Cardinal Pole; Or, The Days of Philip and Mary: An Historical Romance

by William Harrison Ainsworth

At the period under consideration, the darker qualities inherent in Philip’s nature had not become developed. He grew more impassive, sterner, and severer, as he gained power, and advanced in years. He was a profound dissembler, and his designs were inscrutable. None knew when they had forfeited his favour. He caressed those he meant to destroy; whence it was said that there was no difference between the King’s smile and the knife. His self-restraint offered a striking contrast to the fiery impetuosity of his father. His policy was subtle, perfidious, Machiavellian. He had not Charles’s sagacity, nor Charles’s towering ambition, but he had more craft and hypocrisy than the Emperor, equal love of power, and equal capacity for rule. His industry was astonishing, and when his mighty monarchy devolved upon him, comprehending Spain, Flanders, Burgundy, the Two Sicilies, the Indies, and the New World, he passed many hours of each day, and often of each night, in reading petitions, annotating upon memorials, writing dispatches, and other toils of the cabinet. No sovereign ever wrote so much as Philip. Everything was submitted to his inspection. In hatred implacable, in severity unrelenting, fickle in friendship—if, indeed, he could form a friendship—he was equally inconstant in love matters, so that no syren could long hold him in her thrall. His affairs of gallantry, like all the rest of his proceedings, were shrouded in mystery. To none did he give his full confidence, and not even his confessor was allowed to peer into the inmost recesses of his breast. More inflexible than his father, if he had once formed a resolution, whether for good or ill, it was unalterable. But he was slow in coming to a decision. In religion he was bigoted, and firmly believed he was serving the cause of the Romish Church by the rigour he displayed towards heretics. He declared he would rather put to death a hundred thousand people than the new doctrines should take root in his dominions. Throughout his reign the terrible tribunal of the Inquisition was constantly in action. Such was the detestation felt for him in the Low Countries and in England, that he was called the “Demon of the South;” while his Spanish subjects spoke of him, under their breath, as the “Father of Dissimulations.” Despite, however, his perfidy, his bigotry, and his severity, he was a great monarch, and raised the power of Spain to its highest point. After him its splendour began to decline.

In his latter years, Philip led the life of a religious recluse, shutting himself up almost entirely in the Escurial, and performing devotional exercises, vigils, fastings, and penances, with as much zeal as a brother of some severe order. Yet, notwithstanding this austere life, he continued to the last to conduct the affairs of state from his closet. His end was a grand and solemn scene, of which full details have been left us.

After receiving extreme unction, Philip said to his son, “I have sent for you that you may know what death is.” He then caused his coffin, which had already been prepared, to be brought into the chamber where he lay, and the crown to be placed on a death’s head on a table beside him. Then taking from a coffer a priceless jewel, he said to the Infanta, “Isabella Eugenia Clara, my daughter, this jewel was given me by the Queen, your mother. It is my parting gift to you.” He next gave a paper to his son, saying, “You will see, from this, how you ought to govern your kingdom.” A blood-stained scourge was then brought him, and taking it in his hand, he said, “This blood is mine, yet it is not mine own, but that of my father, who used the discipline. I mention this, that the relic may be the more valued.” After another paroxysm, he again received extreme unction, and feeling his end approach, he asked for a crucifix, which the Emperor held in his hands when he breathed his last, and which he also desired to hold when dying. In another hour he became speechless, and so continued to the end, his dying gaze being fixed on a taper of Our Lady of Montserrat, burning on the high altar of the church, which was visible through the open door.

We have stood in the little chamber in the church of the Escurial in which Philip died, and have looked from it at the altar whereon burnt the sacred flame that attracted his last regards.

Philip’s suit, as we have already intimated, comprised several nobles of the highest importance, who had been ordered to attend upon him by the Emperor. Besides the Duke of Alva, there was the scarcely less important Duke de Medina Celi, Don Ruy Gomez de Silva, Prince of Eboli, the Admiral of Castile, who was in command of the fleet, the Marquis de Pescara, the Marquis del Valle, the Marquis D’Aguillara, the Conde de Feria, the Conde Olivares, the Conde de Saldana, the Count D’Egmont, and several others equally distinguished. Each of these haughty hidalgos had a train of attendants with him.

With the Prince, also, was the Alcalde of Galicia, the Bishop of Cuença, Father Alfonso de Castro, and several other priests.

Moreover, he had a great painter in his train, Sir Antonio More, who had been previously sent into England to take the Queen’s portrait (which may still be seen in the gallery at Madrid), and had now the honour of accompanying the Prince on his voyage.

Two other important personages had preceded Philip to England—namely, the Marquis de las Naves, previously referred to, and Don Juan Figueroa, Regent of the Council of Aragon, a nobleman much in the Emperor’s confidence, and to whom an important part had been assigned in the approaching ceremonial.

Shortly after his discourse with the Duke of Alva which we have reported, Philip withdrew to his state cabin to perform his orisons, and listen to a discourse from the Bishop of Cuença. On his reappearance, he found most of his nobles assembled on deck, making, as they were all superbly attired, a very gallant show. Only three or four of their number removed their plumed and jewelled caps on the Prince’s approach. The rest being grandees of Spain, and entitled to remain covered in the presence of royalty, asserted their privilege. Foremost in the group were the Duke of Alva, the Duke of Medina Celi, Ruy Gomez de Silva, and the valiant Marquis de Pescara—one of the great captains of the age. All these had the cross of Santiago on their mantles. Some of the assemblage were Knights of Calatrava, others Knights of St. Lazarus, or of St. John of Jerusalem, and all wore their orders. Numbering about fifteen, they presented a remarkable array of noble-looking figures, all more or less characterised by pride of look and haughtiness of deportment. It would have been easy to discern at a glance that they belonged to the most vain-glorious people then existing—a people, however, as valiant as they were vain-glorious.

As we cannot describe these haughty personages in detail, we shall select one or two from the group. The most striking among them was undoubtedly the Duke of Alva, whose remarkable sternness of look arrested attention, and acted like a spell on the beholder. There was a fatal expression in Alva’s regards that seemed to forbode the atrocities he subsequently committed in the Low Countries. His gaze was fierce and menacing, and the expression of his countenance truculent and bloodthirsty. His complexion was swarthy, and his short-clipped hair and pointed beard were jet-black. His figure was lofty, well proportioned, and strongly built, and his manner excessively arrogant and imperious. His attire was of deep-red velvet and damask. His mantle was embroidered with the Cross of Santiago,[Santiago,] and round his neck he wore the collar of the Golden Fleece.