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

wonder men and women were trampled underfoot in their efforts to be first in the Plaza Mayor.

The terrible scene was set in the great square before the Church of St. Francis, and the Inquisitors were already seated on the sumptuously carpeted platform; and in the gallery were the members of the royal family with their attendants. Juana was heavily veiled, as she always was in public; Philip, his eyes aflame with fanaticism, presented a less cool facade to his subjects than usual; and Don Carlos, white-faced, magnificently dressed as he loved to be, was more deeply conscious of his father than of anyone else in the whole assembly.

Beside Philip sat his friends, Ruy Gomez da Silva, Gomez Suarez de Figeuroa, and the Count of Feria. Ruy glanced covertly at Philip. What was he thinking? wondered Ruy. But he, who had lived so near to Philip for so many years, could guess. Philip was thinking of God’s pleasure in the drama which was about to be enacted; he was thinking of the delight of God in maimed and tortured bodies, in the cries of agony.

Ruy shivered and turned his gaze upon the young Prince. Carlos was brooding. He was not thinking so much of the sights he was about to see; he was thinking of his father and the wife who would soon be coming to him.

As Secretary of State and chief adviser to the King, Ruy was fully conscious of the uneasy days which lay ahead. He would like to speak his mind to Philip concerning Carlos; he would like to explain to the King the thoughts which he could not suppress. He was deeply conscious of the Grand Inquisitor, Fernando Valdes, Cardinal- Archbishop of Seville, who was in charge of today’s spectacle. There was not one person in the crowd who could look at that man unmoved, and Ruy was no exception. The reputation of the Cardinal-Archbishop was second only to that of Torquemada. Since he had been in command of the dread Inquisition, he had determined to increase its power, and this he had done with marked success. He had enlisted new spies; they were everywhere, listening to unwary conversations, tempting the careless to betray themselves. Under Valdes, new instruments of torture had been devised. He was the man whom Philip had appointed to stamp out heresy in Spain; for, said Philip—and Valdes echoed his words—how could they hope to free the rest of the world from the Devil unless Spain herself was beyond reproach?

There was now a deep silence over the square; then it seemed as though all the church bells in the town were tolling.

The doors of the great prison would now be opening. Ruy knew this, because he had witnessed similar ceremonies. Out of the gates of the prison a wretched procession would now be filing and at any moment it would be possible to see their vanguard.

He watched a black-eyed gypsy girl cross herself as she touched her rosary; his eyes strayed to the water- carrier in tattered rags. In the slant of the man’s eyes Ruy recognized his Moorish ancestry. And beside that man was another, whose lips were moving in prayer; his features suggested Jewish blood. Had their ancestors taken part in such a spectacle—a more active part than these two would take? Perhaps they had been rich lords, rich merchants. Who could tell what one’s descendants would come to when the Holy Inquisition’s greedy claw seized a man and his property?

These were dangerous thoughts. As the King’s closest friend, holding a high position in the country, he should not be thinking them.

Here came the troops, resplendent in their uniforms. Ruy fixed his eyes upon them because he did not wish to look beyond them. He was weak today, weak and fanciful. He was unnerved, not only by the sights he knew from experience he would have to witness, but by the mad hatred which he sensed in Carlos. He knew now that he was a lover of peace. He hated cruelty in any form. There was not a man or woman present who would not condemn such thoughts, coming at this time. He should confess those thoughts. Dare he? Certainly not. Whom could one trust? One’s confessor today might be a familiar of the Inquisition tomorrow. Ruy might at times be a sentimental man, but he was a wise one. God alone should know his thoughts. God would punish him, if he deserved punishment. He was appalled suddenly to realize that for such thoughts he could be sentenced to join that group of men whom he did not wish to look upon. Another thought, swift as lightning, followed. The man beside him, the King and his friend, would not hesitate to destroy him if he knew what was passing through his mind.

What a fearful sight they presented!

“They are heretics. They are heretics!” Ruy repeated to himself. “Think of that. Heretics! Their sufferings may bring them salvation if they repent in time.”

But he found no real peace in those words. He must therefore delude himself. He must catch the exultation which he sensed about him. The sun was hot, but the royal gallery was shaded by the hangings which shut out the burning heat. Ruy could smell death and decay in the air. The wounds of some of these men and women who stumbled behind the soldiers were turning gangrenous.

Ruy assured himself: They would die in any case very soon.

They came, stumbling on; some had to be carried in chairs because their legs had been broken on the wheel or on the chevalet; the arms of some hung helpless at their sides. Those without eyes had to be led. There were some who lacked ears and noses.

Is this necessary? Could we not offer them easier death?

Ruy answered his own questions. The Inquisition in its mercy gives these people a foretaste of Hell that they may repent in time and save themselves from an eternity of suffering.

He was happier now; he was guiding his thoughts into the right channels.

These victims who had once been men and women—very like the men and women in the square, very like the people on the platform—all wore the symbol of their shame: the hideous, loose-fitting sanbenito and caps made of pasteboard with grotesque devils painted upon them.

There were three types of this coarse woollen gown, and the spectators could see at a glance what fate was intended for the wearers. Among the mournful procession were some whose garments were simply marked with a red cross: they were guilty of the venial sins, and penance, imprisonment, and confiscation of goods was to be their punishment; after their sentences were pronounced they would be taken back to the gloomy prison of the Inquisition to expiate their sins. There were others whose garments displayed busts of human beings in the act of being consumed by long red flames which were pointing downward; this indicated that although their bodies would be burned they would not feel the flames since, as they had recanted, they should first be accorded the mercy of strangulation. The third type of garment displayed busts and heads in the midst of flames which pointed upward, fanned by mocking devils; these were the unrepentant heretics who were condemned to be burned alive.

“Repent and be reconciled!” chanted the monks who walked on either side of the yellow-clad figures. “Repent and be reconciled!”

Following the prisoners came the jailors and more monks, the magistrates and the important officials of the Inquisition on mules, the trappings of which were so gorgeous that for a few moments the eyes of the crowd were fixed upon them instead of on the miserable victims.