by Jean Plaidy
Who could resist such a spectacle? All those who witnessed it would talk of it for the rest of their lives. It would be more diverting even than the torturing of bulls. No wonder people were crowding into the town; no 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 Valdés, 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 Valdés, 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 Valdés 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.
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 Valdés 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 Vendôme, 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.
She wished she could recapture that excitement about her dresses which she had felt when she discussed them with Mary Stuart and even little Margot—who, though so young, was quite conscious of fashion—in the familiar apartments of the Louvre or at Blois.
At intervals along the road the peasants had come out to wave a sad farewell to the little Princess, to marvel at her beauty, and to wish her good luck in her married life.
At the town of Chatelleraut, Catherine de Medici gave her daughter a last embrace and uttered the final words of advice and warning. Antoine, with some French nobles and the Spaniards who had met the party, continued to accompany Elisabeth.
It was a journey of a hundred accidents. The weather was bad and they must at times travel through sleet and snow; some of the baggage was mislaid and the French ladies were in a panic, thinking they might not have dresses fine enough in which to face the Spaniards. The French were closely guarding French honor and carefully watching for slights; and the Spaniards were even more jealous of their dignity.
When it was time for Elisabeth to be formally handed over and to say good-bye to Antoine, whom she loved, she felt herself unable to bear the parting.
When Antoine made his speech, in which he said that he had brought the Princess from the house of the greatest King in the world to be delivered to the most illustrious sovereign on Earth, she broke down and wept; whereupon the emotional Antoine so far forgot his dignity as to break off his ceremonial speech, take her in his arms, and try to comfort her.
All the noble Spaniards—the greatest in the land assembled to represent their King in this important ceremony—were shocked by such conduct. Their glances implied that the Queen would have to learn to behave differently now that she was in Spain.
The Duke of Infantado, head of the great Mendoza family, whose duty it had been to receive her at this stage on behalf of the King, reproved her as he led her away.
“I beg your Highness to remember,” he said, “that you are now the Queen of Spain, and the Queen of Spain does not so condescend to the Duke of Vendôme—even though he may call himself the King of Navarre.”
Elisabeth’s grief subdued her fear. She said sharply: “The Duke
of Infantado is greatly daring to speak thus to the Queen of Spain, who will say good-bye to those she loves in the manner of her own people, who do not seek to hide their genuine feelings if they wish to show them.”
The Duke was taken aback, but she was so beautiful, so young, so appealing that she blunted the edge of his Spanish dignity; moreover, he realized that she was not the frivolous girl he had imagined her to be. He could only bow his head and murmur: “I crave your Highness’s pardon.”
All along the road the Spaniards came out to see their new Queen. Her beauty enchanted them. She was typically French in poise and gesture, yet her features bore traces of her Italian ancestry.
She was calmer now that she had said good-bye to her relations. It was too late to hope for a miracle, and since the death of her father she had done with hoping for miracles. Her clothes were not only rich, they were becoming; and the Spaniards had never seen anything like them. She bowed and smiled at the people with French warmth which was so different from Spanish frigidity. She charmed these people as she rode among them. “Surely she is the most beautiful Queen in the world,” they said.
She had long since learned to read the Castilian language, and now she rapidly taught herself to speak it, and if her accent was that of a Frenchwoman, it merely added to her fascinating qualities.
Even the old members of the Spanish nobility were won over by her manners. Even grim Alba himself was attracted by her.
One grows up, thought Elisabeth. One cannot cry when one has no tears left. This is the fate which befalls all princesses.
But she knew that the greatest trial had yet to come. Each day brought her nearer to it, and every little fracas between French and Spaniards prepared her for it. There was still the meeting with Philip—and after that the life with him—to be faced.
Philip was waiting for her at Guadalajara. Juana and Carlos were with him.