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

Philip’s pale skin turned to coral as the sarcenet was held high. It was red—the color of blood—and embroidered with the heraldic arms of the Inquisition, the Papal arms and those of Ferdinand and Isabella.

The sermon of faith, preached that day by the Bishop of Zamora, was longer than usual; and after the sermon came that great moment when Philip endeared himself to his people as few other sovereigns ever had.

There was a great silence in the crowd as Valdes rose. He raised his hand, and all in the square—man, woman, and child—knelt and lifted their hands toward the skies as they chanted the Oath of Allegiance to the Holy Office. They would be faithful to the Holy Catholic Church and its Inquisition in life and in death; they would give their right eyes, their right hands in its service, and if necessary their lives.

And as they began to chant the Oath—which was not demanded of the King—Philip sprang suddenly to his feet; his Toledo blade flashed from its scabbard; and holding it before him, the King himself repeated with the people the Oath of Allegiance to the Inquisition.

When the chanting ceased and the people raised their eyes and saw their King standing there, his sword gleaming like silver, his pale face alight with fervor, there was a brief, awestruck silence before someone in the crowd shouted: “Long live the King! Long live Philip to reign over us!”

The tumult broke then; it lasted several minutes.

Ruy looked at Philip, standing beside him, the jeweled sword in his hands. He recognized the fanatic, and thought with love and pity of a small boy shivering and naked in the Cloister of St. Anne. Other pictures flashed in and out of Ruy’s mind. It was inevitable, he thought. It had to be. Everything which has happened to him has led to this moment.

Carlos was watching his father, and hatred had complete possession of him. If he but had the strength to take that gleaming sword and plunge it into the heart of the man who had become the husband of Isabella!

“My Isabella!” muttered Carlos piteously. “Mine!”

His hatred was so strong that it set a haze before his eyes; he could not see the square; the black-clad monks and the figures in their yellow garments of shame and despair were blurred before his eyes. Ordinarily the scene would have delighted him. What could be more exciting than to watch so much suffering and to do so under a cloak of piety? God himself, according to the King and the Cardinal-Archbishop, was looking down upon them, flashing His scornful hatred at the miserable victims, applauding the spectators and officials and all those who had taken the Oath.

But there was only one man whose suffering could bring Carlos complete satisfaction. Those broken men and women meant no more to him than the rabbits he might roast alive for a little fun.

Into the Quemadero—the place of fire—that space in the center of the square where the stakes had been set up, came the victims, and among them were two men, recently well-known at court. Don Carlos de Seso, a noble Florentine, had been a great friend of the Emperor; he had settled in Valladolid and there had become interested in Lutheran doctrines. He believed that it was his duty, as he had discovered the truth, to teach it to others. He had been a rich man, and such as he were the favorite prey of the Inquisition. With him in the square was Domingo de Roxas, who had himself been a Dominican monk.

With startling suddenness, de Roxas, as he stood there, his body broken, his arms hanging impotent at his sides, raised his voice and began to preach to the multitude. It was some minutes before he could be stopped, and then only by the painful wooden gag which was screwed into his mouth.

But even more startling was that moment when de Seso, fixing his eyes on the central figure in the gallery and raising his voice so that all could hear, cried: “Philip! I speak to Philip the King!”

There was about this man a dignity which even his torture and the hideous yellow robe and pasteboard cap could not take from him.

Philip, almost involuntarily, rose to his feet, and thus they faced each other: the King of Spain, his black velvet doublet a-glitter with diamonds, and the wretched man de Seso, his face, through long incarceration in the airless dungeons of the Inquisition, as yellow as his sanbenito.

“Is it thus then, Philip,” said de Seso, “that you allow your innocent subjects to be persecuted? Does it not fill you with shame to see our shame?”

Philip answered in ringing tones, for he had given his allegiance to the Inquisition, and in his eyes it was the work of God which he and his Inquisitors were doing on Earth:

“Shame? For you is the shame; for us is the glory. If you were my own son, I would fetch the wood to burn you. If my son had denied the true Faith as you have done, he should stand there with you.”

The crowd cheered madly: “God bless great Philip! Long live Philip our King!”

It was some time before the ceremony could go on. This was a day which all those present would remember while they lived. They had seen great Philip take the Oath of Allegiance to the Inquisition, which no other sovereign had done. It was significant. Philip had proclaimed himself: Catholic first, King second. Those present had heard him, with his son beside him, declare that that same son should suffer in the Quemadero as any other, should he prove false to the Faith. What man could have greater love for the Faith than he who was ready to lay down the life of his son for it?

The names of the prisoners were being read aloud with the lists of their crimes; they were sentenced; some were led away to prison. Those who had recanted were strangled before they were bound to their stakes. And now the great moment had come. The fires were lighted and the screams of the living filled the air.

But to have seen the King with his shining sword was more memorable than even the sight of flames that swirled about broken bodies; to have heard him speak the Oath, more wonderful than listening to the screams of heretics and the triumphant shouts of the servants of God.

But Carlos could not take his eyes from his father’s face; and Ruy, watching, could only think: The pity of it! The pity of it all!

A bitter wind was blowing as Elisabeth rode south. The journey was long, and she was thankful for that. With her rode her mother and the two Bourbon Princes—the Cardinal of Bourbon, who had officiated at the proxy marriage, and Antoine, the King of Navarre and Duke of Vendome, who had married that Jeanne of Navarre whom Philip himself had once thought to marry.

No French lady could travel without an abundant supply of garments and, having been brought up in the French court, Elisabeth was very conscious of fashion. Mules, laden with her extravagant trousseau, traveled with the party, for her dresses must be of the French fashion, acknowledged to be the best in the world.