Lucy Hay, Countess of Carlisle–not to be confused with Ann Hay, Countess of Something Irrelevant–played a small, double-edged part in England’s Civil Wars, and you might not want to get too close to those edges, because they were sharp. She was the daughter of an earl but, what with being a woman and all, couldn’t inherit a title of her own. You know how it is. I didn’t inherit a title either, and I’m willing to bet you didn’t. 

So Lucy married a man who soon became an earl, although he was a lowly baron when she married him.

Irrelevant photo: Cornwall’s foggy cliffs–or one of them anyway.

A digression

English being the wild-eyed, confusing thing it is, the wife of an earl is a countess. This almost makes sense if you think back to the Norman invasion of England. 

No, I know you weren’t alive then. None of us were. Imagine yourself back to the Norman invasion. The Normans brought the word count with them from the Continent, only since they were coming from France the word was counte. You’ll want to be careful how you pronounce that. However you spell it, though, the word never made the transition to English. It was defeated in hand-to-hand combat by the Anglo-Saxon word eorl (now earl), which applied to roughly the same small group of men. 

And so it is that in English you only get to be a count if you bought your title abroad. Buy it in Britain and you’re an earl. And if you want to know why the wife of an earl isn’t an earless–

Damn. I was going to refer you to the overstuffed Mysteries of the English Language file for an explanation, but then I typed the word and saw that the imaginary wife in question would probably be ear-less instead of an earl-ess. I doubt that explains the discrepancy, but it is a satisfying absurdity. Let’s quit while that’s fresh in our minds.

But we were talking about Lucy Hay

Lucy–I repeat, for no good reason–had to marry to get herself a title, and James Hay, the soon-to-be earl she married was a major player in first James’ and then in Charles I’s court. He was knight of the Bath, master of the wardrobe, keeper of the warm fuzzy towel, groom of the stool, and gentleman of the bedchamber, although not all at the same time.* The titles are ridiculous–you have to travel in very select circles to even say them with a straight face–but they mark his political influence.

The kings poured money and possessions over him, but let’s skip the details. He’s not our focus. For our story, what matters is that he brought Lucy to court, where she made an impact in her own right. She was beautiful–probably the quality that was most valued–witty, charming, and smart. Or at least she had a reputation for all of the above. I wasn’t there either, so I can only take other people’s word. She was celebrated by assorted poets and rumored to have affairs with a range of men. I wouldn’t put too much weight on the rumors, because (a) we don’t seem to have anything to back them up, and (b) it’s what was (and still is) said about any woman who accomplished anything, because surely it’s the only way a woman could get anywhere.

From here on, we’ll find that respectable sources don’t say much about ol’ Lucy, so I have to rely partially on the less official ones. They may be correct–they’re at least fairly consistent–but as historical citations they’re not much more impressive than, ahem, I am. So, for what it’s worth:

Lucy became lady of the bedchamber to Charles I’s queen, Henrietta Maria, and went on to be a close confidant. Then in 1636, Lucy’s husband died. By some accounts he left her a wealthy widow. By others, he left nothing but debts. Either way, she chose not to remarry and became close to Thomas Wentworth, the earl of Stafford and the king’s main advisor, sparking a rumor that they were sleeping together, because what else could a man and a woman do when they’re together?

How influential was she? It’s hard to know. For the most part, women had to operate in the political shadows, so we’re not going to find a lot of documentation. That’s great if you’re writing novels–no one will prove you wrong, so you’re free to have a good time–but not so great if you’re writing history.

But why do we care about Lucy?

Because Charles I is the guy who got his head cut off. You know: English Civil Wars. Conflict between Protestants, Very-very Protestants, Catholics, and Possible Catholics, not to mention between king and Parliament.

Parliament was pushing for more power. Charles was pushing for more power. But there was only so much power to go around. Non-Church of England Protestants were pushing for religious freedom, at least for themselves if not for anyone else. Everybody was maneuvering for something. And Stafford–remember him? C’mon, it’s only been a few paragraphs. King’s adviser. Lucy’s good buddy. Parliament noticed that Stafford was vulnerable and had him executed–and Charles (that’s the king; remember him?) put his seal to the order. His political position was already shaky and he either couldn’t or wouldn’t risk his royal neck for a mere favorite advisor.

In some tellings, that’s why Lucy turned against Charles and toward the more moderate of the Presbyterian groupings in Parliament. (They were the relative moderates; the radicals were the Puritans.) But that’s guesswork. All we know is that she became close to John Pym, the most visible advocate for Parliament’s power, and when Charles decided to arrest Pym and four other MPs who were getting on his royal nerves, she tipped them off, so that when the king marched into Parliament with armed men, they were nowhere to be found.

Would history have played out differently if he’d gotten his hands on them? We’ll never know. He didn’t. A civil war broke out, and Lucy sided with Parliament until the Puritans came to dominate it, when she switched back to the Royalist side, pawning a necklace to raise £1,500, which she gave to the cause. That was a big honkin’ sum of money at the time and it’s not to be sneezed at today. She generally kept communication open with, in no particular order, Charles (that’s Charles, Jr., who later became Charles II), the queen, and scattered bands of Royalists. Parliament had her arrested and held in the tower for 18 months, and from there she stayed in communication with Charles, Jr., by cipher.  

Also by email.

In spite of all that, when Charles II got to the side of the board where they put an extra checker on his head, kinging him, she didn’t regain her old influence. 

Why not? History doesn’t say. Maybe because she wasn’t of use anymore. Maybe she was no longer young and beautiful enough to get the (male, remember) poets cranked up. Maybe her contacts in the new court weren’t strong enough. That’s all speculation, though. The court–the one she’d held restore–had moved on, leaving her behind.

She died of apoplexy not long after Charles II became king. 

Apoplexy? It’s a dated word for a cerebral hemorrhage or stroke. In a more general way, though, it means to be really, truly furious. Which she might well have been by then, although I have nothing more than a hunch to back that up. If she’d known history was going to pretty well ignore her, she’d have had all the more reason to be apoplectic.

* Note: I only made up one of those titles. The rest, I swear to you, are real.