Don Carlos—His relations with Elizabeth de Valois—French intrigues for his marriage—His illness—The Cortes of Aragon—Jeanne d’Albret and Henry of Navarre—The Council of Trent and the Inquisition—Philip and the pope—Renewed struggles with the Turks—Siege of Malta.
Don Carlos—His relations with Elizabeth de Valois—French intrigues for his marriage—His illness—The Cortes of Aragon—Jeanne d’Albret and Henry of Navarre—The Council of Trent and the Inquisition—Philip and the pope—Renewed struggles with the Turks—Siege of Malta.
DONCARLOS, Philip’s only son and heir, had grown to be a boy of fourteen. Considering his descent, it is not surprising that he was deformed both in mind and body, lame and stunted, an epileptic semi-imbecile. He had been left in charge of his widowed aunt, the Regent Juana, a gloomy, religious mystic, to whom he was violently attached, and whose side he could only with difficulty be prevailed upon to leave. Philip had appointed as his tutor the learned Honorato Juan, who certainly did his best for the royal pupil. But he could do little for such a mind as his. As early as October 1558 the tutor wrote to the king, then in Flanders, that his pupil obstinately refused to study anything and was beyond control. The king himself, he said, was the only person who could bring him to order. Philip’s answer was characteristically cold and inexpressive. Honorato Juan must continue to look after theprince’s education and separate him from any companions who might divert him from his studies. But dry as was Philip’s letter to the tutor, it is clear that the news struck sorrow to his heart, for he loved his children dearly, and had great hopes for his heir. On a letter written on March 6, 1559, to Cardinal Pacheco respecting the need for settling ecclesiastical matters in the Netherlands, the king wrote the following words in his own hand: “Perhaps the prince my son will not be so careful of this as I am, and the people here may not try so hard as I should about it, seeing how desirable it is for the service of God, which is evidently the only end I aim at.” One of the first acts of Philip on his arrival in Spain was to take his son under his own care. When the new queen entered Toledo in state for the marriage ceremony (February 12, 1560) she was received by her stepson Carlos, yellow with recent fever, on his left being his young uncle, Don Juan of Austria, and on the right Alexander Farnese, the son and grandson, respectively, of the emperor.
When Elizabeth had left France, her mother, Catharine, had secretly instructed her to use every effort to win Don Carlos for her younger sister, Margaret de Valois, afterwards the famous first wife of Henry IV. Elizabeth’s fascination was great, and she very soon obtained absolute dominion over the sickly boy. The romantic stories of mutual love between them may be dismissed now as utterly exploded fables. Elizabeth had been born and bred in an atmosphere of political intrigue, she had gone to Spain purely for political reasons, and she was entrusted with the task of trying to win the greatest matrimonial prize in Europe for her sister, and tostrengthen the union between France and Spain. She naturally carried out her mission to the best of her ability. Her efforts with regard to the marriage were utterly fruitless, for Philip was in no mood for a closer alliance with Catharine de Medici; but she attached her stepson to her to such an extent by her pity and kindness during his continual attacks of fever, that at length the French ambassador could write to Catharine, “The more the prince hates his father, the greater grows his affection for his stepmother, the queen, for she has all his regard, and her Majesty is so wise that she discreetly manages to please both her husband and her stepson.”
Catharine de Medici’s instructions to her daughter were that if she could not bring about a marriage between Carlos and her sister Margaret, she was to strive to forward his union with his aunt, the former Regent Juana, who was herself anxious for marriage with her nephew of half her age—anything rather than allow the heir of Spain to marry Mary Stuart. This latter would have been the best match for Philip, and he knew it. England would once more have been brought into his grasp, France checkmated effectually, and Flanders safe. Mary and her minister, Lethington, were eager for it. But time went on whilst Philip was procrastinating—probably in consequence of the condition of Carlos. Elizabeth, Catharine, and the emperor who wanted the heir for his granddaughter Anne, all intrigued actively against the match, Mary drifted into her marriage with Darnley, and Philip once more missed his chance.
On February 22, 1560, Carlos received the oath of allegiance from the Cortes of Castile in Toledo, and afterwards returned to the University of Alcalá, wherehe was supposed to be studying. His life there was violent and licentious, and in April 1562, in descending a dark stair to keep an assignation, he fell and suffered a severe fracture of the skull. The king, on receiving the news, at once set out from Madrid, his new capital, travelling through the night, full of anxiety for his son. He found him unconscious and partially paralysed; the doctors, ignorant beyond conception, treated him in a way that seems to us now to have made his death almost inevitable. Purges and bleedings, unguents and charms, ghastly quackery, such as putting a skeleton in bed with the invalid, were all tried in turn, until the Italian surgeon Vesale arrived and performed the operation of trepanning. The prince then recovered: but if he had been a semi-imbecile before, he now became at intervals a raving homicidal maniac. The prince and those around him attributed his recovery entirely to the skeleton of the monk that had been put to bed with him, and he promised to give four times his weight in gold for religious purposes. He was then seventeen years of age, and was found to weigh only 5 stone 6 lbs.
It was necessary that the heir should receive the oath of allegiance of the Cortes of Aragon, Cataluña, and Valencia. The Cortes of Castile, more submissive than the Aragonese, had, though not without some murmuring, voted the supplies needed by Philip, and were at once dismissed. The Aragonese Parliament, proud of its privileges, stubborn to rudeness whenever it was convoked, had not been called together since 1552, although the king was bound by oath to summon it every three years. The very existence of representativeassemblies was opposed to Philip’s dream of personal centralisation of power, and he detested the Aragonese Cortes heartily. The French ambassador at the time wrote to Catharine that the king, when he took the oath, secretly meant “to cut their claws and dock the privileges that make them insolent and almost free.” The court was therefore transferred in the autumn of 1563 to the obscure Aragonese town of Monzon, the king on his way from Madrid laying the first stone of his vast granite palace of St. Laurence of the Escorial. He found the rough Aragonese inclined to be fractious, jealous as usual at any interference of Castilians in their affairs. But Philip was pressed for money, and was obliged to dissemble. A crisis nearly occurred when the Cortes touched the mainspring of his governmental system. The members adopted a protest against the extending power of the Inquisition, and its interference with other matters than those of theology. Philip was cold and evasive; he said he would consider the matter when he returned to Castile. But the Cortes understood the rule of “grievance first” as well as the English Commons, and replied that no money should be voted until a satisfactory reply was given to them. Philip fell ill with rage, but money he must have; and at last he promised that a regular inspection and inquiry should be instituted into the powers of the Aragonese Inquisition. With this the Cortes voted him 1,350,000 ducats. They then took the oath of allegiance to Carlos, and were promptly dismissed. Philip did not forget his grudge against them, and it went hard with Aragon and its liberties when they gave him a chance for revenge.
France had been engaged in the first war of religion, and the Catholic party had been hardly pressed. The Duke of Guise had recently been killed (February 24, 1563), the peace of Amboise had been patched up, and toleration had been established. Anthony de Bourbon, who had married Jeanne d’Albret, titular Queen of Navarre, had also been killed, and his widow and ten-year-old son, Henry, had retired to her castle at Pau to mourn their loss. For many years the rights of the royal house of Navarre to the kingdom which had been dishonestly filched from them by Ferdinand the Catholic had been a thorn in the side of Spanish sovereigns, for the Navarres were still powerful French tributary princes across the Pyrenees. After Philip’s own projected marriage with the heiress of the house in his boyhood had fallen through, she had married Anthony de Bourbon, Duc de Vendôme, a prince of the blood royal of France, and this had made the claim more dangerous for Philip. But worst of all, Jeanne was a strong Calvinist, and only three lives stood between her little son and the crown of France. The Guises and their Catholic followers saw that if he came to the throne their day was gone, and cast about for means to avert such a catastrophe. Pau was near the Spanish frontier. Why not seize the queen and two children and hand them over to the tender mercies of Philip? If they were out of the way, Navarre could cause no more anxiety, and the stronghold of Protestantism in France would be empty. So a certain Captain Dimanche was sent by the Guises secretly to Monzon to broach the matter to Philip. He was raising a large force at Barcelona to fight the Turks in the Mediterranean.What would be easier than to send 10,000 of them secretly to creep along the Pyrenees, make a dash to Pau, and capture Jeanne d’Albret and her children? What indeed? This was exactly the enterprise to suit Philip, and Captain Dimanche saw him more than once at dead of night, and the whole plot was settled. The Guisan Monlucs and their Catholic friends were to hold the Protestants in check, whilst Philip’s men kidnapped their quarry. But Dimanche fell ill. He was a Frenchman, and sought aid of a countryman who lodged in the same house, an underling in the household of Philip’s French wife. Dimanche let out his secret to his countryman, who conveyed it to the queen. She was loyal to her husband’s country, but she was a Frenchwoman, a dear friend of Jeanne d’Albret, and a daughter of Catharine de Medici, so the news of the treachery went flying across the Pyrenees, and Jeanne, and Henry of Navarre were saved. Philip probably to the end of his life never knew that his wife had frustrated this dangerous plot against France, but it is all clear to us now, who have her secret correspondence before us.
But Philip was threatened at this time (the autumn of 1562) with a greater danger nearer home than France. As the French ambassador wrote, “The king intends principally to establish obedience to him by means of the Inquisition.” We have seen how the remonstrances of the Cortes of Aragon were received; we will now consider how Philip met a more dangerous attack upon his favourite institution. The Council of Trent, which had always been a trouble to Philip and his father, met, after several years’ suspension, early in 1562. Various moderate resolutions were discussed, but when theFrench prelates arrived late in the year with Cardinal Lorraine at their head the blow fell. The French and German bishops, who had seen the effects of wars of religion, proposed a radical reform. The priests were to be allowed to marry and the sacrament to be administered in two kinds. This was bad enough, but, worst of all, some of the bishops—Philip’s own subjects—tried to shake off the heavy yoke of the Inquisition. The prosecution of Carranza had shown to the Spanish bishops that there was no safety for any of them. Prelates hitherto could only be tried for heresy by the pope, but now the weak Medici Pope, Pius IV., had been induced to delegate this power to the inquisitor-general. Most of the Spanish bishops had been in favour of strengthening the power of the monarch over the Church, but when it came to handing over their own liberties to the Inquisition it was another matter. Philip wrote in December 1562 deploring that the Spanish bishops were not showing fit zeal for the Holy Office, “which subject must not be touched upon either directly or indirectly.” The pope was also appealed to, to prevent the Council from interfering in any way with the Inquisition. When Pius IV., humble servant as he then was of Philip, mildly remonstrated with him for meddling with the Council, Vargas, the Spanish ambassador, scolded his Holiness roundly for his want of consideration for the interests of “God and his Majesty.” Gradually even Pius IV. began to lose patience. Philip’s grand promises to him and his needy nephews had been very sparely kept, and it was clear to the meanest intellect that his pious professions of attachment for the Church were only with the object of making use of itfor his own interests. At last Philip threatened to withdraw his ambassador, and the now angry pope defied him, threatening above all to withdraw from him the right of selling the Crusade bulls of indulgence, which produced a large revenue. He also began clamouring about Carranza’s treatment by the Inquisition, and the revenues of the archbishopric. When Philip asked in 1564 for a renewal of the subsidy he received from Rome, nothing but evasive answers were given to him. The breach grew wider and wider. “In Spain,” said the pontiff, “you all want to be popes and bring the king into everything. If the king wished to be King of Spain, he” (the pope) “intended to be Pope of Rome. Never,” he said, “was a pope so ill-treated as he was by the King of Spain and his ministers.” The death of Guise and the religious settlement in France, however, caused the withdrawal of many of the French bishops from the Council of Trent, and Philip, by bribes and threats, once more gained the upper hand in the assembly. Heretics were excluded, the celibacy of the clergy decided upon, and the administration of the sacrament in two kinds prohibited; but a decision was also arrived at which seemed distantly to affect the omnipotence of the king over the Spanish clergy. It gave the power to the provincial synods, and as a last resource to the pope, to examine into the morality of recipients of benefices. A slight attempt was also made to deprecate the extreme severity of the Inquisition. These mild resolutions were called by Philip’s ambassador “works of the devil,” and for over a year the decisions of the Council of Trent were not published in Spain. When, indeed, they were promulgated,it was with the saving clause from the king that they should in no way abrogate or weaken his rights over the clergy, the benefices, or the tithes. The condition of armed truce between Philip and Rome continued until the death of Pius IV. in December 1565.
An attempt to introduce an inquisition of the Spanish type into Naples, with the avowed object of suppressing political disaffection, nearly lost Philip the realm. The city rose in revolt against it, and after a struggle Philip was obliged to give way, and consented to abolish the dreaded tribunal (1565). He was indeed at the time not in a condition to coerce Naples. The struggle with the Turks in the Mediterranean had dragged on almost without intermission. Don Garcia de Toledo had in the autumn of 1564 managed to capture Peñon de los Velez, a nest of pirates in the kingdom of Fez, which had been Philip’s main object for a year previously; but this was no check to the power of the Constantinople Turks, who were fitting out a great expedition for the purpose of hurling the Knights of St. John from their last stronghold at Malta. Don Garcia de Toledo, now Viceroy of Sicily, joined with the Grand Master Parisot in clamouring for Philip’s aid, unless, he said, all the Mediterranean was to fall under the rule of the infidel. But clamour as they might, no hurry could be expected from the king. Toledo was a host in himself. Men were sent from Sicily, others recruited in Corsica; Naples was put into a condition of defence, and Toledo, “bigger in spirit than in body,” complained, and rated soundly, almost rudely, the slow methods of his master in so great a crisis. At last, on May 19, Piali Pacha and Dragut Reis, with a vast force of 100,000 men,appeared before Malta. There were about a tenth of that number of Christian fighting men on the island, but the isolated fort of St. Elmo, with a garrison of 600 men, had to bear the brunt of the Turkish attack. After a month’s hard fighting, when at length the Turks stormed the place only nine Christians were left alive. From this point of vantage the siege of the main fortress by the Turks was commenced, with the assistance of the fleet. The Grand Master had continued to reinforce St. Elmo with his best men until it fell, and now found himself short-handed. Fresh prayers went forth to distant Philip and persistent Don Garcia de Toledo. Strong swimmers carried the Master’s beseeching letters beyond the reach of the Turkish ships. He could only hold out, he said, twenty days at most. Sixteen thousand cannon-shots had been fired against his forts in the first month. All Christianity looked on aghast whilst Philip was spending his time in religious processions, fasts, and rogations for the delivery of Malta. Don Garcia’s activity made up for his master’s tardiness, and, thanks to him mainly, Malta was able to hold out month after month. When at last a relief squadron was got together somehow in Sicily, consisting of 28 galleys and 10,000 men, storm and tempest scattered it again and again, and it was not until the beginning of September 1565 that it approached Malta, landing its men and provisions. The defenders were at their last gasp, but this relief raised their hearts. Again Don Garcia returned with more men and stores, and after one last attempt to storm the stronghold, the Turks gave up the game and raised the siege. Malta was saved, but Philip complained that he did not get full credit for it, because the Grand Master was a Frenchman and the pope himself was jealous.
Troubles in the Netherlands—Granvelle’s unpopularity—William of Orange and Egmont—Their resignation and protest—Margaret of Parma—Assembly of the Chapter of the Golden Fleece—Riots at Valenciennes—Discontent of the Flemish nobles—They retire from government—Granvelle’s dismissal—The maladministration of the States—Egmont’s mission to Spain—Philip’s policy in the States—The Beggars—Orange’s action—Philip determines to exterminate heresy in the States—Philip’s projected voyage thither.
Troubles in the Netherlands—Granvelle’s unpopularity—William of Orange and Egmont—Their resignation and protest—Margaret of Parma—Assembly of the Chapter of the Golden Fleece—Riots at Valenciennes—Discontent of the Flemish nobles—They retire from government—Granvelle’s dismissal—The maladministration of the States—Egmont’s mission to Spain—Philip’s policy in the States—The Beggars—Orange’s action—Philip determines to exterminate heresy in the States—Philip’s projected voyage thither.
WEhave seen that Philip had left his Flemish subjects (August 1559) in no very amiable mood. The opulent, independent communities of the Low Countries held firmly by the liberties they enjoyed. Every ruler had to swear—as Philip had done—to uphold and preserve them intact; on that point nobles and burghers were at one, and amongst the rights they prized most was that no foreigner should be appointed to any administrative post. The Burgundian rulers, although foreigners, had got on well enough with them, and so had the emperor. It was more a question of tastes and manners than of blood; superabundant hospitality, heavy eating, deep drinking, and rough speaking quickly commended a man to the Flemings. The Spaniard of that day was, as hestill remains, sober and abstemious to the highest degree, reticent, sensitive, and proud, and Philip was a Spaniard to the finger-tips.
The natural want of sympathy between sovereign and people arising out of these circumstances doubtless began the trouble which ended in Spain’s downfall. No part of Philip’s career shows so clearly as his treatment of the Netherlands the limited and inelastic character of his policy, the lack of adaptability of his methods; for how should a man be yielding or conciliatory who supposed that he was part and parcel of Divine Providence, the one man on earth selected by the Almighty to carry out His irresistible decrees? There is no reason to suppose that when he first decided upon the rearrangement of the Flemish dioceses he desired to offend his subjects; it was probably only a step in his persistent policy of bringing the clergy of his dominions under his more immediate control. But in order to pay his new bishops he designed to appropriate the large revenues of the conventual houses, and he thus raised up against him all the cloistered clergy. The pope was bribed to agree to the change, but the Flemings, already sulky, were willing to listen to the monks, who denounced the innovations of the foreigner which were to deprive them of their revenues, and what would have been under other circumstances a not unwelcome reform became a fruitful source of trouble. There is no doubt, moreover, that before the king attended the States-General just prior to his departure he had every intention of withdrawing the Spanish infantry from Flanders now that peace had been made with France, and the men were badly wanted in Naples, where hisprincipal danger at present lay. But when the States-General so roughly demanded of their sovereign the immediate withdrawal of the troops, Philip’s heart must have hardened and his pride revolted that these independent-minded Flemings should question his omnipotence. Another difficulty was that the troops obstinately refused to budge until they were paid, and the treasury was empty. The Flemings, who had been bled freely during the war, professed inability to find any more resources, and the Antwerp bankers shut their money-bags until some of their previous advances were paid. When Philip arrived in Spain, his sister Margaret, Duchess of Parma, governess of the Netherlands, ceaselessly urged him to withdraw the troops. She assured him that their further stay would cause trouble, and Granvelle warned him gravely of the results. With the first half of his French wife’s dowry of 400,000 ducats Philip was able to pay the troops in the autumn of 1560, and they left in January 1561; but by that time the evil seed had been sown, and Philip was pestered in every letter with reminders of the various rights and privileges which he had sworn to uphold in the respective states. Most of the unpopularity fell upon Granvelle, who had to carry out the arrangements for the new bishoprics. He found his task so difficult that before long he “wished to God that the erection of these new sees had never been thought of,” although the change made him Primate of the Netherlands, and gave the king the advantage of thirteen nominated members in the Assembly of Nobles. This latter fact, indeed, probably to a great extent was the original aim of the project, and was certainly one of the principalreasons why the Flemish nobles opposed it so bitterly.
Granvelle himself, be it recollected, was a foreigner, a Franche-Comtois, and his luxurious, ostentatious mode of life was an additional reason for his unpopularity. Margaret, on the other hand, whose mother had been a Fleming, and whose masculine manners and purely Flemish tastes commended her to her countrymen, was far from being unpopular.
The nobles who had first distinguished themselves by resisting the further stay of the Spanish troops were William, Prince of Orange, and Count Egmont. The former was not a Fleming in blood or education, his principality of Orange being in the south of France, and his descent mainly German Lutheran. By his county of Nassau, however, he was a Flemish prince, and had been brought up in the court of the emperor, of whom he had been a great favourite. His historical name of “the taciturn” gives a very false idea of his character, especially in his youth. He was like a Southern Frenchman in manners, gay, fascinating, prodigal, and voluble. His religious opinions, if he had any, were extremely lax, and he was as ready to seek his advantage on one side as another. His religion indeed was as purely political as that of Philip, but as a statesman he must be ranked far higher, for he had all Philip’s tenacity and foresight, with an opportunism almost as great as that of Elizabeth herself.
Count Egmont, on the other hand, was a dashing and fortunate soldier, chief of the Flemish nobility, handsome, vain, proud, and honest, but of limited intelligence, and exceedingly credulous. The first overt step of thesetwo nobles was to resign the commands they held over the Spanish troops, on the ground that, if they continued to hold them, they would lose all influence in the country. When the Spanish troops had left, Orange and Egmont continued, as usual, to attend the Flemish council of state appointed by Philip to advise Margaret. But the king before he departed had arranged that his own Spanish method of administration should be followed, namely, that the regent and the secretary of state, Granvelle, should practically manage everything, referring to the council only such points as they considered necessary.
As time went on, and Granvelle became more unpopular about the bishoprics, he referred less and less to the council, and in July 1561 Orange and Egmont wrote to the king resigning their seats and complaining bitterly. They had, they said, to bear a share of the unpopularity of the measures adopted, but had no part in controlling the policy of the Government. To this Philip returned, as was usual with him, a temporising answer. He would, he said, consider the matter and reply at length when Count Horn returned from Madrid to Flanders.
Horn’s mission to Flanders was to endeavour to reconcile Granvelle with the nobles, but this was a well-nigh impossible task. It was said that the cardinal and his parasites were plundering right and left, whilst public officers were unpaid and the treasury empty, that he was trying to substitute the unobnoxious inquisition of the Netherlands by the terrible tribunal of Spain, which certainly was not true, and that his arrogance and tyranny had become unbearable. Granvelleindeed was the scapegoat, and had become hateful both to the nobles and to “that perverse animal called the people,” to use his own words. So Horn’s mission was too late, like most of Philip’s attempts at conciliation, and in the spring of 1562 Orange petitioned the Regent Margaret to convoke the States-General. The regent herself, though full of praise for the cardinal in her letters to Philip, had no desire to share his unpopularity, and consented to summon, not the States-General, but a Chapter of the Knights of the Golden Fleece, or in effect the high nobility of Flanders. The pretext for the assembly was that Philip had sent orders that a force of men should be raised in Flanders to be sent to the aid of the Catholic party in France, now in the midst of their first struggle with the Huguenots. The discontented Flemish nobles were in no humour to aid in this, and before the assembly Orange held a private meeting of them, to press upon them the undesirability of allowing Granvelle to have the disposal of troops. This was known to the regent, and she dismissed the assembly as soon as possible, an arrangement being settled for sending a money subsidy to the French Catholics instead of an armed force. But before the nobles separated they decided to send as a delegate to Philip one of their number, Florence de Montmorenci, Baron de Montigny, the brother of Count Horn, to represent to the king the unsatisfactory state of the country with regard to religion and the public finances. He and his brother were Catholics, but firm upholders of the autonomy of the States. Before he left, religious matters were indeed in a disturbed condition. Hainhault, on the French border, with its great commerce and industry in the cities ofTournai, and Valenciennes especially, had largely accepted the Protestant faith from the neighbouring French Calvinists. Philip urged his sister to severity against them, but the magistrates, themselves Flemings, hesitated to torture their fellow-citizens, whose political privileges protected them against such treatment. Margaret threatened the magistrates, and the people of Valenciennes took the matter in their own hands, broke open the prison, and released the accused. Margaret might storm, as she did, Philip might cynically recommend that heads should be lopped, bodies burnt, and mouths gagged, but the Marquis de Bergues, the governor of Hainhault, was a Fleming, and would not countenance any infringement on the rights of his people. Upon him then fell the blame. Nothing that Granvelle could say to the king was bad enough for Bergues, and in return Egmont, Orange, and Horn ceaselessly cast the responsibility upon Granvelle. Letter after letter went to the king in this sense. Philip, as usual, was cool and unmoved. He is not, he says, in the habit of punishing his ministers without just cause. But proud Alba did not take it so coolly. “Every time I see the letters of these three Flemish lords I fall into such a rage, that, if I did not make a great effort to control myself, your Majesty would think me frantic.” Granvelle, on his part, tried to fan the flame. “They want to reduce this country to a sort of republic, in which the king can do more than they like,” and when the Marquis de Bergues was asked by the Duke of Arschot what course he would take if the king would not give way, his reply, as repeated to Philip, was, “By God! we will make him swallow it.”
Things thus went from bad to worse. Granvelleat length saw that he must bend before the storm, and offered concessions to the nobles. But it was too late. Nearly all the nobles, governors, and Knights of Golden Fleece had now sworn to stand together to overthrow the hated foreign cardinal, and a formal letter was sent to the king in March 1563, signed by Orange, Egmont, and Horn, resigning all share in the government. The reply was again in Philip’s temporising vein. He was coming to Flanders himself shortly, and would then inquire into their complaints. In the meanwhile he could not dismiss Granvelle. The nobles sent another, and a stronger, letter to the king in answer to this (July 29, 1563), and said that in future they should absent themselves from the council. At the same time a formal “remonstrance” was addressed to the regent, and thenceforward she and Granvelle were left to govern alone. Margaret had no wish to be dragged down by the impending fall of the minister, and bluntly told Philip, by her trusty secretary, Armenteros, that, if the cardinal were maintained against the will of nobles and people, a revolution might result. Granvelle was assured by the king’s secretary that Philip would rather lose the States than sacrifice his minister. The king sent a curt peremptory letter to the nobles reproaching them for deserting the council for a trifle, and assured the cardinal that he would not deprive himself of his services. But they arranged between them that the cardinal should beg for leave of absence to visit his mother in the Franche Comté and, after much pretended reluctance on the part of Philip, Granvelle was allowed to depart, to the open rejoicing of the nobles, the people, and even of the regent. An elaborate appearance of hisdeparture being spontaneous and only temporary was made, but when two years afterwards his leave of absence had expired and he wanted to go back, the king advised him to pass a short time in Rome, and then he knew for certain that disgrace had fallen upon him. He would go thither—or to the farthest end of the world—he said, if the king ordered him, but he much feared that his absence from Flanders would not mend matters.
He had departed from Brussels in the spring of 1564, and the three nobles at once wrote dutiful letters to Philip, who replied graciously. They once more took an active part in the government, and in the first few months after Granvelle left, the relief and rejoicing were great. But the sore still remained behind. Granvelle, indeed, had only carried out the policy inaugurated by Philip of governing Flanders as a Spanish province. The policy was not dead though the instrument was disgraced. Such a system of government, where popular control is loosened, invariably leads to corruption; and this case was no exception to the rule. Granvelle’s parasites—Morillon, Bave, Bordey, and the rest of them—had made his patronage a crying scandal, the judges were shamelessly bought and sold, the administration was a sink of iniquity, the inquisitor Titelmans was ferociously hounding to death inoffensive citizens, even good Catholics, without legal form of trial, and now Margaret of Parma herself, and her pet secretary, Armenteros, thought it was time that they should reap a fat harvest; so, after the first joy of Granvelle’s retreat had passed, it was decided by the nobles to send Egmont to Spain to explain to the king how the rightshe swore to maintain were still being violated. Egmont might take with him the vigorous protest of his peers, but Egmont was one of those men whom princes like Philip have no cause to fear. He was vain and superficial, and easily soothed into satisfaction. Philip made much of him, promised him “mounts and marvels,” chided him a little; and sent him home rejoicing, full of praises for the generosity and magnanimity of the king. But Philip’s policy was not varied a hair’s-breadth nevertheless. On the contrary, there is no room for doubt that he had now made up his mind to break the spirit of the stubborn Flemings for once and for all, and to stamp out the rebellious talk about rights and privileges which he had sworn to maintain. There were no mundane rights and privileges that should stand against the will of God’s own vice-regent upon earth. “God and his Majesty” had willed that the Flemings must be governed like the Spaniards, and that was enough. No sooner had Egmont left Madrid than the king sent strict orders that nothing was to be changed, and that heresy was to be pursued without mercy or truce. Thousands of industrious citizens were flocking over to England, carrying their looms and their household gods with them, and English Protestants looked more sourly than ever upon Philip and all his works. Philip remained unmoved. The fewer heretics there were in Flanders the easier would it be for him to have his way later. “Kill! kill!” wrote one of Philip’s Spanish friars to him; “we must kill 2000 people all over the States. Your Majesty has the weapon which God has placed in your hand. Draw it, bathe it in the blood of heretics, unless you wish the blood of Christ to cry to God. Moderationtouches not your Majesty. Let them seek moderation in their heresies to save their lives.”
But Philip was in no hurry; he only told his sister that nothing was to be changed. “You know,” answered she, “how the Spanish Inquisition is hated here. I have already told you that to suppress heresy here I am asked to cast into the flames 60,000 or 70,000 people, and the governors of the provinces will not allow it. They wish to resign, and I also shall be obliged to do so.”
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 alonewith 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 farfrom 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 flyingto 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 retireshe 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.
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.
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.
WHILSTPhilip 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 hisclaim 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 ofretaining 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 onCardinal 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 haddecided 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 thentried 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.
Couriers flew with the news all over Europe. Explanations must not be sought in Philip’s cold diplomatic letters giving foreign courts information of the event, but in other quarters. The Queen of England learnt the news on February 2, and on the 6th saw the Spanish ambassador, when she expressed her surprise, said that the king had acted with all dignity in the matter, but that she had not been informed of the reason for the arrest. Letters had come from France even thus early by which Cecil learnt that the prince had been implicated in a plot against his father’s life. The ambassador was very indignant at such an idea, which, he said, could only have emanated from heretics, children of the devil.
But it is clear to see that the ambassador himself is as much in the dark as every one else, for he prays his master to instruct him what attitude he is to assume, “as the matter has made great noise here, and no doubt elsewhere.” To this the king coldly replied that no more was to be said about it. Ruy Gomez was less reticent. He told the French and English ambassadors in Spain that the prince’s mind was as defective as his body, and had been getting steadily worse. The king had dissembled as long as he could, in the hope of improvement, but the prince’s violence had now becomeintolerable, and it had been necessary to place him under restraint. Dr. Man, the English ambassador, fully agreed that the step had become inevitable, as did all the ambassadors then resident in Madrid. “It was not a punishment,” wrote Philip to his aunt and mother-in-law, the grandmother of Don Carlos, “if it were, there would be some limit to it; but I never hope to see my son restored to his right mind again. I have chosen in this matter to make a sacrifice to God of my own flesh and blood, preferring His service and the universal good to all other human considerations.”
It was a humiliating position for Philip, who had been so dutiful a son himself, and had such far-reaching ambitions to hand down to his heir. It is not surprising that he avoided reference to it as much as possible. Some sort of trial or examination of the prince took place in secret before Ruy Gomez, Cardinal Espinosa, and Muñatones, but the documents have never been found. The rumour that Carlos plotted against his father’s life was repudiated vigorously by the king and his ministers, but that he had been disobedient and rebellious is certain, and probably this was the foundation of the charge of treason brought against him. The Protestant party, in France and Flanders especially, were willing enough to wound Philip and discredit the Inquisition by saying that Carlos was punished for supposed Protestant leanings; and even in Spain such things were cautiously whispered. There is, however, not the slightest indication that such was really the case from the papers of the prince himself and those who surrounded him, unless perhaps the letter from his friend and almoner, Suarez, to him,in which he reproaches him for not going to confession, and warns him that if he persisted in his present course every one would think him mad; “things so terrible, that in the case of other persons they have caused the Inquisition to inquire whether they were Christians.” Certainly to all appearance the prince was as devout a Catholic as his father, and the idea of attributing to this epileptic imbecile elevated ideas of political and religious reform is obviously absurd.
If we must hold Philip blameless with respect to his son’s imprisonment, we must still keep in suspense our judgment with regard to his responsibility for the prince’s death, because the evidence as to what passed after his arrest comes mainly from persons in the king’s interest and pay, and because the accusation that Carlos was murdered was formulated by Philip’s bitterest enemy, Antonio Perez, a man, moreover, utterly unworthy of credit, a murderer, a perjurer, and a traitor to his country.
The long secret trial of the prince dragged on. Neither his aunt Juana nor his beloved stepmother was allowed to see him, and Philip even forbade his brother, Don Juan, to wear mourning for the trouble that had befallen the royal house.
In the meanwhile the prince’s health visibly declined. At best he had been a continual invalid, burned up with fever and ague, but in captivity and under examination he became worse. He refused to receive the consolations of the Church, a freak upon which much superstructure has been raised. As his madness increased, like many lunatics he took to swallowing inedible things, jewelry, and other objects of the same sort, and finally refusedto eat anything at all for eleven days. Then in reply to the king’s remonstrances, he gorged himself, and this brought him a return of his fever in the worst form. Every sort of mad proceeding was adopted in turn by the unhappy youth. He would half roast himself by a fire, and then put ice in his bed. First he would scornfully refuse the sacraments, and then fulfil scrupulously all the forms of his Church. At length, probably from weakness, he became calmer, and there was a momentary hope of his recovery. Llorente (whose authority is not, however, to be accepted unquestioned) says that the result of his trial was that he was “found guilty of implication in a plot to kill the king and to usurp the sovereignty of the Netherlands, and that the only punishment for this was death.” There are no trustworthy official documents known which prove this to have been the case, but nature and the prince’s mad excesses had apparently condemned him to death, independently of his faults and failings. When he was told that he was dying he conformed fervently to the rites of his Church, and sent Suarez to beg his father’s forgiveness. On July 21 the French ambassador wrote to his master that Don Carlos had eaten nothing but a few plums and sweetmeats for eight days, and was dying of weakness. “The king, his father, is much grieved, because, if he die, the world will talk. I understand that if he live, the castle of Arevalo is to be put in order, so that he may be lodged in safety and comfort.”
On July 26 the same ambassador writes to Catharine de Medici saying that the prince had died the previous day. He attributes the death entirely to his curiouseccentricities of diet and hygiene. Llorente, enemy of Philip though he was, says that Carlos died a natural death. In face of this testimony it appears that Philip should be given the benefit of the doubt. In any case, the Abbé de St. Real’s romantic fictions, which have been drawn upon by so many historians, may be confidently dismissed as unworthy of any credit whatever, and Perez’s source is too tainted to be accepted. When the French ambassador notified the death of Don Carlos, he told Catharine de Medici that her daughter, the queen, was ill. The death, however, of her stepson was distinctly in her favour, as it made the elder of her two little daughters, Isabel Clara Eugenia, heiress to the crown of Spain. The queen saw this, and begged her mother to express emphatically her sorrow for the death of the prince. But the queen herself languished, crushed with the trouble that surrounded her, for Alba was drowning Flanders in blood, and her own beloved France was riven by religious disorder. In August it was announced that she was pregnant, and all Spain prayed that an heir might be born. But she was sacrificed to the unskilfulness of the Spanish doctors, and died on October 3, 1568, to the great grief of all Spain and France. The French ambassador relates the death-bed farewell of Philip and his wife, “Enough to break the heart of so good a husband as the king was to her.” And when all was over the king retired in the deepest grief to the monastery of San Geronimo in Madrid, but not before he had signed letters to the Duke of Alba and others giving the news of his bereavement. Nothing short of his own death could prevent Philip from attending to his beloved papers.
Once only during Elizabeth’s short married life had the object for which she was sacrificed seemed on the point of realisation. The open sympathy manifested in England for the Flemish Protestants, the ever-increasing boldness of the English corsairs at sea, and the ferment of the Huguenots in France had caused Philip in 1565 to approve of a plan for binding Catharine de Medici to him in a league to utterly destroy and root out the reformed doctrines in their respective territories. The ostensible occasion was an interview between the Queen of Spain and her mother at Bayonne, the Duke of Alba being the negotiator of the treaty. Elizabeth of England was in a panic at the bare idea, and made one of her rapid movements in favour of Catholicism, and another to draw Catharine into a negotiation for the marriage of her young son, Charles IX., with the Queen of England. It was a mere feint, of course, but it helped towards its purpose. When Catharine reached Bayonne she found that Alba’s instructions were to pledge her to destroy and break every Huguenot noble or functionary in France, and to bind her hand and foot to the extreme Catholic party. The queen-mother affected to agree, but when she reached home she found all manner of impossible new conditions necessary. Her second son must marry an Austrian princess and receive a dominion. The league must also be joined by the emperor, the pope, and others. So the league at that time came to nothing, for Catharine could not afford to throw over the Huguenot nobles, who were her constant balance against the Catholics and the Guises.
With the death of his French wife it became evident to Philip that he could depend upon no enduring alliancebetween the French nation and himself, and that he must face advancing Protestantism alone. It gave him no trouble in Spain, thanks mainly to the Inquisition, but in France, Germany, his own Netherlands, and, above all, in England, it grew more and more threatening to the basis of his power. Mary of Scotland, whom he had aided with counsel and money during her short married life with Darnley, was a prisoner, and the reformers were predominant in Scotland. Elizabeth of England was firmly established on the throne, more than holding her own, the English and Dutch corsairs were scouring the seas after Spanish shipping, and England was burning with indignation at Alba’srégimeof blood in the Netherlands. But withal Philip had to speak softly and temporise, for he dared not go to war with Elizabeth whilst Holland was in arms, and the Huguenots strong. All he could do was by intrigue to endeavour to stir up civil dissensions both in France and England, and this he did ceaselessly, but with indifferent success, as will be seen, for both Elizabeth and Catharine, with their quick vigilance, were far more than a match for Philip’s slow ponderous methods. Powerless, however, as Philip might be to stay the progress of heterodoxy abroad, he was determined that it should gain no foothold in his own country. Early in 1568 he expelled the English ambassador, Dr. Man, ostensibly in consequence of his too open profession of the reformed faith, but really to anticipate a demand which he knew would be made for religious toleration for the ambassador in return for the similar privilege enjoyed by the Spanish ambassador in England. Although Protestantism was by the unsparing severity of the Inquisition stamped oututterly in Spain, Philip’s principle of absolute uniformity of faith amongst his subjects had to encounter a serious resistance from another quarter. On the capture of Granada by the Catholic sovereigns, the most complete religious toleration had been promised to the Moors. The promise had been broken through the zeal of Ximenez, and, nominally at least, the whole of the Spaniards of Moorish descent had during the reign of the emperor been drawn into the Catholic Church. All the south of Spain was inhabited by a people in course of gradual amalgamation, and if time had only been given to them, they would eventually have mingled into a homogeneous race, to the enormous future advantage of the country. During the emperor’s time an edict had been issued ordering all people of Moorish blood to discontinue the use of their distinctive garb and language. It was naturally found impossible to enforce this within a short period, and the edict was allowed to fall nearly into abeyance, thanks, in a great measure, to the liberal contributions of the Moriscos to the cost of the emperor’s wars against his German Protestants. The Morisco population of the kingdom of Granada, and Valencia especially, had accordingly, although outwardly conforming Christians, really clung in secret to the faith and habits of their fathers, living in industry and usefulness, adding greatly to the national wealth both by their advanced agricultural science, and the perfection to which they had brought the production of silk. The prosperity they attained, and their distinct blood and customs, aroused the jealousy and hatred of their Christian neighbours, especially during the periodical struggle with the Turks, when the Moriscos were accusedof sympathy with the national enemy. Philip’s first action against these useful citizens was prompted—as were most royal edicts in Spain—by a representation made to him by the Cortes of Castile in 1560, to the effect that the introduction of African slaves by the Spanish Moriscos was a disadvantage to the country, and a royal pragmatica was issued forbidding this. It was a heavy blow, as much of the hard labour of mountain agriculture and irrigation was done by these slaves, but measures of a very different character were adopted as soon as possible after Cardinal Espinosa became inquisitor-general. In 1563 an edict had been issued prohibiting the Moriscos from wearing or possessing arms, which caused much discontent and resistance; but at the instance of the clergy, and more especially of Guerrero, the Archbishop of Granada, and of Espinosa, a far more serious step was taken early in 1567. The Moriscos were forbidden to wear their distinctive garb, and were ordered to dress as Christians, no silk garments being allowed, and the women going abroad with their faces uncovered. They were to have no locks or fastenings upon their doors, and within a term of three years were utterly to discontinue the use of their own language and also adopt Christian names. Above all, the use of warm baths was prohibited under brutal penalties. Their customs and traditions, indeed, were to be trampled upon with apparent wantonness. The Moriscos had always been quiet, docile people, and the local clergy and authorities had assured Philip that no difficulty would be experienced in enforcing the edict. At first the Moriscos adopted the same means of evasion as they had successfully employed on other occasions, namely, briberyand cajolery. Espinosa belonged to the war party, and consequently had the Ruy Gomez party against him, and even the Governor-General of Granada, the Marquis de Mondejar, and much pressure was exerted upon Philip to induce him to relax the orders, but, influenced by Espinosa and the churchmen, he refused. For the first two years the Moriscos sulkily bowed beneath the yoke, evading and passively resisting as much as possible; but during this period the Mussulman fervour had been rising, and at length at Christmas 1568 the storm which had long been brewing burst. A youth, Aben Humeya, in the Alpujarras had distinguished himself in resisting the enforcement of the edicts. He was a descendant of the prophet himself, and was proclaimed by the Moriscos King of Granada. The Moorish force was organised in the almost inaccessible mountains, whilst envoys sped from the new king to his co-religionists at Constantinople and on the other side of the Straits of Gibraltar; but the Turk was busy organising an expedition against the Venetians, and the Barbary Moors were split up into independent tribes which could furnish no considerable combined force, so the Spanish Moriscos were left nearly unaided, although many isolated companies of Barbary Moors responded to the call and crossed to Spain. On December 26, 1568, a small body of 180 Moriscos, under Aben Farax, a dyer of Granada, came down from the mountains through the driving snow and forced their way into the city of Granada. The Morisco townspeople, terrified at the risk they ran in joining so small a force, turned a deaf ear to the exhortations of the chief. Through the sleeping city the little body of Moors rushed on, desecrating the Christian temples,cursing the Christian gods, and killing such few Spaniards as resisted them. And then when a call to arms from the citadel sounded, Aben Farax and his little force withdrew once more to the mountains. The large Morisco population of Granada had made no move, or the city would have been taken, and the Governor Mendoza, Marquis de Mondejar, took counsel with their head men for resisting further attack, and urged them to stand loyal to the king against the mountain marauders.
In the meanwhile Aben Farax swept through the Vega, carrying death and torture with him to the Christians, burning villages, and submitting the defenceless inhabitants to the most heartrending cruelty. Mad with blood lust, the Moriscos of the band sought to avenge their race for endless ignominy by outrage upon the country folk of the Vega. Three thousand Christians were killed, before the king, Aben Humeya, put an end to the slaughter, and many hundreds of others were sold into slavery across the Straits in exchange for arms and men. Like wildfire ran the hope through all Andalucia that at last the resuscitation of the Moorish power in Spain had come, and the Moriscos from Valencia to the Sierra Nevada sprang to arms. The hate and rancour of centuries were concentrated in one mad week of slaughter. Mendoza, Marquis of Mondejar, with such forces as he could raise, sallied and met the Moors in the pass of Alfajarali, where he defeated them with great slaughter, and then pressed on, killing and plundering, until blood and booty themselves palled. When Mondejar re-entered the city of Granada he brought with him 800 rescued Christian women, who had been destined for sale to the Jews of Barbary, and the churchmenmade this an excuse for urging the townspeople to fresh vengeance. In the early spring the Marquis de los Velez set out with another force, gathered up from the idlers of the cities of Andalucia, with the avowed object of massacre. They came across 10,000 Morisco women and children fugitives, who had sought safety on the edge of the great red cliffs overlooking the Mediterranean. There was no mercy for them. Many cast themselves over the edge to escape outrage and a lingering death; others, whilst praying for mercy and avowing the Christian faith, were slaughtered. In two hours 6000 poor creatures were killed, 2000 of them little children, and the rest were distributed amongst the soldiers as slaves. But soon slaves were so plentiful that the value fell, and soldiers deserted to seek a better market for them, the Spanish forces became utterly demoralised, and plunder and anarchy spread all over the fertile and previously prosperous region. Deza, afterwards one of Philip’s cardinals in Rome, was the representative in Granada of the civil power and the Inquisition, and exceeded in violence and brutality even the lawless men-at-arms. He complained constantly to Philip and Espinosa of the slackness and want of authority of the Governor Mondejar, and at last the king decided to send to Andalucia a considerable force under his brother, Don Juan of Austria, to restore order. The young prince, who had been born in 1547, was one of the handsomest and most gifted men of his time. He had shared the studies of his unfortunate nephew, Don Carlos, and of his cousin, Alexander Farnese, and from the time of the emperor’s death had been treated as a prince of the blood. He had already distinguished himselfin the naval campaign against the Barbary corsairs in 1567, and now his royal brother sent him once more against the infidel. He entered Granada in April 1569. He was to do nothing without first communicating with the king, and was strictly enjoined not to expose himself to danger or to take any personal part in the mountain warfare, which was to be left to the Marquis de los Velez. The reasons probably why Don Juan had been chosen for the command were his youth, which would, it might be thought, render him amenable to guidance from Madrid, and the fact that he had from his childhood been indoctrinated in the diplomatic principles of Ruy Gomez’s party, to which Secretary Antonio Perez also belonged. But he was a youth of high courage and great ability, who could ill brook strict control, and he chafed at being kept in the city of Granada away from the fighting. Philip again and again directed him to do as he was told and stay where he was. The task confided to him was a pitiful one. Orders came from Madrid that every Morisco in Granada was to be sent to Castile. On the day of St. John 1569, writes the English spy Hogan, “Don Juan gathered together 13,000 Moriscos of Granada, and took 2000 for the king’s galleys, and hanged some; a great number were sent to labour in the king’s works and fortifications, and the rest, with their wives and children, kept as slaves.” Despair fell upon the poor people, innocent mostly of all participation in the mountain rising, at being dragged from their beautiful homes and smiling native land to be sent in slavery to arid Castile; but Deza and Espinosa were pitiless, and their advice alone was heard in Madrid.The Marquis of Mondejar, the hereditary governor of Granada, could not brook such ruinous folly to the city he loved, and left in disgust.
Things in the meanwhile were going badly for the Spaniards in the mountains. The king, Aben Humeya, gained a victory at Seron, and the main body of Spaniards, under the Marquis de los Velez, got out of hand, provisions and pay were short, and the men deserted in shoals, until at last Los Velez was left only with the veteran regiment of Naples. Then Philip and the churchmen saw that they must let Don Juan have his way and give him active command, whilst the king himself, to be nearer, came to Cordova.
But Aben Humeya’s power was slipping away. Dissensions had broken out in his own family. He had exercised his royal authority with as much harshness and arrogance as if it had been founded on a rock instead of on the desert sand, and soon a revolution of his people broke out. The young king, already sunk in lascivious indulgence, was strangled in his bed, and his cousin, Ben Abó, was proclaimed King of Granada.
The juncture was a favourable one for Don Juan, and he lost no time. With marvellous activity he collected the Spanish forces again around the Naples regiment; he brought men from all parts of Spain, and by the end of January 1570 he was besieging the fortress of Galera with 13,000 soldiers. For a month the siege lasted, and hardly a day passed without some act of daring heroism on one side or the other. At last by February 16 the place was taken by assault, and the defenders to the number of 3000 killed. Massacre, pillage, and lust again threw the Spanish troops intoa state of demoralisation, and a few days later, in attempting to recover Seron, an uncontrollable panic seized them, and the seasoned warriors fled like hares before an insignificant gang of Moors, with a loss of 600 men. All discipline and order were thrown to the winds; desertion, anarchy, and murder were all that could be got from Don Juan’s army, now a mere blood-thirsty rabble.