Philip II. of Spain 8

Philip II. of Spain 8

On October 25, 1555, the renunciation by the emperor of the sovereignty

of the Netherlands took place in the great hall of the palace of

Brussels. The scene, one of the most dramatic in history, has often been

described, and need not here be repeated. All the circumstances added

impressiveness and solemnity to the ceremony. The prematurely aged

emperor, standing on a dais, leaning on the shoulder of the youthful

William the Silent, in a broken voice took leave of the Flemish

subjects, whom he loved best. He had always been a Fleming at heart, and

the leave-taking was an affecting one on both sides. Philip, on the

other hand, was to all intents a foreigner, and though Charles fervently

prayed his son to treat his people well, the Flemings present knew that

his heart and sympathies were in Spain, and that Philip might be a ruler

over them, but never a friend and father, as the emperor had been.

Philip’s own impassibility for once gave way at the affecting scene, and

for some time he could not summon sufficient composure to speak; and

when he did, alas! it was only to confess that, as he could not address

his new subjects in their own tongue, he must depute the task to

another. We may be sure that the Bishop of Arras--the coming De

Granvelle--was elegant, fluent, and appropriate in his speech; but the

charm that loosely held together the states under the House of Burgundy

was broken, and the sturdy burghers felt that henceforward they were to

be regarded as a colony of Spain. On January 16, 1556, the crowns of

Spain were also transferred to Philip, and Charles remained now only

emperor nominally, until the German electors were prepared for the

abdication in favour of Ferdinand. Before he left for Spain and turned

his back upon the world for ever, he arranged (February 1556) a truce

for five years, by the treaty of Vaucelles, with his old antagonist the

King of France.

 

Philip now stands on the stage alone, the greatest monarch in the world,

although disappointed of the apostolic crown. We have seen how his

statecraft had been formed, and how from his childhood he had absorbed

the worldly experience of his father. We can see how he had schooled

himself to self-repression, concentration of effort to political ends,

and profound distrust in all men. To his melancholy mysticism and belief

in his divine inspiration, the result of his descent, had been

superadded the teachings of his mentors, and the result was the man who

was to lead to defeat one of the two great forces into which the world

was divided. The judgment on a great historical figure must be

pronounced, not in view of what he achieved, so much as what he aimed

at, and in the case of Philip the objects were great. These objects were

not, however, conceived by him, but were imposed upon him by the

accident of birth. He accepted the inheritance as a sacred duty and

strenuously did his best, but his inherited personal qualities were not

equal to his inherited task, and he failed.

 

The irony of events decreed that the very first task to which Philip was

to put his hand was to fight with the Holy See. Charles and his

predecessors had wrested from one pontiff after another the rights of

presentation to all bishoprics, prelacies, and other preferments of the

Church in Spain, so that the Spanish clergy depended now upon their

sovereign more than upon the pope, and the king practically used the

vast revenues of the Church as an instrument of his policy. The royal

council, moreover, had the power of supervision over the ecclesiastical

courts in Spain, nominally to protect Spanish priests from injustice,

but really to make the civil power supreme, and give to the State a

predominance over the Church. The Inquisition itself was quite as much a

political as an ecclesiastical institution, and was jealously regarded

by Philip and his predecessors as under their immediate control, and not

that of the pope. Similar, and even greater power, was exercised by the

king over the Spanish Church in Naples and Sicily, to the exclusion of

papal influence. These facts, together with the encroachments of the

Spaniards in Italy, had been suffered with a bad grace by previous

pontiffs, but Cardinal Caraffa, Paul IV., was a Neapolitan, and a deadly

enemy of the Spanish power, and immediately after his accession began to

intrigue with the King of France to join with him for the purpose of

expelling the Spaniards from Naples, and curbing their power in Italy

generally. The arrogant and intemperate pontiff launched against the

emperor and his son invective more bitter even than he did against

heretics. “The Spaniards,” he was wont to say, were “the vile and abject

spawn of Jews, the dregs of the world,” and “now the time had come when

they should be castigated for their sins, be expelled from their states,

and Italy should be free.” The aid of the Grand Turk was also invoked,

and Henry II., tempted by the bait of conquering Naples by such a

coalition, signed the treaty with the pope in December 1555.

 

The emperor’s one desire, however, was to leave his son at peace, and he

offered such terms that in February 1556 Henry II. withdrew from the

papal alliance and signed the truce of Vaucelles. The defection of the

French was only a temporary check to the fiery pontiff. Before four

months had passed he had persuaded the King of France once more to enter

into an offensive alliance with him, and the Sultan Solyman, to fight

against the Catholic king. Wherever the pope’s voice or arm could reach,

persecution and insult were heaped upon Spaniards. When once he had

prevailed upon the King of France to break the truce of Vaucelles he

thought he had his enemy at his mercy. All bounds of decency and decorum

were abandoned, and a violent bull of excommunication was issued against

the emperor and King Philip. The latter is addressed as “the son of

iniquity, Philip of Austria, offspring of the so-called Emperor Charles,

who passes himself off as King of Spain, following in the footsteps of

his father, rivalling, and even endeavouring to surpass him in

infamy.”[1] Alba invaded the papal states, and nearly captured Rome

itself, carrying fire and sword through Italy; but he was well matched

by Guise, who commanded the Franco-Papal army. Then suddenly Henry II.

found that the army from Flanders was marching on Paris, and Guise was

recalled to France. By the intervention of the Doge of Venice a peace

was patched up between the pope and Philip, Alba sulkily entering Rome,

not as a conqueror but as a pretended penitent. The pope was conciliated

with ceremonies and futile concessions, and France and Philip were again

left face to face.

 

During the new coalition against him Philip had again urged the English

council to join him in the war against France, but could get no

satisfactory reply. The poor queen was wearing her heart away with

sorrow and disappointment, and the English Catholics in power, from Pole

downwards, were determined not to serve purely Spanish aims or allow

themselves to be diverted from the holy task of extirpating heresy, so

the king, sorely against his will, was obliged, himself, to go to

England and exert his personal influence.

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER V

 

French intrigue against Mary--England at war with France--Battle of

St. Quintin--Philip’s tardiness--The English contingent--The loss

of Calais--Feria goes to England--His negotiations--Condition of

England--The English fleet used by Philip--Philip and

Elizabeth--Negotiations for peace--Death of Mary--Plans for

Elizabeth’s marriage--Peace of Cateau Cambresis--Philip’s policy in

England.

 

 

Philip arrived in England on March 20, 1557, and at once tried to

influence his wife to the ends he had in view. She on her part had not

forgiven the intrigues of the French and De Noailles against her, and

was willing to be revenged; but the council and, above all, the nation,

had always dreaded this probable result of a Spanish match. They had no

special quarrel with the King of France, and had no wish to be drawn

into a war with him to benefit Philip’s Italian supremacy.

 

In the meanwhile Henry II. tried to counteract Philip’s efforts in

England. The abortive risings at the beginning of Mary’s reign had cast

a great number of refugee Englishmen on to the coast of France--Carews,

Staffords, Tremaynes, and the like,--and these men had always been held

by the French king as a card in his hand to play against Mary in need,

for the purpose of raising a diversion in her own country. He once more

adopted the same policy, making much of the exiles, ostentatiously

helping them, and hinting at hostile designs against Calais, and even

England itself. Henry meant it for a feint, but hare-brained Stafford,

with vague hopes of a crown, started from Dieppe with two ships on

Easter Sunday 1557. He seized Scarborough Castle, but was seized himself

directly afterwards, and he and his friends incontinently lost their

heads. But it was enough that they had been cherished by the French

king, and had started from a French port. With such an argument as this,

Mary was able to persuade her council, and Philip had his way. On June 7

war against France was declared, and on July 3 the king bade his wife

what was destined to be an eternal farewell, and left for Brussels.

Eight thousand English troops were at once made ready to join Philip’s

army in Flanders, under his young cousin Emmanuel Philibert, Duke of

Savoy, which amounted in all to 50,000 men. Constable Montmorenci

commanded the French force, which was much inferior both in numbers and

quality (24,000 men). Savoy began the campaign by feigned attacks upon

several frontier fortresses, his object being suddenly to turn aside and

attack St. Quintin, a town of wealth and importance whose defences were

known to be ruinous. Savoy’s rapid and unexpected movements completely

puzzled the French, and Coligny, with a small force of about 1200 men,

was ordered to watch him. Coligny made an attempt to surprise Douai, but

was unsuccessful, and then seems to have learnt that Savoy’s real

objective was St. Quintin. He hurried back over the frontier, just in

time to cast himself into the town before it was invested, and then saw

that he was in a trap. The place could not hold out for a week in its

present condition, and he hastily begged Montmorenci to send him relief.

Montmorenci’s idea of relief was to force a thousand men through Savoy’s

lines into the town. In this he failed utterly. The way lay through a

bog, in which the troops sank or were killed by Savoy’s men, and only a

few stragglers reached the town. On the next day (August 10),

Montmorenci brought up his main body, and tried to cast reinforcements

into the town by boats across the Somme. This was found to be

impracticable, and Montmorenci was urged by his men to retire. He had

the river and a morass between himself and Savoy’s army, and thought he

was safe, but by fords and causeways unknown to him, 6000 fine

Burgundian cavalry and a body of the invincible Spanish infantry crossed

to his side. Then when it was too late he gave the order to retire. The

retreat soon became a rout. Six thousand French troops were killed, as

many more captured, all the artillery taken, Montmorenci a prisoner, and

there was no force between Savoy’s victorious army of 50,000 men and the

gates of Paris.

 

Here was Philip’s chance--a chance never to occur again. During the

short campaign he had remained at Valenciennes and Brussels, and on the

day of St