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. Quintin he was in the city of Cambrai. His vocation was not war, and he knew it. Bells were rung, Te Deums were sung, and the day after the battle Philip visited his victorious army; but his professed regret at his absence from the fray was not so deep as that of his father when he heard the news. The Duke of Savoy begged to be allowed to follow up his victory by a march upon the capital, but over-caution was always Philip’s fault, and he would take no undue risk. He doubtless recollected his own remarks about his father’s invasion of France and the disaster of Metz. “The emperor,” he said, “had marched into France eating peacocks, and had marched out eating turnips.” When Charles at Yuste heard of the victory, he at once asked whether Philip had yet arrived before Paris. But the war was not ended yet, and brave Coligny in the town of St. Quintin held out against terrible odds until August 27, when it was taken by assault. The sacking and pillage of the devoted town and the heartrending cruelty wreaked upon the defenceless people, mainly by the German mercenaries, will ever remain one of the most horrible episodes of history. Philip had given orders that women and children should be spared, but his instructions were set at naught, and when, on the third day after the capture, he entered the city, he saw such sights as left upon him impressions of horror which he never forgot.
Philip’s army, of various nationalities, was then divided amongst the French towns he had captured. The rascally German mercenaries quarrelled and left him in large numbers, many to join the French. The English were sulky—the Spaniards complained of their conduct before St. Quintin. Wages were in arrears, their hearts were not in the fight, and they demanded leave to go home. Philip could not risk unpopularity in England by refusal, and let them go.
The French, on the other hand, by the end of the year had a fine army in north-eastern France, which Guise had hastily brought back from Italy. The English fortress of Calais had been neglected, and was in a poor condition for defence. Guise suddenly appeared before it, to the surprise of the defenders. The outworks were stormed and captured on January 2 and 3, 1558, and on the 8th the citadel itself was captured. Lord Wentworth was in command, but the resources at his disposal were utterly inadequate, and it was impossible with them to hold the place. As a natural result, the other English fortress of Guisnes, under Lord Grey, fell a few days afterwards, and the last foothold of the English in France was gone. Before this disaster had happened Philip had begged the English council to send him a fresh reinforcement of English troops, with the ostensible object of ensuring the safety of Calais; but there were no troops and little money available in England. The war was extremely unpopular; all the country insisted that they had been dragged into it to please Philip, and the queen, desirous as she was of pleasing her husband, was weak and weary, utterly unable to dominate her council, with whom religious matters in England were the first consideration, and the predominance of Spain in Europe a matter of no concern. When Guise’s designs upon Calais were evident, Philip sent his favourite. Count de Feria, post-haste to England to insist upon the need of sending troops, at least to defend the fortress. Before he started on his journey news came of the fall of Calais, but as Guisnes still held out, he proceeded on his way. Before he embarked from Dunkirk he heard of the surrender of Guisnes, and delayed his arrival in England, in order not to be the bearer of the evil tidings. He saw the council in Cardinal Pole’s chamber on January 28, and presented his master’s demands. Heath was the spokesman. He was apologetic and sorrowful, but the state of England was such, he said, that instead of sending men away, they needed troops to be sent for defence. The south coast and the Isle of Wight were at the mercy of the French, the Scottish frontier was unprotected and threatened, and much to the same effect. But if King Philip would send them 3000 German mercenaries, for which they would pay, they would place them in Newcastle, and they could then arm 100 ships in the Channel, and embark 16,000 men, some of whom might be used for Philip’s purposes. The country was in complete disorder, and Feria says that if 100 men were to land on the south coast, the country would probably join them against its friends, by which he doubtless meant the Catholic Government.
Before this interview the king had written to Feria that Calais and Guisnes having fallen, it would be better to abandon the idea of sending English troops to France, but that the whole efforts of the council should be directed towards the defence of the country itself. From Feria’s own observation when he first landed at Dover it was indeed clear, both to him and his master, that in no case would any effective aid in men reach him from England.
With much ado Parliament was induced to vote the supplies necessary for the defence of the country. Feria’s scorn at such cumbrous methods knew no bounds, and his picture of the complete disorganisation of the government is most vivid. It was evident now to all that the queen had not very long to live, and that her renewed dreams of progeny were to be as baseless as before. What was to come after her was the question, and each man was thinking of his own future. Philip was in dire want of money, and begged his wife not to depend upon Parliament alone for supplies. In vain Gresham tried to borrow large sums at Antwerp on the queen’s credit; only £10,000 could be got. Devices of all sorts were suggested, but to no purpose. But still the sums voted by Parliament, and what else could be collected or borrowed, were sent to Flanders to pay for the German levies, and spent in fitting out and manning the English fleet. The distracted English councillors were deluded into an idea that an attempt would be made to recover Calais; they were frightened with the false rumour that there was a large French fleet at Dieppe, that the Hanse towns and Denmark would attack them—anything to get them to provide a strong English fleet, not ostensibly for Philip’s purposes. But Philip took care that when the fleet was ready Clinton should use it as he desired, and the much-talked-of 3000 Germans never came to England, but when they were ready were utilised for Philip’s service. “I am writing nothing of this to the queen,” he informs Feria, “as I would rather that you should prudently work with the councillors to induce them to ask us to relieve them of these troops.”
When Feria had frightened the queen and council out of all that was possible, he left in July to join his master in Brussels, taking care to pay his visit to “Madam Elizabeth” at Hatfield, with all sorts of affectionate and significant messages from her loving brother-in-law. The plan had been, from the time of Mary’s own marriage, to fix Spanish influence in England, no matter what happened, by marrying Elizabeth to the Duke of Savoy. But Mary would not restore her sister in blood—she could not indeed without bastardising herself—and without this the marriage would have been useless, from Philip’s point of view. But he temporised still, determined to keep Elizabeth in hand if possible, and lost no opportunity of showing his amiability to her.
When Feria left in July there remained in England a member of Philip’s Flemish council, named Dassonleville. On November 7 he wrote to the king informing him that Parliament had been called together to discuss the question of the succession, and pointing out the desirability of Philip himself being present to influence it in the way he desired, it being understood that the queen’s death was approaching.
But Philip had his hands full, and could not go, even on so important an errand as this. The success of Guise at Calais had emboldened the French, and at one time a march upon Brussels had appeared inevitable. Providentially, however, for Philip, the English naval squadron of twelve ships, already mentioned, was able at a critical moment to turn the tide of victory in an engagement near Gravelines (July 13, 1558). Marshal Termes was completely routed, and Guise thenceforward had to stand on the defensive. Philip’s treasury was quite empty, he was deeply in debt, his soldiers unpaid, and he hated war. The French king was in similar straits, and had, moreover, begun to look with apprehension on the increasing strength of the reform party in France. So a talk of arrangement began to prevail, and on October 15 the first meeting of commissioners for peace was held, De Granvelle, with Alba and the Prince of Orange, representing Philip, and Cardinal Lorraine, with Constable Montmorenci and Marshal St. AndrÉ, the French king; whilst English interests were safeguarded by the Earl of Arundel, Dr. Thirlby, and Dr. Wotton. Under these circumstances, Philip was obliged to send to England in his place his friend, the Count de Feria. He arrived on November 9, and found the queen almost unconscious, so he lost no time in trying to propitiate the coming queen. He summoned the council, and approved in Philip’s name of Elizabeth’s succession, and then took horse to salute the new sovereign. On the 17th, Mary Tudor died, and Philip had a new set of problems to face. England had slipped through his hands, but might still be regained if the new queen could be married to his nominee. Elizabeth showed in her very first interview with Feria that she would not allow herself to be patronised. She stopped him at once when he began to hint that she owed her new crown to his master’s support. “She would,” she said, “owe it only to her people.” The Duke of Savoy was the first idea of a husband for her in the Spanish interest, but he was warlike, and the French were still in possession of his territories, so the English dreaded that he might drag them into another war, and would not hear of him. Feria hinted to the queen that Philip himself might marry her, but she was diplomatically irresponsive. Philip’s conditions, indeed, as conveyed to his ambassador, were such that Elizabeth could not have accepted them. But it never came so near as the discussion of conditions. This is not the place to relate at length the endless intrigues by which it was sought to draw Elizabeth into a marriage which should render her amenable, or at least innocuous, to Spain, but it will suffice to say that she was fully a match for the wily diplomatists who sought to entrap her, and never for a moment, through all her tergiversation, intended to allow Spanish interests to dominate English policy. The peace between Spain and France was easily settled at Cateau Cambresis, Henry being even more anxious for it than Philip, and he gave way upon nearly every point; but with regard to England the case was different, and for a long while the English envoys stood out persistently for the restoration of Calais. So long as there appeared any prospect of his being allowed to influence English government, Philip refused to make a separate peace, but at length he gave Elizabeth clearly to understand that if peace could not be made without the loss of Calais, then Calais must go. England was in a state of confused transition, the queen’s position was uncertain, the treasury was empty, and the war unpopular, so at last the bitter pill, slightly disguised, had to be swallowed, and the peace of Cateau Cambresis was signed on April 2, 1559.
The position was a critical one for Philip and his policy. This was the parting of the ways, and the course now adopted was to decide the fate of the Spanish domination. Feria, and after him the Bishop of Aquila, wrote incessantly during the first months of Elizabeth’s reign that Spain must dominate England, by force of arms, if need be. Most of the country was Catholic, many of the principal councillors were in Spanish pay or had Spanish sympathies, the queen was as yet an uncertain quantity, and there were several pretenders whose claim to the crown seemed better than hers. Philip was assured again and again that this was his chance. If England broke away from him, his own Low Countries were in danger. Let him, said his councillors, subsidise the Catholic party, if necessary backed up by force, patronise one of the rival claimants—Catharine Grey for choice—and remove the troublesome young queen before her position became consolidated. But Philip was slow. The merits and objections of every course had to be weighed and discussed infinitely. By his side was already the young Bishop of Arras, De Granvelle, fresh from his diplomatic triumph at Cateau Cambresis, whose methods were modelled upon those of his master, and from whom no decision could be expected without protracted delay. There was also Ruy Gomez, always on the side of peace and moderation. In vain haughty Feria sneered at the timid councils of churchmen, and chafed at his master’s inaction. Philip would not be hurried. His one wish was to get back to his dear Spain, and stay there; and from this design, favoured as it was by Ruy Gomez, Feria and the politicians of the Alba party were powerless to move him. So England slipped further and further from hands too tardy to grasp it whilst there was yet time, and those who held as an article of political faith that the owner of the Netherlands must be in close alliance with England or perish, looked on in unconcealed dismay.
