“The title ‘Henry IX and I’ showed that Henry Benedict Stuart, Cardinal York, claimed both the long English lineage he inherited and the Jacobite monarchy he believed he embodied. By pairing the numbers, he signalled that he was at once the ninth Henry in the old royal sequence of England and the first Henry of Scotland in a legitimate line.

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Why “Henry IX and I”? The Double Regnal Number

Monarchy is dusty, bright, and loud all at once and history is all about signals, names, titles, symbols, that make sense only if you know what came before. Monarchy loves the idea of agelessness. As if they had always been there.

Sometimes, those signals become terribly complicated. That’s what draws me to the story of Henry IX and I, a monarch in exile styled with two numbers. Why would anyone have both a “IX” and a “I” after their name? It’s a gateway into all the messy realities, contradictions, and sensory details of royal naming traditions: the sound of a proclamation echoing across two or even three countries.

Why did some monarchs end up with not just one regnal number, but two, sometimes even three at the same time? Why does it still matter, generations and centuries on?

The Roots: What Are Regnal Numbers, and Who Needs Them?

Before we wander through the Stuart Dynasty, their exile, their devotion or Memory or even the chilly marble corridors of the Vatican, we need to ground ourselves. Regnal numbers are the Roman numerals that follow a king or queen’s name, used to tell them apart from previous monarchs with the same name. So, for instance, we talk about Edward VII to avoid getting him muddled with the earlier Edwards in English history or a later Edward VIII.

It’s not just about keeping things tidy, instead, history is all about signals. These numbers are all about symbolism, legacy, and, at times, raw politics. The regnal numbers create a sense of tradition, a thread weaving past and present. Imagine a brand new king, full of nervous energy, stepping into a sunlit window at the Palace of Whitehall, squinting at the painted faces of his supposed ancestors, some real, some half-mythical. The regnal number he adopts marks his connection to those who came before. Sometimes it’s a matter of pride, sometimes a point of contention.

So who gets one? Kings and queens, usually. Popes almost always (more on their numbering messes later). Occasionally, princes, dukes, or other notable figures, especially if their family traditions are keen on such things. The real fun starts when one monarch reigns in more than one realm. Then it becomes complicated. Who gets to choose which number comes next? Whose history counts, and whose is forgotten?

The regnal number isn’t an old ‘thing’ deep in history. Remember, His Majesty King Charles III had options. Would he become George VII or Charles III. These decisions matter and affect history and such decisions don’t just have relevance to British history. Other monarchies also exist!

The British Tangle: England and Scotland and All Their Numbers

If you’ve ever wondered why sometimes you see a monarch called “James VI and I”, or even “James VII and II”, you’re peeking straight into a mash-up of ancient rivalries and awkward compromises. I suspect that when he was a child Henry VI of England was also portrayed as Henry VI of England and Henry II of France. History has a way of doing that to monarchs.

James VI, crowned King of Scots as a baby, travelled south to inherit the English throne when Elizabeth I died childless. In Scotland, he was the sixth King James. In England, though, he was the first James, no English King James before him. So what does he call himself? Like a careful and diplomatic host, he takes both numbers: James VI and I. That way, he honours both traditions and tries (never quite successfully) to keep everyone happy. James was subtly reminding the observer that he was a monarch from an ancient dynasty and wasn’t some penniless newcomer.

Why didn’t James, or monarchs in a similar position, just pick one number? The answer has a peculiar texture, like the bumpy, faded edges of an old coin, part politics, part pride, part the stubbornness of two nations that for centuries considered each other bitter enemies. Each country had its own royal succession, separate histories, and separate lists of kings.

After James’s momentous ride south, the numbering game continued for decades. The monarch after him in Scotland became Charles I in both kingdoms because he was the new Charles everywhere, no confusion there, but soon enough, there were more “and” titles: James VII and II, William III and II, each reflecting the separate tally in England and Scotland. For a while, every important document, royal decrees, coins, seals, had to be carefully stamped with the right number, or given both.

The result, even for James himself, was unsteady. He tried, in his own peculiar way, to call himself “King of Great Britain,” inventing a new country straight out of his own ambition, but neither England nor Scotland agreed. The sound of his dreams for unity lingered in the halls, but the legal documents carried a split identity: “James the First, King of England… James the Sixth, King of Scots.” The Union of the Crowns in 1603 was, in sensory terms, more about shuffling piles of musty parchment than the clean singing of a single, united people.

Double Numbers: The Sensory Reality

James’s Scottish coins bear “VI,” his English ones “I.” Royal seals, those thick globules of wax, are pressed with one numeral for Scottish documents, another for English. Meanwhile, official proclamations ring out in London with “I,” in Edinburgh with “VI.” You can almost feel the confusion, feel the bumps in the transition.

For everyday people, the difference might seem small, but for kings, queens, and their ministers, every numeral was weighted with centuries of pride, fear, and memory.

Regnal Numbers: Glorious, Messy and a Compromise.

Charles II was King of Scotland from 1649 until 1651 and King of England, Scotland, and Ireland from the 1660 Restoration of the monarchy and he was the first Charles in Scotland or England so there wasn’t a problem. No secondary regnal numbers, the King was simply, King Charles.

The union of England and Scotland in 1707, sealed by the crackly, ink-stained Acts of Union, should have settled things. Now there would be just one country, “Great Britain.” In practice, old habits stuck around like the scent of pipe smoke lingering in tapestries. The first five monarchs after the union, Anne, George I, II, III, IV, had the same number for both kingdoms. No confusion, so nobody noticed.

Trouble brewed again when Edward VII became king in 1901. The Scots were not thrilled. None of the previous “Edwards” in British history had been kings of Scotland, all were English kings, many associated with war or conquest against the Scots. Why should the Scots have to accept Edward VII instead of Edward I or II? The protests in Scotland had a sharp, earthy bitterness, sometimes literally, like when aggrieved citizens defaced new “E II R” pillar boxes (that is, post boxes bearing Elizabeth II’s cipher).

The old solutions, giving each kingdom’s history its due, were now swept aside in favour of simplicity (and maybe English dominance). After long debates (and a few broken letterboxes), politicians decreed that, from then on, British sovereigns would always use whichever number was higher, English or Scottish. That’s why, if there is ever a King Alexander, he’ll be Alexander IV, because Scotland had three already, even if England never had an Alexander at all.

William’s likely regnal number

If Prince William, currently Prince of Wales, chooses to reign under his given name, he would become King William V, because the last monarch of that name was William IV of Great Britain, who died in 1837. Regnal numbers simply continue the historical sequence, so the next William automatically becomes the fifth. This isn’t a prediction about his future choices, merely how the numbering system works.

British monarchs are free to select any of their given names when they ascend the throne, which means William could technically choose Arthur, Philip, or Louis instead. Each option would carry its own symbolic weight, but most royal historians note that keeping “William” would offer continuity and avoid unnecessary confusion. The name also carries deep historical resonance, from William the Conqueror to the early Hanoverian kings as well as Kings of Scotland.

So while nothing is guaranteed until accession, the logic is straightforward: if he reigns as William, he becomes William V, following the established royal tradition.

Table: Double Regnal Numbers Among the Stuarts and Their Successors

Monarch	England & Ireland Ordinal	Scotland Ordinal	Full Style Used	Notes
James VI and I	I	VI	James VI and I	First to hold both thrones simultaneously
Charles I	I	I	Charles I	Name new to both kingdoms
Charles II	II	II	Charles II	Name new to both kingdoms
James II and VII	II	VII	James VII and II	Known as “VII in Scotland and II” in England
William III and II	III	II	William III and II	Dual because of prior Williams in both England and Scotland
Mary II	II	II	Mary II	Mary I in England and Scotland were different people
Anne	I	I	Anne	No prior Queen Anne in either realm

How Did Other Europeans Cope With Their Own Overlapping Numbering Traditions?

Britain was far from alone in making a muddle out of regnal numbers; the rest of Europe’s history is polka-dotted with kings and queens who wore one number in one kingdom and a different one next door.

Charles III of Spain and Naples (and Sicily…)

Take Charles III of Spain, also Charles VII of Naples, and Charles V (sometimes III) of Sicily. Sounds confusing? It gets worse. In Spain, the sequence of Charleses went I (the Emperor Charles V), II, and III. In Naples, there had been six previous Charleses, so he became Charles VII there. In Sicily, the counting depended on which previous Charleses you included; people sometimes ignored certain rulers altogether, for reasons as much political and emotional as historical.

Picture Charles’s triumphal entry into Naples: the sun hot on the cobblestones, crowds cheering, the royal procession winding under banners painted with the wrong number for the Sicilian audience, the right one for the Neapolitans. In each city, his number marked a different local memory and claim of legitimacy. For Sicilians, the memory of a previous Charles they considered an oppressor meant they preferred not to count him at all!

Even in formal Latin titles, Charles had to list all the places and numbers he ruled. Most people just called him Charles of Bourbon, a messy, human compromise.

Christian X of Denmark and Iceland

Another delightful case. Christian X was King of Denmark, where he was, sensibly, the tenth Christian in the Danish list. In 1918, Iceland became a kingdom in personal union with Denmark. Did they start counting from scratch? No, they borrowed Christian’s Danish number, calling him Kristján X. For the Icelanders, this was both an assertion of their connection to royal tradition and a clumsy fit with their own national history. When Iceland voted to found a republic in 1944, Christian sent a polite if mournful letter of congratulations, but privately, he felt saddened and perhaps a little betrayed by the end of his Icelandic kingship. He never quite stopped using the Icelandic title, even when it no longer belonged to him.

Charles XV of Sweden and IV of Norway

The story gets even more tangled in the Scandinavian north. Sweden and Norway were linked in a royal union from 1814 to 1905. Their respective numbering of Charleses diverged, more Swedish Charleses by that name than Norwegian ones, thanks in part to an inventive bit of royal storytelling. Charles XV of Sweden (that’s “fifteen”) was Charles IV in Norway, reflecting their different histories and counts.

Table: European Monarchs with Double Ordinals

Monarch	Realm 1	Title in Realm 1	Realm 2	Title in Realm 2
James VI and I	Scotland	James VI	England	James I
Charles III	Spain	Charles III	Naples	Charles VII
Christian X	Denmark	Christian X	Iceland	Christian X
Charles XV	Sweden	Charles XV	Norway	Charles IV

Sensory Explorations: When Counting Gets Inventive

Swedish Fictitious Ordinals

Billing yourself as the “twelfth” or “fourteenth” king when, in fact, you’re only the fourth or fifth? That’s what happened in 16th-century Sweden, when Eric XIV and Charles IX adopted their numerals based on a semi-mythical history concocted by Johannes Magnus, a bishop who spun out a line of made-up kings just to make Sweden seem older and greater.

There’s something deliciously surreal about this. The sight of new coins and banners painted up with “Eric XIV,” the official records quietly ignoring the fact that only a handful of real Erics had come before. Even now, old maps and books list the “six missing” kings in ghostly italics. These fake numbers bolstered royal pride and power; the scent of freshly printed proclamations mingled with the nervous sweat of courtiers hoping no clever historian would ask awkward questions.

German House of Reuss: The Henrys Go On and On

If you think Sweden’s inventive numbering is odd, just wait until you meet the German House of Reuss. For centuries, every single male member was named Heinrich (Henry), whether he was head of the family or the third son or a distant cousin. They gave each Heinrich a number, counting through the centuries: Heinrich I, II, III… and when they reached 100, they started again. Sometimes, in different lines of the family, the numbers restarted with each new century. The result? Letters home were addressed to “Your Highness Heinrich LXVII,” or “Uncle Heinrich XXIX”, and only the family seemed able to keep it all straight. The texture here is of endless, crisp new certificates inked with Roman numerals, the echoing voices of chancellors calling out numbers in great halls.

When Regnal Numbering Collides with Reality: Protest and Storytelling

The Sensory Experience of Controversy

Fast forward to the 20th century. Picture cool Edinburgh dusk, the orange of streetlamps just flickering on. It’s the early 1950s, and post boxes in Scotland are being installed with the new royal cipher “EIIR” (Elizabeth II Regina). Except, as fiery pamphlets and shouting protesters quickly pointed out, there never was an Elizabeth I of Scotland.

This standoff persuaded government to leave out the “II” in royal symbols on Scottish public property from then on, opting instead for the Crown of Scotland, a small but lasting victory for those who valued Scotland’s separate royal past.

Papal and Other Numbering Oddities

It’s not just monarchs who become confused at the numbers. Popes, who first adopted an official numbering system, managed to tie themselves in knots as well. The papal “Stephen”s in particular are notorious, a Stephen who died before his consecration muddied the list, leading to the invention of parentheses for some and outright skipping of a number for others. The numbering of the “John”s was even more confusing: due to bad record-keeping and anti-popes, there is no Pope John XX. One can almost smell the musty parchment and candle smoke, the popes muttering prayers for guidance while sifting through piles of contradictory lists.

Fiction and Pretenders: Where Two Numbers Mark a Divided Past

So, what about Henry IX and I? The Jacobite movement, which supported the Stuart line long after it had lost the actual throne, used double numbers to make a statement.

They called their claimants James VIII and III, Charles III, Henry IX and I, numbering themselves for both Scotland and England, because they saw the two as separate, sovereign kingdoms, still hoping for the day they might be “Westminstered” in triumph. A time when they could unite throne and altar.

So, even when the Stuart dynasty was all but dead with only a celibate Henry IX and I, they held out the possibility of passing on the throne to a distant Stuart (Catholic) cousin in Charles Emmanuel former King of Sardinia.

Why Double Numbers Matter: Symbolism, Memory, and Legacy

Now, after all these stories, crackled parchments, waxy seals, defaced post boxes, triumphal parades, invented kings, comes the real question: why does it matter how a king is numbered? Why worry if a monarch is Henry IX and I instead of just “Henry the Last”?

The answer is more than historical pedantry and the symbolism of numbers. It’s about ownership of the past, about which stories a nation tells itself. A regnal number signals identity and legitimacy. It’s the link between the wild, myth-spun past and the orderly bureaucracy of today. The compromise, sometimes a fudge, in how regnal numbers are chosen tells us whom each people wants to remember, whose glory is recalled in pageantry, whose crimes linger as ghosts.

If you close your eyes, you can almost hear the whisper of all those old arguments, the pride of a people who will not be erased, the stubborn jangling of keys in a lock that no one quite agrees opens the right door. Double numbers are stories written in Roman numerals: stories of union and division, triumph and protest, rivalry and reconciliation.

Reflections and Curiosities

Is there a better way to do it? Probably not; or at least, no way that would please everyone. There’s an earthy, living feel to the contradictions: paint peeling from a golden crested door because of old arguments about numbering; the taste of shortbread and beer served at a celebration under a banner with two numbers, hoping at least everyone can laugh about it for an evening; the crunch underfoot of frost on the parade ground as young cadets drill before a flag inscribed with a number whose meaning slips, like time itself, between countries.

A friend asked me, does the rest of the world find this as confusing as the British do? Sometimes yes, sometimes no, the details and the symbolism, the way regnal numbers are used, always depend on what people want to remember and the stories their leaders want to tell. In the end, monarchy (real or imagined) is about memory as much as about power.

Final Thoughts: Counting More Than Kings

Having wandered through the Stuart stories, past the shouts in Parliament, the swirl of battles, the whispered prayers in stolen churches, the scent of ink and gunpowder, the sweat and laughter of parades, it seems to me that double regnal numbers are a bit like an old family recipe. Everyone wants a taste of tradition, even if they argue over the ingredients. The numbers we use for kings and queens matter not just for what they say, but for the histories they include, the feelings they evoke, and the futures they try to carve from tangled pasts.

So, next time you see a “VI and I,” a “Charles III of Spain, Charles VII of Naples,” or a pillar box marked only with a solemn crown in Edinburgh, spare a smile for all those who tried, sometimes with laughter, sometimes with fury, to make sense of a past where nobody could quite agree how to count.

Maybe ask yourself: Whose stories are being numbered? Which ones are waiting, quietly, for someone to count them in at last?

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Last Curated: 20 04 2026

Part of: The Stuart Dynasty, Exile, Devotion, Memory