For a Queen's Love: The Stories of the Royal Wives of Philip II

“We have the Inquisition to help us,” said Philip.

“And for that we must thank your Highness’s great-grandfather and great-grandmother.”

Ruy listened to them. He thought of the members of the Inquisition, the monks in their black robes with the masks of anonymity over the faces. They came to a man’s house at midnight when all was quiet, and knocked at the door. They were admitted by trembling servants, for there was not a man or woman in Spain who did not know the alguazils—those familiars of the Inquisition—when they saw them. The victim would be dragged from his bed; he would be gagged with the Inquisition’s terrible gag—an instrument that had been made in the shape of a pear when shut, but which was put into the mouth and made as big as desired by means of a screw. This was the first taste of torture to come. And through the night the victim was taken to the underground prisons of the Inquisition.

Ruy broke out in a sweat as he thought of it. During the last years he had come to hate cruelty. He was no coward, but he would not dare to state his views. What good could he do by stating them? He did not like the methods of the Inquisition. He did not like men who came by night and worked in the dark. Moreover, the victims of the Inquisition were often the rich, for when a man was condemned his goods were confiscated and taken by the Holy Office.

Now he listened to the impassioned words of Siliceo and the Prince’s grave questions and answers.

Was it true, this history which they were teaching Philip? Had Isabella and Ferdinand been as devoted to the good of Spain as Dr. Siliceo implied? The Jews were the cleverest traders in Spain; and when they were condemned to death, the confiscation of their lands and goods had enriched the Catholic monarchs. But was it so wise to take the results of industry and destroy the source?

Such thoughts were dangerous, and Ruy was glad when the session was over. It ended as usual with the compliments of Dr. Siliceo to his Royal Highness.

After that it was time for the Prince’s fencing lesson. When Ruy was helping him to dress for this he smiled, and Philip demanded to know the reason why. Great was the intimacy between them, so Ruy told the Prince that he was thinking that he would not be so softly treated by Zuniga as he was by Siliceo.

“Indeed not,” said Philip. “Zuniga says what he means, but Siliceo what he thinks it behooves him to mean.”

Ruy thought how astonishing the Prince could be. While he was gravely accepting Siliceo’s praise, he knew it for gross flattery; and while with equal imperturbability he accepted the blunt words of Zuniga, he knew them for truth.

A strange boy, this Philip. Young as he was, he made it difficult for others to read the thoughts behind his pale eyes; and as he grew older it would be even more difficult.

Ruy was tempted to go on: “And Dr. Siliceo’s assessment of the past, your Highness, do you feel that to be as tempered as his assessment of your aptitude for learning?”

Philip said slowly: “I doubt not that he flatters my ancestors as he flatters me. But one thing there is of which we can be certain: There are heretics in the world … even in Spain … and we must not rest until we have destroyed them.” The pale eyes had turned to a deeper shade of blue, which was due to the sudden bright color in the Prince’s cheeks.

“Your Highness has read the works of this Martin Luther?”

Philip looked at Ruy in horror. “Read the words of Martin Luther! But that in itself is a sin.”

“A sin, of a surety,” said Ruy quickly. “But can you judge the man’s teachings if you have read nothing of them?”

“This is a jest in bad taste,” retorted Philip haughtily.

Ruy saw him in a new light. Here was the shadow of the man-to-be seen passing across the face of the boy … a ghost from the future. The calm, clear mind would never be calm nor clear on this subject. Ruy must remember that.

“In great bad taste, your Royal Highness; and for it I crave your pardon.”

Philip smiled as he rarely smiled. He loved this Portuguese boy and because of that he would forgive him much.

“You love to jest,” he said. “I know that.” His eyes were a little stern as he added: “It is well that you make such jests only before me and not in the presence of others.”

“But I have no wish to jest in the presence of others.”

Philip gave one of his rare laughs. This was his true friend, and he had few true friends; he was quite aware, in spite of all the adulation he received, that he did not easily inspire affection.

“I shall be late for the fencing lesson,” he said, “and that will put Master Zuniga into a bad mood to begin with. But Ruy, before I go, I will tell you this: While we were talking with Siliceo I made a vow. I determined that in the centuries to come the world should remember Philip of Spain for his services to Christ. I will establish the true religion throughout the world. That is my dream. It shall come true … so help me God.”

Ruy knelt and kissed his hand, but Philip hastily snatched it away. He was moved, and he was always embarrassed when he feared he might show his feelings.

He hurried to the fencing lesson, dreaming glorious dreams of the future.

Left alone, Ruy pondered. To be remembered for his services to Christ. But who should say which was the best way of serving Christ? Ruy tried to shut out of his mind his own picture of the grim torture chambers of the Inquisition, of the autos-da-fe, of mangled bodies in that yellow garment of shame, the sanbenito, with the flames scorching them while their cries of agony rose up to Heaven. He heard the voices of Dominicans chanting as they watched the flames; he saw their eyes gleaming through their masks. “In the service of God … in the service of Christ …” they chanted. Yet those martyrs, while the flames licked their bodies, had been known to cry: “I die in Christ. I die for the glory of God.”

Ruy’s dream of the future was different from Philip’s, and Ruy was thoughtful, for he knew that the threads of his life were inextricably woven with those of the boy who had just left him.

We are both dreamers, he pondered. We are both dreaming our different dreams.