CHAPTER 13
KINGS AND QUEENS
From the ashes a fire shall be woken,
A light from the shadows shall spring;
Renewed shall be blade that was broken:
The crownless again shall be king.1
There are two overarching formal themes that connect and unite The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings. The first is the quest or rite of passage of the hobbit protagonist (i.e., Bilbo in the former book and Frodo in the latter); the second is the return of the king (i.e., Thorin in the former book and Aragorn in the latter). Much has been said about the role of the hobbits and more will be said in the following chapters. Now, however, it is time to turn our attention to the exiled king and his return.
It is a fact all too often overlooked that the king is more important than the Ring as a connecting factor between The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings. In the earlier book, the ring is merely a ring, rendered in lowercase, and not the Ring, because there is little or no inkling of the power that its wearer will wield in the subsequent epic. In The Lord of the Rings, as the power of the Ring grows and its significance increases exponentially, the shadow surrounding it darkens until it all but eclipses the relatively trivial trinket that it had been in the earlier work. In the latter book it is a perilous possession, in the former a very useful tool that is used to defeat evil and save lives.
At first sight, it would be tempting to say the same about the king in each book as we have said about the Ring. Thorin Oakenshield certainly seems a pathetic figure of a king compared with the grandeur and majesty of Aragorn. Aragorn’s character and kingship are marked not only with great courage and martial prowess but also with meekness and humility and, ultimately, with the miraculous and Christlike healing power that he shows in the Paths of the Dead and the Houses of Healing.
Thorin, by comparison, is grumpy and obstreperous and falls into the destructive dragon sickness, which serves the same function in the earlier book that the gollumizing power of the Ring fulfills in The Lord of the Rings. Aragorn appears to be a paragon of kingly virtue, worthy of respect, reverence, and emulation; Thorin, on the other hand, seems tainted by pride and greed, and serves as a cautionary image of vice and its harmful consequences. It is true that Thorin ultimately repents and is reconciled to Bilbo but in this he resembles Boromir far more than he does Aragorn. Might we not say, therefore, that Thorin is merely a king, whereas Aragorn is a King, much as the ring in the first book is a pale shadow of the Ring in the later work?
Such a conclusion, though tempting, is erroneous because it confuses the humanity of Thorin and Aragorn with their kingship, the latter of which, as an ordained ministry, transcends their worthiness or unworthiness as men. It is for this reason that their manifold differences should not distract us from the importance of kingship or from the importance of the king’s return, which serves as the fulfillment of prophecy in both books and is clearly a matter for rejoicing.
Tolkien, as a Catholic and as a medievalist, drew deep draughts of inspiration from his understanding of true kingship, particularly as manifested by legendary and historical examples of exiled kings who return to claim their rightful inheritance.
The first example of kingship, at least as it relates to Aragorn’s coronation in The Lord of the Rings, is the figure of Charlemagne, the first Holy Roman Emperor. As the true king, Charlemagne unites all the people of Christendom just as Aragorn unites all the free peoples of Middle-earth. In this respect, those who know their medieval history—as Tolkien certainly did—will see parallels between Gandalf’s role in laying the crown upon Aragorn’s head, thereby bestowing the kingly authority on him, and the role of Pope Leo III in crowning Charlemagne as the Emperor in St. Peter’s Basilica in Rome on Christmas Day in the year 800 A.D., which is indubitably one of the most momentous days in world history.
Long before Aragorn’s coronation and shortly after Gandalf’s return from the dead, we are told that “Aragorn son of Arathorn . . . looked as if some king out of the mists of the sea had stepped upon the shores of lesser men. Before him stooped the old figure, white, shining now as if with some light kindled within, bent, laden with years, but holding a power beyond the strength of kings.”2 Parallels with the pope’s role in the coronation of Charlemagne are palpable. In accordance with Catholic political philosophy, authentic power, as distinct from brute power usurped for domination, resides with God and God alone, and, as such, a true king’s authority needs to be authenticated by a religious service presided over by one holding the apostolic authority of the Church. It is for this reason that Charlemagne, the most powerful man in Europe, needed to be crowned by one “holding a power beyond the strength of kings.”
Further evidence of the papal resonance in the characterization of Gandalf is seen in his authority to cast the disgraced Saruman from the council: “Behold, I am not Gandalf the Grey, whom you betrayed. I am Gandalf the White, who has returned from death. You have no color now, and I cast you from the order and from the Council.”3 Gandalf’s reference to his return from death makes the wizard a figure of the resurrected Christ but, as we have seen, Tolkien’s literary technique enables several of his characters to remind us of Christ without any of them ever being a formal allegorical personification of him. In other words, although Gandalf is meant to remind us of Christ, he is not Christ. Similarly, in his power to crown kings and excommunicate “heretics,” he reminds us of the papacy without ever being a formal allegorical personification of the pope. Just as the pope, serving in persona Christi (i.e., in the person of Christ as his ordained minister), can grace kings with kingship, he can also “dis-grace” sinners through his powers of excommunication. Such authority comes from his position as the successor of St. Peter who, as Christ Himself ordained, has the power to bind things on earth that are thereby bound in heaven. Such power is not his, humanly speaking, but is the power of Christ working with him and through him.
Considering the suggestive papal resonance in certain aspects of Gandalf’s role in the story, one can’t help but wonder if the connection between his name and Castel Gandolfo—that is, Gandolf’s Castle (the pope’s summer residence)—is purely coincidental, as appears to have been the case with the biblical connection between Moriah and Moria and the linguistic connection between sauros and Sauron, or whether it is deliberate wordplay on Tolkien’s part, as is the case with lembas and the palantiri.
Returning to the theme of kingship in The Lord of the Rings, another figure who looms large inspirationally is that of King Arthur and the Arthurian legends that surround him. Arthur is the once and future king of popular legend who hasn’t really died but is only sleeping. He will return, so it is believed, in a time of great peril to deliver England from her enemies. The idea of the once and future king resonates with the person of Aragorn, the descendant of an ancient royal line who returns as a long-lost and almost forgotten king to claim his rightful inheritance and to save his kingdom from the grip of evil.
There is, however, yet another aspect of kingship that Tolkien—as a Catholic and an Englishman, understanding English history from a Catholic perspective—would have drawn upon for inspiration. This is the Jacobite king-in-exile. Jacobites remain loyal to the heirs of the true king of England, James II, a Catholic who was forced into exile by the so-called Glorious Revolution of 1688. This revolution, far from being “glorious,” was, in fact, a coup d’état in which an army of foreign mercenaries, financed by wealthy anti-Catholic nobility, bankers, and merchants, invaded the country to overthrow the power of the true king. The king was forced into exile. He raised an army to attempt to reclaim the throne but was defeated in Ireland. In the eighteenth century, there were two Jacobite uprisings in which the descendants of the true king endeavored to reclaim the throne. The second uprising, led by James’s legitimate heir, Bonnie Prince Charlie, was crushed at the battle of Culloden in 1746. Ever since this decisive defeat, Jacobites have lamented the passing of the Catholic monarchy, believing that the present incumbent on the throne is either an usurper at worst or a steward who is keeping the throne warm, so to speak, until the true king in exile returns. As a devout Catholic who was steeped in the history of England, Tolkien understood all this, and there are obvious parallels between the way a Jacobite would view the legal status of the present royal family and the status of Denethor as the Steward of Gondor in The Lord of the Rings. From a Jacobite perspective, Queen Elizabeth II and Denethor are both de facto rulers who hold the throne until the return of the de jure ruler, the true king. For a Jacobite, therefore—and it is safe to assume Tolkien had Jacobite sympathies—the return of Aragorn would resonate with particular poignancy. We are reminded again, perhaps, of Tolkien’s lament that as “a Christian, and indeed a Roman Catholic . . . I do not expect ‘history’ to be anything but a ‘long defeat’—though it contains (and in a legend may contain more clearly and movingly) some samples or glimpses of final victory.”4 In his own legend, Tolkien shows us such a glimpse in Aragorn’s triumphant return.
Finally, and most importantly, we need to remind ourselves that kingship itself is only legitimate insofar as it holds its authority from God. All true kings are only true insofar as they reflect the true kingship of Christ. All lesser images, such as Aragorn’s connection to Charlemagne, Arthur, or the Jacobite kings-in-exile, fall into shadow in the presence of Christ’s kingship, which Aragorn’s kingship reflects. In this ultimate and highest sense of kingship, the return of the king signifies the Second Coming when the “long defeat” of history will be vanquished by the final victory of Christ. This is the ultimate return from exile of the true king to claim his own.
As with Christ, Aragorn’s true kingship is revealed in his miraculous ability to heal the sick. “The hands of the king are the hands of a healer,” says the wise woman of Gondor, “and so shall the rightful king be known.”5 Apart from the obvious references to the healing powers of Christ in the gospel, Tolkien’s love for Anglo-Saxon England would have made him well aware of the Anglo-Saxon king, St. Edward the Confessor, who was known to have such miraculous powers of healing, a fact Shakespeare alludes to in Macbeth, in which the true kingship of Edward the Confessor is contrasted with the murderous Machiavellianism of Macbeth. Finally, like Christ, Aragorn’s power of healing extends to the dead as well as to the living. When he takes the Paths of the Dead, he reveals that he has the power to release the dead from their curse. This reminds us inescapably of Christ’s descent into hell following the Crucifixion and His liberation of the dead from Limbo.
Having paid due respect to kingship in general and the kingship of Christ in particular that Tolkien exhibits in The Lord of the Rings, it might be well at the conclusion of this chapter to show due deference to queenship in general and to the queenship of Mary in particular that he also shows.
We have noted earlier that Tolkien cited with evident approval a critic who had seen the invocations to Elbereth and the characterization of Galadriel as “clearly related to Catholic devotion to Mary.”6 It has also been noted that the hymns of praise the elves sing to Elbereth, in which she is invoked as “Queen beyond the Western Seas” and the “Light to us that wander here,”7 are very similar to Catholic hymns in honor of the Blessed Virgin, such as the Salve Regina. Such hymns do not go unheeded or unanswered in The Lord of the Rings. Samwise Gamgee, in his darkest hour, facing imminent death in the venomous clutches of the monstrous Shelob, is prompted to prayer by what can only be understood as miraculous grace. As he sees his death reflected in the malice of Shelob’s eyes, “a thought came to him, as if some remote voice had spoken.” Fumbling in his breast pocket, he feels the Phial of Galadriel:
“Galadriel!” he said faintly, and then he heard voices far off but clear: the crying of the Elves as they walked under the stars in the beloved shadows of the Shire, and the music of the Elves as it came through his sleep in the Hall of Fire in the house of Elrond.
Gilthoniel A Elbereth!
And then his tongue was loosed and his voice cried in a language which he did not know:
These Elvish words, addressed to the archangelic being (i.e., saint), whom the elves call the Queen of the Stars, can be translated thus:
O Elbereth, Star-Kindler
From Heaven Far-Gazing,
To thee do I cry now, ‘neath Death’s Shadow!
O look towards me, Everwhite!
The prayer is answered instantly as Sam, his courage and strength rekindled, staggers to his feet to face his foe. As if in response to the hobbit’s indomitable spirit, the Phial of Galadriel blazes with its heavenly light, “like a star that leaping from the firmament sears the dark air with intolerable light.”9 Those with knowledge of Tolkien’s wider legendarium will know that Elbereth’s face is said to radiate the light of God (Ilúvatar) and that she is the archangel (Vala) who is most hated by Satan (Melkor). They will also know that Shelob, Sam’s foe, is a demonic spirit, “an evil thing in spider-form,”10 who shares Melkor’s hatred of the divine light that shines from Galadriel’s Phial. This broader context adds spiritual potency to Shelob’s horrified response to the heavenly light blazing in the hobbit’s hand: “No such terror out of heaven had ever burned in Shelob’s face before. The beams of it entered into her wounded head and scored it with unbearable pain, and the dreadful infection of light spread from eye to eye. She fell back beating the air with her forelegs, her sight blasted by inner lightnings, her mind in agony.”11
Further evidence of the role of the Virgin Mary as an inspiration to Tolkien in his writing of The Lord of the Rings is found in his reply to a letter from Father Robert Murray, who had written of the “positive compatibility with the order of grace” in the book and had compared the image of Galadriel to that of the Blessed Virgin. “I think I know exactly what you mean by the order of Grace,” Tolkien responded, “and of course by your references to Our Lady, upon which [sic] all my own small perception of beauty both in majesty and simplicity is founded.”12 Many years later, Tolkien wrote that he was “particularly interested” by another correspondent’s remarks about Galadriel: “I think it is true that I owe much of this character to Christian and Catholic teaching and imagination about Mary.”13
Although the Marian influence on the characterization of Galadriel and the prayerful invocations to Elbereth are clear enough, it would be remiss to overlook another episode in The Lord of the Rings that resonates with a Catholic theological understanding of the role of Mary in salvation history. This is the moment Éowyn, the shield-maiden of Rohan, vanquishes the Witch-king of Angmar, the Lord of the Nazgûl. As the diminutive figure of the shield-maiden, disguised as a male warrior, faces the might of the greatest of Sauron’s Ringwraiths, against whom even the power of Gandalf had wavered, the Witch-king calls her a fool for believing that she could hinder him: “Hinder me? Thou fool. No living man may hinder me!”
“But no living man am I!” Éowyn replies. “You look upon a woman. Éowyn I am, Éomund’s daughter.”14
The greatest of the Ringwraiths, the mightiest of Sauron’s servants, seems shocked by her reply, even fearful, “as if in sudden doubt.”15 Her words seem ominous, filled with portents of doom, and the Witch-king’s subsequent defeat at her hands appears to be the fulfillment of an unspoken prophecy. It’s as though Éowyn’s hand on the sword serves as the hand of Providence itself.
The defeat of satanic evil by a woman, in such a manner that it is implicit that no living man but only a woman had the power to do so, reminds Catholics of the role of Mary as the New Eve, the one whose fidelity to God brings forth the Savior, thereby crushing the serpent underfoot as promised by God in the Book of Genesis.16 Commenting on the significance of Mary’s role as the New Eve who, through the power of God, conquers the power of Satan, Pope Benedict XVI taught the following: “At the dawn of the Creation, Satan seems to have the upper hand, but the son of a woman is to crush his head. Thus, through the descendence of a woman, God himself will triumph. Goodness will triumph. That woman is the Virgin Mary of whom was born Jesus Christ who, with his sacrifice, defeated the ancient tempter once and for all. This is why in so many paintings and statues of the Virgin Immaculate she is portrayed in the act of crushing a serpent with her foot.”17
Thus as Éowyn, the diminutive shield-maiden of Rohan, crushes the serpent underfoot, we see, in the language and art of the Church Militant, which is the Church at war with the powers of darkness, an image of the Virgin most powerful (Virgo potens), the true shield-maiden, her babe in arms, crushing the diabolus with the might of her immaculate heart.