Whether you support the British Royal Family or not, that is up to you. But for much of British history, the most vocal group when it comes to the crown has been the writers; treating the monarchy with a concoction of awe and fascination at its tradition, but also caution at its deception.
The ever-developing revelations surrounding convicted child sex offender Jeffrey Epstein and his links to the rich have made it feel like a cultural barrier has been broken. We have likely all seen the bizarre images of Andrew’s intimate association with Epstein, and new details and rumours circulating daily: “Did the Queen cover up Andrew’s fiascos?” Many on social media also revelled in hatred towards Prince Harry and Meghan Markle as they packed their bags and left to enjoy a ‘quieter’ life in 2020. Six years later, support for the British monarchy sits at approximately 62%, whereas in 1926, it was above 90%. The most privileged members of society have free speech – I could outwardly bash King Charles and nobody would bat an eye – but the right to criticise the Crown has not always been as elastic as it is today.
For centuries, direct criticism of the sovereign was not only socially discouraged but also legally perilous. Seditious libel was officially established as a crime in 1606, making it punishable to publish anything that encouraged hatred or contempt for the reigning monarch. The standard was so broad that even truthful statements could be prosecuted.
John Stubbs was an English pamphleteer who criticised Elizabeth I’s proposed marriage to the French Duke of Anjou in his 1579 pamphlet The Discovery of a Gaping Gulf. He wrote:
The Discovery of a Gaping Gulf whereunto England is like to be swallowed by another French Marriage, if the Lord forbid not the banns, by letting her Majesty see the sin and punishment thereof.¹
His pamphlet argued that, at forty-six years old, Elizabeth was too old to have children and therefore had no need for marriage, but even worse: a French marriage. He argued that English values, customs, language and morality would be undermined by such a close relationship with the French monarchy. It is not the worst thing he could’ve said — and I imagine many would type frantically on Facebook if King Charles had married a French woman — yet it was one that indeed led to his conviction for seditious writing. His right hand (his writing hand) was publicly cut off, followed by him claiming "God save the Queen!"² before fainting.
‘Stubbs has his hand cut off’ by Edward Frank Gillett. Hutchinson's Story of the British Nation, 1922.
A century later, Daniel Defoe was prosecuted for The Shortest Way with the Dissenters (1702), a ‘satirical’ text so sharp the government declared it treasonous. Many claimed that Defoe’s satire had been simply misunderstood. He knew what he was doing and understood the consequences that would follow, since he initially wrote the pamphlet anonymously. Ultimately, Defoe was sentenced to the pillory, fined, and imprisoned, during which he fell into bankruptcy. Buddhists refer to this as karma.
This article would not be complete if I did not mention Edmund Spenser’s The Faerie Queene, which sits at the other end of the continuum with its lavish, exaggerated fascination for Elizabeth I (the same woman who shockingly almost married a Frenchman). The text started circulating in manuscript form in 1587, the year before the Spanish Armada attempted to overthrow Elizabeth I and restore Catholicism to England. The first three books were printed in 1590 and finished in 1597. It’s around 300,000 words, which is about half of the length of the Bible. Spenser sought to honour Queen Elizabeth as the ideal Protestant ruler, and with the mention of this word follows the group of people who disliked her the most: the Catholics. After defeating the Spanish Armada in 1588, Elizabeth I became a powerful national symbol, but the Catholics were deeply opposed to her rule, especially after her excommunication by the Pope in 1570. Catholics were not allowed to worship their faith as they wanted to: Elizabeth banned any priests who had been ordained abroad since the beginning of her reign. Consequently, they were hanged, drawn, and quartered. So, is Spenser’s praise of Elizabeth believable, that this Queen symbolised truth, fidelity and chastity while sentencing those of different religious affiliations to death? Probably not. He was more likely participating in a culture where praise of the monarch was expected and handsomely rewarded, even if it sometimes exaggerated reality.
For centuries, political artists and writers operated under the impossible constraint: how do you depict power when you cannot criticise it openly? This pressure produced some of the most beguiling, elaborate, hyper-symbolic artworks of the early modern period — pieces that appear honourable and deferential on the surface, but reveal, through gesture and allegory, the tensions and political messages that could not be spoken aloud. It is precisely within this tradition that Peter Paul Rubens’s Apotheosis of James I becomes so fascinating.
‘The Apotheosis of James I’ by Peter Paul Rubens. Oil on canvas, adhered to canvas laid down on a laminated wood support. Circa 1632–4
The Flemish artist and diplomat Peter Paul Rubens was commissioned by James I’s son, Charles I, to paint the ceiling of the Banqueting House in Whitehall³. It was a seemingly straightforward task: creating a monumental visual tribute to the peaceful reign and divine authority of James I, notably the first monarch to rule England, Ireland and Scotland simultaneously. The resulting piece (the image above) was installed in the later years of Charles I’s reign. It is a lavish celebration of Stuart kingship – an Apotheosis that lifts James I (at the bottom, clothed in red) up towards Heaven and embeds him with carefully orchestrated surroundings of classical virtue and divinity. Yet, it is precisely within this ceremonial grandeur that the piece becomes most intriguing. For all its official purpose as royal propaganda, the painting contains subtle iconographic tensions: allegorical figures whose classical associations are double-edged.
The painting worships James I – he’s above us, socially and metaphorically. He hovers in this golden light, elevated, seemingly untouchable, a figure of grandeur in the heavens. The composition draws our eyes upward, as if the entire cosmos conspires to honour and gaze at him. Every gesture reinforces this sense of majesty. The palette bathes him in warmth. At first glance, the painting screams triumph and reverence.
But it is not praising him at all. The more you look, the more it unravels. Rubens was a genius, and knew he could get away with it. James’ posture is tentative, hunched, and almost clinging; his body lacks the confident extension typical of apotheosis. The woman lifting James I upward wears yellow-gold drapery, and grasps James I by the arm/torso. She holds scales in her right hand, neatly tucked away and not prominently displayed. A traditional symbol of balanced, impartial rule is visually demoted, while the physical strain of lifting the king is emphasised. She does the work. What is absolutely fascinating here is the crucial way in which James I holds the woman, which I have zoomed in on below:
‘The Apotheosis of James I’ by Peter Paul Rubens. Cropped image
The moment you isolate such a detail is the moment James I’s gesture becomes not one of sovereignty, but of passivity. He is weightless, clutching the female figure in an action that looks more like an anxious grasp than a majestic ascent. Most apotheosis imagery of this period depicts rulers rising effortlessly, their bodies elongated and relaxed, as if Heaven itself has summoned them.
Charles Le Brun: Apotheosis of Louis XIV. Oil on canvas. 1677. Louis XIV is elevated in a grand ceiling composition at Versailles. The surrounding allegorical figures support him, but he does not depend on them physically – he himself is powerful enough.
Rubens, however, gives James a pose that suggests dependence and instability, not the confidence or authority of a king. He balanced flattery with subtle critique, giving the king a glowing golden halo of honour while encoding this anxiety into the very gestures of his ascent. The painting is both a celebration and a subversion, but it’s only visible to those willing to look closely enough.
Rubens’ work participates in the same conversations as the literature spanning centuries; exploring the fragility and contingency of power while maintaining the outward forms of reverence.
The only royal scandal the pamphleteer Stubbs had to worry about was whether Elizabeth I would marry the French Duke (in case any reader is unfamiliar and wondering, she famously did not marry at all). But today, our anxieties about those in power are slightly different. Sixteenth and seventeenth-century citizens asked questions like, ‘How could she become a Protestant?’ and ‘Will this interracial marriage endanger our all-powerful kingdom?’ Nowadays, we wonder more about whether these people should be allowed near children at all. And of course, today’s panorama is substantially different: we have technology, telephones, famous leaked voicemails in which Charles ‘joked’ about becoming Camilla’s tampon.
We live in a world that has been flipped on its head compared to the 17th century. The right to speak openly about those in power is no longer a privilege, but an expectation. Criticism of the monarchy persists not simply because of scandal – albeit scandal often provides its most entertaining fuel – but because we are no longer bound by fear or legal constraint. Where writers like Stubbs and Defoe risked mutilation or imprisonment, we risk very little. What Rubens could only subtly imply with his paintbrush, we can declare outright through a screen. This change matters, though it took us a long time to achieve it. And so, because we now possess such freedom, the responsibility is not to retreat from criticism, but to continue it.
The former prince Andrew, Melania Trump, Jeffrey Epstein and Gwendolyn Beck, with whom Andrew allegedly visited Epstein’s island with.