Kings and Queens, Royalty and Nobility Articles
Queen Elizabeth
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To the average Frenchman - though possibly not Francois Hollande when he met her yesterday at Windsor Castle, as he has people to tell him these things - it comes as a source of constant amazement that the Queen not only speaks French, but does so rather well. Albeit with a slight Windsor accent.
Indeed, it probably is a bit of a surprise to people over here; she just doesn't look the type. It shouldn't be, though. She is, after all, the Queen of Canada, and there are about seven million French Canadians who might get a bit shirty if their head of state were not able to address them in their mother tongue.
The last British sovereign to have been educated at home, Princess Elizabeth was taught by a governess, Marion Crawford, whose efforts were supplemented by a French governess, Mrs Montaudon-Smith.
Elizabeth's parents did not take the subject of her education terribly seriously - they just wanted their daughters to learn enough to be nicely behaved young ladies. On the other hand, her grandmother, Queen Mary, was concerned that having a governess was not enough, and said so.
"I don't know what she meant," the Duchess of York (later the Queen Mother) told a friend. "After all, I and my sisters only had governesses and we all married well - one of us very well . . ." Monty's appointment, therefore, may have been down to pressure from Queen Mary.
By the time Elizabeth was in her teens, a future queen following the Abdication, her education had moved up a gear. There were history lessons from Henry Marten, then the vice-provost of Eton, an eccentric figure who kept sugar lumps in his pocket and sometimes addressed the princesses as he did his charges at Eton, as 'gentlemen'. And French lessons were delivered by Antoinette de Bellaigue, a Belgian aristocrat who had escaped just before the German invasion. She taught the princesses French, French literature and European history. Marten would set them history essays on what 'Toni' had taught them, which they had to write in French.
So, yes, the Queen does speak French. And, one hopes, better than Elizabeth I, who was fluent but spoke with a long, drawling English accent, which the French ambassador had much fun in imitating behind her back.
The Real King
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When, in late 2003, the actor-presenter Tony Robinson, knocked on the door of Michael Abney-Hastings's modest weatherboard house in Jerilderie, the New South Wales town that had been his home for four decades, Hastings, who had recently become the 14th Earl of Loudoun, believed he was to be interviewed for a programme on descendants of the Plantagenets. But Robinson had bigger news.
A Glaswegian medievalist, Dr Michael K. Jones, had discovered in the chapter book of Rouen Cathedral that, from late July to late August 1441, Richard Plantagenet, Duke of York, had been fighting the French at Pontoise, five days' march away from his wife, Lady Cecily Neville, who remained in Rouen (apparently in the company of an English archer called Blaybourne).
With some contemporary support from Louis XI of France and Shakespeare (in Richard III), Dr Jones was satisfied that the son (Edward) born to the duchess nine months later could not have been her husband's and therefore the boy who became Edward IV was illegitimate. This illegitimacy, Jones claimed, tainted the rights of all Edward's successors. For the 'rightful claimant', Jones turned to Richard York's surviving - legitimate - brother, George Duke of Clarence, and traced the generations through his daughter, the Blessed Margaret, Countess of Salisbury ('the last of the Plantagenets'), her son Baron Montagu, then through the Hastings and the Huntingdons to the Earls of Loudon. And so to the 14th Earl. The theory discounts Richard York's acceptance of a son that was not his and any possibility that he may have returned to visit his wife during the campaign. It also ignores the conquest at Bosworth by Henry VII of Clarence's brother, Richard III; Union under the Stuarts; and the arrival of the Hanovers. The Act of Settlement might have caused some difficulties too, as Michael Loudoun was a Catholic.
When Robinson told Lord Loudoun he was 'King Michael I of England' his response, in the broadest Australian accent, was simply "There you go." Rather than pursue the English throne, he chose to settle for a seat on the Jerilderie Shire Council.
Michael Abney-Hastings was born Michael Edward Lord in Hastings, Sussex in 1942, the only child of Captain Walter Strickland Lord and Barbara Abney-Hastings, eldest daughter of Edith, 12th Countess of Loudoun. Two years later, Barbara's only brother was killed in action and she became Lady Mauchline, heir to her mother's title. Michael's parents divorced in 1945 and his mother remarried. The following year he adopted the Loudon family name, Abney-Hastings. He was educated at Ampleforth.
When his mother succeeded her mother as the 13th Countess of Loudoun, he became Lord Mauchline, but heir to no great estate. Loudon Castle, "the Windsor of the North", outside Kilmarnock had been destroyed by fire the year before his birth and what remained was left to an aunt. His mother lived in a modest house in Ashby de la Zouch, overlooked by the family castle, reduced to a shell by Cromwell's forces and more recently a theme park with rides and wallabies. The 17-year-old Lord Mauchline went to Australia House to apply for passage there. He arrived in Australia with £50 and took a succession of jobs as a jackeroo and an orange picker. Before going bush, he had sold, with a friend, Encyclopaedia Britannica from door-to-door in Bondi.
He later became a stock and station agent, moving, in 1966, to Jerilderie, 400 miles south-west of Sydney. There he met a telephonist, Noelene McCormick from neighbouring Barham and they married in 1969. He worked as a ranger for the Pastures Protection Board and for Rice Research Australia.
In 1997 he returned to England, for the first time since 1960, to see his mother. As Countess of Loudoun with a seat in the Lords, she was keen that her son and heir witness what she thought would one day be his. "I was there half-an-hour," he said, "and that was enough."
In 2002 his mother died and he became the 14th Earl of Loudoun. His new title was known about in Jerilderie but, as a Republican and a naturalised Australian, he did not use it. "It's bad enough being a Pom over here, let alone a bloody titled one." After the screening of Robinson's documentary, Britain's Real Monarch, he became known about town as 'Kingsy'.
His first wife died in 2002. He is survived by his second wife, Margaret Buntin, mayor of nearby Urana Shire, and two sons and two daughters from his first marriage; one daughter predeceased him. His elder son, Simon, succeeds him as the 15th Earl.
Michael Abney-Hastings, 14th Earl of Loudoun, was born on July 22, 1942. He died on June 30, 2012, aged 69
Title Succession
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Campaigners have renewed calls for a change in the law after an earl's daughter lost her family's ancient family title to an eighth cousin once removed.
Lady Sarah Carnegie, 30, the eldest daughter of the 14th Earl of Northesk, had sought to keep the family title after the death of her father, but lost because of primogeniture.
The title is instead inherited by Patrick Carnegy, 72, a journalist and respected scholar of classical music and theatre. He is descended from a junior line of the family, which split off in 1654. He acknowledged that the circumstances of his inheritance were rather embarrassing.
Critics of primogeniture point to the recent change in the law to allow female members of the Royal Family equal right to inherit the throne. More than 100 titled families have called for a change. "The Northesk case shows quite clearly how ridiculous unfair and iniquitous the current system of inheritance is," the Countess of Clancarty said.
The 14th Earl died of cancer in 2010 at the age of 55. Relatives of the three daughters said that the family had considered pursuing a claim to the House of Lords, but instead would now try to move on with their lives. "I think we took the collective view that there were so many sadnesses attached to it and it had no benefits," said Baroness Fisher, the sister of the 14th Earl. "There is no money or estate with the title - it is just an adornment. There isn't a stately home and there isn't much money."
The only heirlooms with the title are the Balmerino pearls, which were reputed to have been a gift from Charles II and have been owned by each successive Countesses of Northesk. They will pass to the opera singer Jill Gomez, who married the 15th Earl in 2010 after a relationship of 40 years.
The Prince of Wails
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The Prince of Wales has to understand that he can’t lobby ministers and expect to keep his nagging letters secret.
Charles could turn the House of Windsor into the House of Cards
The black spider is going to be exposed to the light. The 27 letters written by the Prince of Wales to ministers, known as the “black spider memos” in a reference to his untidy handwriting, habit of underlining and weakness for exclamation marks will, after a Supreme Court ruling yesterday, be released within 30 days. This bizarre saga, which belatedly arrived at the correct conclusion, tells us a lot about why Prince Charles is a threat to the family business.
The royal farce began in 2012 when an independent tribunal ruled that the public was entitled to see Charles’s correspondence with ministers. This ruling was vetoed by the attorney-general. The case then went to the Court of Appeal which ruled last year in favour of publication. The attorney-general challenged that ruling in the Supreme Court which has now decided, absolutely correctly, to let the daylight in upon the spiders.
The arguments the government used to prevent disclosure have been, all along, a study in the ornate absurd. Its rationale was that it is constitutionally important to proceed on the assumption that the Prince of Wales is impartial. Therefore any letters he has written, even if they are of a partisan nature, should be withheld. They are, furthermore, private and confidential.
Right, let’s get this straight. Dominic Grieve, the attorney-general who launched the government’s case, admitted that the letters contained the prince’s “most deeply held views and beliefs” and that they are “in many cases particularly frank”. So, having admitted that the letters cannot really be described as impartial, Mr Grieve then argued that releasing them would damage the perception of the prince as neutral. It’s not releasing them that does the damage. No, it is when the prince wrote them that neutrality went on holiday. It’s his lack of neutrality that is damaging to the principle of neutrality, not our right to know about it. To be partisan and partial is apparently fine, as long as it’s in secret.
We already know, from the testimony of ministers, that the prince is free with his opinions. David Blunkett, the former education secretary, reported that Charles regularly demanded the return of grammar schools. Michael Meacher, once an environment minister, enlisted the prince’s help to lobby the prime minister against GM crops. Charles lobbies constantly about complementary medicine, as a result of which Peter Hain introduced NHS trials in Northern Ireland.
We can be categorical about this. Charles has absolutely no right to do any of this. It is an empty platitude, often heard, that Charles has as much right to his opinion as anyone else. So he does, but not everyone has an open line to ministers and his use of it explodes any notion that these letters are “private”. After yesterday’s Supreme Court verdict Clarence House expressed disappointment that “the principle of privacy had not been upheld”. But the Prince of Wales is not a private citizen. There’s a clue in his title. If he wants to be a private citizen, with the protection of privacy which is due, he knows what to do. Then, having abdicated, he is free to scribble spiders all day long and we’ll see how many of them get answered. Instead, he wants it both ways. He seeks the privilege that Stanley Baldwin famously attributed to the press: “Power without responsibility, the prerogative of the harlot throughout the ages.”
Even yesterday’s ruling doesn’t demand much responsibility. The monarchy remains exempt, because of a law introduced in 2010, from Freedom of Information requests. Apart from those who hold official secrets affecting the defence of the realm, public servants are open to scrutiny as a matter of legislative principle. This applies to MPs, councillors, civil servants, BBC journalists, police officers, teachers and nurses. The monarchy, though, is not mentioned in the protocol.
The monarchy is the great institutional exception of British life. Quite apart from being exempt from critical inquiry and being instead the main source of brain-mush in British journalism, lobbying by members of the royal family is secret, which it should not be.
The royal rules on financial disclosure, such as equity ownership, should be exactly as onerous as those that apply to MPs. Charles should be called before a select committee and made to justify his lightly scrutinised accounts. Given that the private fortune of the royal family derives from the surplus made on public money by Prince Albert and the exemption from taxation offered by David Lloyd George, it is the least they can do. In a transparent time, secrecy will be the enemy of monarchy. Charles is already jeopardising the compact that his mother has made with the nation. As a lukewarm republican, I intend to send him a new pen and invite him to start writing to George Osborne, but monarchists ought to be anxious. The just-about-viable fiction of constitutional monarchy, made at its best in Vernon Bogdanor’s The Monarchy and the Constitution, rests on the silence of the sovereign. To be “above politics” is to be out of politics. It is to be a blank page on which the nation projects an idealised notion of itself. That does not include public campaigns on architecture or strong views on growing crops. It means you shut up and smile for the cameras. It’s not exactly a tough job, or an especially fulfilling one, but as a surviving anachronism in a democracy, that’s the deal.
If the prince does not work this out he will turn the House of Windsor into the House of Cards. To Play The King, the second series of Michael Dobbs’s political drama, featured a newly crowned monarch who interferes in social policy, naively loses the political battle and is forced by the prime minister to abdicate. Life is unlikely to mimic art, but support for the monarchy may yet prove to be fragile. Back in 1946, George VI polled 3 per cent when Gallup asked people which public figures they admired. He came in just behind Stalin.
The Pringle of Stichill
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Disputes among the aristocracy about illegitimacy and rival claims to ancient hereditary titles could be settled by DNA evidence for the first time.
Seven of Britain’s most senior judges have been asked to settle opposing claims to a title that goes back to the 17th century. If the claimant is successful, it could have radical consequences for the aristocracy, with pretenders to titles able for the first time to use genetic evidence to pursue their claim.
Lord Neuberger and six other justices of the Supreme Court will rule next month on who is the rightful heir to the baronetcy of Pringle of Stichill. The baronetcy was granted by Charles II to Robert Pringle “ac heredibus masculis de suo corpore” —“and his male heirs from his body” — in 1683.
Simon Pringle, 56, an insurer from Sussex, was due to have become the 11th baronet when his father died in 2013. The 10th baronet, Sir Steuart Pringle, was the commandant general of the Royal Marines during the Falklands war, and lost a leg when the IRA attached a bomb to his car in 1981. Shortly before Sir Steuart’s death, a family dispute was prompted by an unrelated project to record the DNA of members of the Clan Pringle, which dates back to the 13th century. It revealed that Sir Steuart’s DNA did not match that of his Pringle relatives, suggesting there may have been an illegitimate child in a previous generation.
According to the rival claimant to the title, Murray Pringle, that illegitimate child was Norman Hamilton Pringle, the 9th baronet — and Sir Steuart’s father — who was born in 1903. Norman Hamilton Pringle was the eldest of three sons of the 8th baronet. Murray Pringle, 74, an accountant from High Wycombe, is the son of Norman Hamilton Pringle’s younger brother Ronald, making him Simon Pringle’s first cousin once removed. According to Murray Pringle’s claim, Norman Hamilton Pringle’s father was not the 8th baronet, but another, unnamed man. The title therefore should have passed to his father Ronald.
There is no land or property associated with the title, and Murray Pringle would not have any claim on the £1.5 million estate left by the last baronet.
Claims to baronetcies are normally assessed by the Registrar of the Peerage & Baronetage, a senior official at the Ministry of Justice, after consultation with Garter King of Arms. However, because of the contentious nature of the case, it was decided it should be settled by the judicial committee of the privy council. Commander Perry Abbott, secretary of the standing council of the baronetage, said: “DNA evidence has never been used before in a claim to a peerage or baronetage.”
(And the LT take:)
“Ah, Mr Jones. Thank you for coming in. Now, as we discussed on the telephone, we have the results back from the genetic tests we conducted on your family. And, well. It’s good you’re sitting down.”
“Oh, doctor. Oh dear. It’s not heart disease is it?”
“No, no. Nothing like that.”
“Just tell me straight, doc. Is it asthma?”
“Absolutely not. It’s nothing to worry about. But it is . . . striking. There doesn’t seem to be any doubt. The fact is, it’s possible you’re a marquess.”
“A tent?”
“Perhaps I’m pronouncing that wrong. No, not a tent. An aristocrat. More senior than an earl. Beneath a duke. In fact, you’re the direct descendant of a favoured squire raised up into the peerage by Henry VIII.”
“Golly.” “Mmmm.” “Is there an ointment? Or will it have to be injections? I’m not going to need an operation, am I?”
“Mr Jones, I’m not sure you’re following. You see, following a test case in the Supreme Court, concerning the rightful heir to the baronetcy of Pringle in Stichill, we now routinely test for aristocracy. You’ve come up trumps. You should be pleased. And, moreover, it’s hereditary!”
“Like psoriasis?”
“I suppose.”
“So, you mean after me, myboy will be the tent?” “Ah. No. Awkwardly, it turns out he’s descended from an unrelated viscount. Which means you might want to have a chat with Mrs Jones. Or, as we should now call her, having tested her hair samples, Her Grace Montravia of Cockspur.”
“Cor. You mean her ancestors were nobs, too?” “Actually, no. It’s a bit confusing. They seem to have been winners of Crufts.”
“Maybe I gave you the dog’s brush by mistake?” “That would certainly explain it.”
Gifts
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While the Prince of Wales is no doubt grateful for the gifts he receives from members of the public while on walkabouts, it is probably just as well that he does not write them thank-you letters.
After all, how exactly does one express gratitude for a packet of fairy dust? The dust, given to the Prince by a young girl during his tour of New Zealand, was among the gifts that he received last year on overseas trips.
There were also 32 packets of dates — and two buckets of dates and a pot of churned butter — from one of his hosts in Saudi Arabia. If he had trouble getting through that lot, he should spare a thought for the Queen, who was given a marzipan model of the Brandenburg Gate by President Gauck of Germany during her state visit in the summer.
The prince also received a stubby holder during his visit to Australia. Should the prince be unfamiliar with the device, it is defined by the Urban Dictionary as “an insulated holder for beer cans and bottles” — just the thing, in other words, for relaxing with a cold one at Highgrove.
Some of his gifts seemed tailor-made. In Ireland he was given two packets of food supplements for bees; the Duchess of Cornwall was given a bag of bath seaweed. Others were not quite so appropriate: in Australia Charles was given a football shirt and a baseball cap.
The Queen’s gifts last year included a bag of salt from John Duncan, the governor of the British Virgin Islands. The 1lb bag is given to the British monarch every year as rent for Salt Island in the Caribbean archipelago.
When Michelle Obama visited the Queen she presented a gift box with lemon verbena tea, a candle, two small pots of honey and a jar of honey butter from the White House kitchen garden, as well as a sterling silver honeycomb and bee bud vase madefor her by Tiffany.
Prince Charles was also given armfuls of presents for Prince George and Princess Charlotte, from baby bootees and a wooden rattle to two giant lollipops. David Carter, the speaker of the New Zealand parliament, presented a woollen poncho for Charlotte and a woollen tank top for George. His other gifts for Charlotte included three soft toy penguins and a snowsuit.
The Royal Estate
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Offshore wind farms may not be the first image associated with the Queen’s property portfolio, but they are considered one of the Crown Estate’s biggest drivers of profit.
The Crown Estates portfolio stretches from Regent Street and St James’s in London to the riches of Britain’s coastline
Since 2004 the body that manages the Queen’s property has owned all the rights to renewable energy generated from a 12-mile band of continental shelf surrounding the country. The Crown Estate’s 29 offshore wind farms hold more wind turbines than the rest of the world put together and generate 5 per cent of Britain’s electricity.
The £22.9 million generated over the past year contributed to a record annual return of £304.1 million for the Crown Estate and a 12.2 per cent rise in the value of its portfolio to £12.9 billion.All profits made by the business go directly to the Treasury, which then redistributes 15 per cent to the Queen; this goes towards supporting her official duties and is known as the Sovereign Grant. Over the past decade, the Crown Estate has paid more than £2.4 billion to the Treasury.
The estate’s history dates to 1760 when George III surrendered the revenue to the Treasury as part of a deal that relieved him of his personal debts, the national debt and all responsibility for the cost of government. It is owned by the Queen but managed by an independent board, known as the Crown Estate Commissioners.
The company owns all of Regent Street and St James’s, as well as Ascot Racecourse, Windsor Great Park, and swathes of farming and forestry land. It has 17 shopping centres and is in a joint venture with Land Securities to redevelop Westgate Centre in Oxford, which is already 50 per cent pre-let.
The estate has also sold £633 million of assets over the past year as it prepares for what it believes will be a downturn in the property cycle.