. Frederick was preparing to join the army and she knew that if she abandoned Prague, it would be taken as a sign of impending defeat; it was her task to stay behind and keep up the morale of the citizenry. The couple did, however, manage to smuggle six-year-old Frederick Henry out of the country and all the way to Holland, one of the few principalities that had remained resolutely loyal to their cause. This journey was undertaken with the utmost stealth, as it meant traveling through enemy lines where, if the child’s identity were known, he would surely be apprehended and held for ransom—or worse. Frederick and Elizabeth were extremely fortunate that he got away safely. At almost the same time, Frederick’s aging mother, faced with the prospect of invasion by the Spanish soldiers under the command of General Spinola, gathered up three-year-old Karl Ludwig and one-year-old Elizabeth and fled south to Stuttgart, to the duke of Württemberg, the only member of the former Princes of the Union willing to offer her protection.*
But all was not completely lost. The Bohemian army still stood between the emperor and Prague. A decisive victory against Ferdinand’s forces could yet turn the momentum of the war in Frederick and Elizabeth’s favor, and all the allies they had lost would come rushing back. When at the end of September, with everything at stake, Frederick mounted his horse, kissed his wife good-bye, and left to join his troops in the field, Elizabeth, despite an acute understanding of their isolation, refused to give in to despair. “Spinola is still in the Low Palatinate, fortifying those places he hath taken, and the Union looks on and doth nothing,” she reported in a letter to England. “The king is gone to the army… you see we have enough to do, but I hope still well, in spite of all,” she ended courageously.
A MILITARY UNIT OF 30,000 well-maintained seasoned soldiers fighting to preserve their homeland and equipped with artillery was indeed a formidable force in the seventeenth century. Unfortunately for Frederick, this was not the condition in which he found his army.
He caught up with them at Rakovnik, about thirty-five miles southwest of Prague, hunkered down behind the medieval walls of the citadel. Having spent the summer hunting and skinny-dipping with his wife and friends, and not with his troops in the field, he must have been somewhat shocked to discover the quality of the divisions upon which he had been relying for his defense. On the day he arrived, his army—what was left of it, at any rate—was in full mutiny. It was difficult to blame them; they had not been paid for months. The 200,000 florins that Frederick had advanced out of his own funds in May had never arrived, having been stolen by highwaymen, who operated with impunity on the roads. His soldiers had been forced to plunder the stores of their own countrymen in order to eat, and even that was insufficient. Between starvation, illness, desertion, and skirmishes with Buquoi’s troops over the summer, Frederick had already lost somewhere between 8,000 and 10,000 men (although these numbers were mercifully supplemented by the arrival of 8,000 Hungarian horsemen sent by Bethlen Gabor). Those who remained were refusing to fight at all unless their wages were paid.
This revolt was quelled by assurances that the promised money was on the way, a necessary imperative, as the enemy, which had met no resistance on its drive toward Prague and had consequently made excellent time, had discovered the Bohemian position and was eager to give battle. Frederick’s troops were rather less enthusiastic, and in one of the first forays, he was treated to the sight of a regiment of 250 of Bethlen Gabor’s much-heralded dragoons abandoning their posts in panic at an energetic charge conducted by eighteen imperial cavalrymen. Frederick immediately wrote home to his wife, who was nearing her seventh month of pregnancy, and told her to get out of Prague.
But Elizabeth wouldn’t leave. She was expecting a party of English ambassadors sent by her father to negotiate for peace to pass through Prague on their way to see Ferdinand. She was determined to stay and convince the diplomats, and by extension England, to enter the war on her husband’s behalf.
Frederick did not insist, because after the initial clash, the situation stabilized (as his general, the prince of Anhalt, who was experienced and knew that the medieval fortress of Rakovnik that he had chosen to occupy was very difficult to assail, had assured him it would). Despite their numerical superiority, the imperial troops under Buquoi and the duke of Bavaria were unable to dislodge the Bohemian army. The Hungarian cavalry even redeemed themselves and scored a decisive victory over a squadron of Buquoi’s men, forcing them to retreat. A stalemate of sorts went on all through the month of October, as the imperial army, which did have the money to feed its soldiers, was obliged to call for new supplies, and Frederick began to take heart.
But once the carts bearing the requested provisions had arrived, and their troops had rested, the imperial generals adopted a new strategy. They might not be able to capture the fortress of Rakovnik quickly, it was true, but with the Bohemian army ensconced inside, the capital itself lay open to them, and this was of far more value as a strategic target. Accordingly, Buquoi and the duke of Bavaria broke camp on November 5 and headed toward Prague.
Again, the prince of Anhalt reacted with an alacrity that demonstrated that he had prepared for this contingency. No sooner were the enemy soldiers observed to have departed than he ordered his army to pack up and speed toward the unprotected capital. He was far more familiar with the roads and terrain than his imperial counterparts, and he knew exactly where he wanted to go to set up the defense of the city. It was to White Mountain, three miles from Prague, where he could command the high ground.
He arrived on the afternoon of Saturday, November 7, 1620, just ahead of his adversaries, in time to deploy his few cannons and position his men. The imperial soldiers, whose progress had paralleled the Bohemians’ course, could occasionally be glimpsed through the trees. As it had been a long march, the general was satisfied that no battle was imminent. Darkness was falling and the imperial troops would need rest. There might not even be a battle once the sun rose and Buquoi and the duke of Bavaria had a chance to evaluate the advantage the Bohemians held in having secured the high ground. The prince of Anhalt encouraged Frederick, who had accompanied his troops, to leave camp and ride on into the city itself, in order to beg for much-needed new funds for his soldiers from the diet and the visiting English embassy staying with Elizabeth. Frederick, who had learned to trust his commanding officer, left in high spirits. “His Majesty coming to court on the Saturday, at 3 of the clock, with a countenance of glee, told his queen that the enemy was come within two Dutch miles of the city, which is eight English, but his army of 28,000 was betwixt them and it. That night we slept securely, as free from doubt as we supposed ourselves quit from danger,” affirmed one of the English ambassadors staying at the royal castle in Prague.
But the prince of Anhalt had underestimated the determination of the imperial generals. Although the duke of Bavaria’s force had sustained significant losses in October due to fighting and disease and now numbered only about 12,000 men, and Buquoi’s troops too were down to an estimated 15,000 soldiers, leaving the imperial and Bohemian armies of roughly equal strength, the invaders were healthier and better fed than their Bohemian counterparts. Also, while it was true that the prince of Anhalt held the high ground, the emperor’s forces had managed to surround the mountain—actually, it was more of a hill—so they were not limited to a frontal assault but could attack their opponents from either side, or both if necessary.
And that is exactly what they did. At noon on Sunday, the imperial cavalry charged from the left while its infantry stormed from the right. The prince of Anhalt’s son managed to beat back the enemy horsemen, and the Bohemian cannons scattered the first wave of foot soldiers. But when this was not enough to discourage their adversaries—when both cavalry and infantry regrouped and forged ahead for a second thrust—the Hungarian dragoons stationed at the bottom of the hill, remembering that they still had not been paid, decided that they were not, after all, willing to lay down their lives for the bankrupt king of Bohemia, and fled. Their departure caused a general panic among the remaining troops, who fell back before the second onslaught. In a matter of minutes, the Bohemians had lost their small store of artillery. Despite the prince of Anhalt’s desperate commands to hold their posts and strike back, his divisions scattered in all directions. The battle was over in less than an hour—and, with it, the war.
FREDERICK HAD HAD A busy Sunday morning. He had been in conference for several hours with the English ambassadors, arguing as forcefully as he could for aid from his father-in-law. Just before noon he received a summons from the prince of Anhalt, alerting him that a battle was imminent after all and requesting his presence to help inspire the troops. But lunch was just about to be served and it seemed rude not to dine with his guests, so he stayed to eat. Afterward, he put on his uniform, mounted his horse, and set out for White Mountain.
He had barely made it out of his own front gate when he met the soldiers from his army escaping pell-mell into the city, apparently followed in close pursuit by the enemy. Astonished, he learned that he had lost his crown at White Mountain sometime between the apéritif and the fish course. There was nothing to do but turn around and follow the example of his fleeing army. The castle was evacuated, the used luncheon dishes still on the table. Elizabeth, seven months pregnant, hurried into a carriage, and with Frederick on horseback beside her they retreated across the river. They left so quickly they almost forgot the baby, Rupert.
A member of the officers’ staff bravely stayed behind to try to gain time by defending the bridge against the enemy soldiers, a hopeless task. By nightfall, the duke of Bavaria had moved into the imperial palace, and Ferdinand’s forces occupied Prague.