Philip II. of Spain

by Martin A. S. Hume

Philip’s answer in a few words gives a clearer idea of his character than a volume could do. For months he did not answer at all, and then wrote, “Why all these disquietudes? Are not my intentions understood? Is it believed that I have any intentions than the service of God and the good of the States?” Persecution might crush Latin peoples if continued long enough, but it could not crush the stubborn Dutchmen. There arose now a new element in the strife. Hitherto the motive power had mostly been the great nobles, Catholics nearly all of them, whose object was to prevent the extinction of the political liberties of the States; but now the religious power of resistance was aroused, and the bourgeoisie stood shoulder to shoulder crying aloud that no papist should burn them or theirs for the faith. Many such had fled to England, but the towns of Holland and Zeeland were full of them still. First the landed gentlemen protested, under the leadership of Orange’s brother, Louis of Nassau, and Saint Aldegonde, against the proceedings of the Inquisition; and they bound themselves by solemn oath to follow the recent example of the Neapolitans and withstand the “gang of strangers,” who were seeking to impose the Spanish form of the Holy Office upon them. Then Brederode, the man of highest lineage and most insatiable thirst in Holland, joined them, and together they went, a couple of hundred of them, to hand their solemn protest to the regent. Tears fell from Margaret’s eyes as they filed past her, for she knew now that her brother’s stubborn spirit had met its match, and in future it must be war to the knife. Then the Gargantuan banquet at the hostelry of Culemburg unlocked their tongues still further, and tippling Brederode gave his memorable toast to the “Beggars.” No one knew what he meant, perhaps he did not himself know at the end of such an orgy, but the name caught on, and the sturdy “Beggars” arose thenceforward from their dykes and marshes to be quelled no more for good, but to hold for all time to come the country which they themselves had rescued from the sea.

The new turn of affairs did not please the great nobles. They were Catholics, though patriots, and they saw that the championship of the national cause was about to fall into the hands of the Protestants; so Egmont, Horn, Montigny, Arschot, and the rest of them did their best to stem the tide. All but Orange. He knew Philip better than any of them, and he foresaw that there would be no surrender or conciliation from him. Why should there be? Could the lieutenant of the Most High stoop to palter with sottish Brederode and his crew? If Philip had spies in Flanders, so had Orange in Madrid, and nothing passed without his knowledge. He had learned of the king’s plans of vengeance, but he could not afford yet to cast himself into the scale alone with Brederode and the little gentry, leaving the great nobles on the side of the Spaniard; so for the moment he stood aloof saying no word either of praise or condemnation, but seeking to moderate the storm on both sides. But the spark had caught the tinder. Protestant fervour blazed up in every town in Flanders in open defiance of the edicts. The regent was powerless. She could not punish all Flanders, and violent councillors of the Alba school whispered distrust to Philip even of her, for she wrote ceaselessly to her brother urging him to gentler methods. His action was characteristic: at first he authorised his sister to pardon the confederates and suppress the Inquisition, and with reassuring words sought to gain Orange to his side. But only a week after (August 9, 1566) he signed a solemn document before a notary, setting forth that he was not bound by his promise, and would punish all those who had directly or indirectly aided the disturbances. He avowed to the pope that the Inquisition in Flanders should be upheld at all costs, and that his promise to suppress it was void. “Before allowing any backsliding in religion, or in the service of God, I will lose all my dominions and a hundred lives, if I had them, for I will never be a ruler of heretics.” Thus Philip threw down the gage. Then came the sacking of Catholic churches by the mob in Antwerp, St. Omer, Malines, and elsewhere, sacred images profaned, sacrilegious mockeries perpetrated, holy mysteries blasphemously parodied, and priceless treasures of art wantonly wrecked. The Protestant mob, in fact, was paramount, and the regent and her inquisition could only look on in dismay, until the former fell ill and lost all heart. Philip was very far from doing that. Away in distant Spain, trying to pull the wires that move humanity from his work-room, his only policy was extermination of heresy, utter and complete.

Wise Granvelle, even the pope himself, warned him that too much severity might defeat his own purpose. The king scornfully and coldly rebuked even the pontiff for his weakness. In the meanwhile Alba was storming in the council at Philip’s delay in giving the orders for extermination. But Philip looked upon himself as one who turned the handle of the wheels of fate, and was in no hurry. He wanted to watch closely which were the tallest heads to be stricken first. The regent was working night and day, making such concessions as she dared, whilst putting down tumult by force of arms. The Catholic nobles too, Egmont especially, were doing their best with their armed Walloons to suppress with a strong hand rebellion at Valenciennes and elsewhere, but Orange was in Antwerp standing apart from both factions, and Saint Aldegonde with a rabble was in arms outside the city. At length even diplomatic Orange had to quit the mask. Distrusted by both parties, but idolised by the peaceful citizens of Antwerp, who only asked to be allowed to live in quietude, he saw the time had come; and early in 1567 reverted to the faith of his fathers, and promised to lead the cause of reform. Tumult immediately ceased; the regent’s severity and conciliation together, and the blind adhesion of the nobles, except Orange and Brederode, had suppressed all disorder by the spring, and “all the cities are coming now to us with halters round their necks.” Orange was in Germany making preparations for the fray, whilst Flemish Protestants were flying to England again by the hundred, crying out that Orange and Brederode had betrayed and abandoned them. Margaret entered Antwerp in state and rejoicing, and all looked calm and happy, except to those who were led to the halter and the stake for the service of “God and his Majesty.” It was but the calm that precedes the storm; and if no one else perceived this, Philip and Orange certainly did so. The former knew that he must crush the national feeling, and the nobles that started it, that he must make Flanders a province of Spain before he could have his own way in all things, and he decided to go himself with Alba and superintend the killing, or at least he announced his intention of making the voyage, which gave him an excuse for raising a considerable fleet and a large force as an escort. The Queen of England affected to rejoice at her “good brother’s” coming; but the English fleet was hastily fitted out, and all England was in a panic of apprehension as to what it might forebode. In vain the Regent Margaret assured the king that all was quiet, and that no more punishment was now needed. The king replied that he wished personally to thank her and others who had brought about the pacification.

At last when all was ready in Spain, vast sums of money collected, and the troops under arms—no longer an escort but an avenging army—Philip announced that he could not go himself, but would send the Duke of Alba alone. Then all the world saw what it meant. The regent protested that the presence of Alba would be fatal, “as he is so detested in this country that his coming itself will be sufficient to make all the Spanish nation hated.” If he comes she must retire; and retire she did. The news of Alba’s coming sped across the Channel by the Protestant fugitives, and Elizabeth at once retorted by renewed severity against the Catholics in England. Huguenots in France, Lutherans in Germany, Protestants in England, all knew now that the time of struggle was approaching for the faith, and messages of help and mutual support crossed from one to another. Philip, slaving night and day at his desk, had quietly planned long before that all the nobles who had dared to raise their voices in the national cause should be struck at first, and then that the brand of Spain should be stamped for ever on the rich and industrious burgesses of the Netherlands.

CHAPTER X

Renewed contest between Philip and the papacy—Condition of Don Carlos—His arrest and imprisonment—Philip’s explanations—His last illness and death—Death of Elizabeth de Valois—The interviews of Bayonne and the Catholic League—Catharine de Medici—Philip face to face with Protestantism—Philip and the Moriscos—Rising of the Moriscos—Deza at Granada—Don Juan of Austria—Expulsion of the Moriscos from Andalucia.

WHILST Philip was engaged in his hopeless efforts to extirpate national feeling and the Protestant faith in his Flemish dominions, he was, on the other hand, carrying on a bitter contest with the Holy See. His arrogant claims had tired out even the erstwhile obedient Pius IV., but on his death in December 1565 a man of Philip’s own stamp mounted the chair of St. Peter. Michael Ghislieri, Pius V., was consumed with the one idea that the Church must be absolutely omnipotent through Christendom in all ecclesiastical affairs; and this was in direct opposition to the keynote of Philip’s policy, namely, that all power within his dominions must be concentrated in the sovereign. It did not take long, therefore, for matters to reach a crisis, the main bone of contention being the king’s direct control of the clergy, and his claim to withhold the papal bulls from promulgation in Spain. The new pope issued a number of fresh orders for Church administration and discipline, which were promptly set aside by Philip’s council, and the contest then opened.

First, the pope turned his hand to the Spanish possessions in Italy, sending peremptory orders to the Neapolitan bishops for them to promulgate and obey the papal bulls without waiting for the royal confirmation. This was met by the viceroy, the Duke of Alcalá, by threatening any bishop who did so with summary imprisonment. Pius tried by every device imaginable for three years to circumvent the Spanish position in Naples, but at last in February 1569 had to confess himself beaten. The patronage was in the hands of Philip, which necessarily made the bishops his creatures. The pope was equally unsuccessful in Sicily and in Milan, notwithstanding the efforts of the great cardinal, Charles Borromeo, and the excommunication of Philip’s governor, the Duke of Albuquerque. The pope’s action in Spain itself was more effectual. The various pontiffs had from time to time regranted to the Spanish monarchs the revenues arising from the sale of the so-called Crusade bulls granting certain indulgences. Pius V. now refused to do this, on the ground that the government traffic in these indulgences had become a scandal. He also continued to worry Philip about Carranza and the appropriation of the great revenues of his vacant see of Toledo to the cost of the building of the Escorial. Bitter words and reproaches were used on both sides. Philip gave way on secondary points, such as the sending of Carranza to Rome, but he kept fast to his main idea of retaining control over the clergy and benefices; and the constant menaces of the Turks in the Mediterranean made it impossible for the pope to carry to the last extreme the quarrel with the only prince to whom he could look for protection. Philip, indeed, was assailed by trouble at all points. His married life, in a domestic sense, was a happy one, though his constant labour left him but small leisure to enjoy it. All else was bitterness and disappointment, mostly, it is true, the result of his rigid unadaptability to circumstances.

His greatest trouble was undoubtedly the state of his son. His frantic excesses had become more and more scandalous as he grew older. The marriage with Mary Stuart had fallen through, in consequence of the superior quickness of Elizabeth of England, and perhaps in consequence of Carlos’s own condition. The emperor was working incessantly to gain the prince’s hand for his daughter Anne; and this was the match which seemed most probable, and indeed was in principle accepted by Philip. But the delicate state of health of the prince was Philip’s constant excuse for not carrying the project into effect. The matter was a delicate one, and the king was naturally desirous of making it as little public as possible, but as early as 1562 the king had clearly hinted to the imperial ambassador that the prince’s judgment and understanding were defective. Dietrichstein, the emperor’s envoy, saw the prince in 1564, and confirmed the impression already given of him. The Venetian ambassador in 1563 bluntly reported that the prince was a chronic lunatic. The oft-told story of his forcing a bootmaker to eat a pair of boots he had made too tight for him, and also of his murderous attack on Cardinal Espinosa, need not be repeated here, but they are well authenticated; and although too much weight need not be given to Brantome’s repulsive account of the prince’s behaviour in the streets of Madrid, it is quite consistent with what we know positively of his character. Philip’s hopes and ambitions for his heir had been great, and he strove long before he abandoned them. In the hope that serious work might fix the prince’s mind, his father appointed him in 1567 to the presidency of the Council of State, but in this position his excesses and aberrations became the more conspicuous. He openly mocked at and derided his father, whom he cordially hated, and delighted to thwart. He had extorted a promise from the king that he should accompany him to Flanders, but when he learnt at length that Alba was going instead, his fury passed all bounds. When the duke went to take leave of the prince, the latter cast himself upon him with his dagger, and only with difficulty could the old warrior escape from his maniacal violence; and on another occasion in January 1567, when the Cortes of Castile presented a petition to the king that the prince should remain in Spain if his father went to Flanders, he made an open scandal, threatening with death those deputies who voted in favour of such a petition. This public exhibition of his lunacy opened the eyes of the world as to his condition, which could no longer be concealed, and in September of 1567 Ruy Gomez told the French ambassador that after the impending delivery of the queen of what, no doubt, would be a son, the future fate of Carlos would be decided.

But Carlos himself precipitated events. Philip had decided that his son should remain in Spain. The prince was determined that he would not. Philip had gone in December 1567 to pass Christmas in his devotions at the Escorial as usual, and during his absence, on December 23, Carlos informed his young uncle, Juan of Austria, of his intention to escape. Don Juan lost no time. The next day he rode post-haste to the Escorial and told the king. Philip’s thoughts must have been bitter indeed that Heaven had afflicted him with such a son. He must have seen that the great patriotic task to which he had devoted all his life would be frustrated if handed to such a successor. But he was calm and rigid in outward guise, and returned to Madrid as intended on January 17, 1568. The next day he saw the French ambassador, and went with his son to mass, but still made no sign. Don Juan had before this endeavoured to dissuade the prince from his intention, and the madman had attempted to kill even him. It was evident now to the king that he must strike, however reluctantly. When he consulted his closest councillors on the subject, for once his feelings broke through his reserve, and his emotion was terrible. It was a duty he owed to his country and to the cause for which he lived, to protect them against falling into the hands of a congenital madman, and he took the course which duty dictated. Late at night, when the prince was asleep, the king himself, with five gentlemen and twelve guards, entered the chamber, in spite of the secret bolts and bars with which it was provided. The prince woke from sleep, started up, and tried to grasp a weapon; but the weapons were gone. The unhappy young man then tried to lay violent hands upon himself, but was restrained. The issues of the room barred, the secret receptacles opened, the papers taken, himself restrained, the prince recognised his helplessness, and casting himself on to his bed he sobbed out, “But I am not mad! I am only desperate.” From that hour he was dead to the world, which saw him no more.