Fifty-three days of pure, relentless agony. When people reflect upon the long history of monarchs who met their ends through the slow torment of horrific, consuming illnesses, the first name that usually comes to mind is King Henry VIII of England. Yet, he was by no means the only ruler to suffer such a fate. In fact, King Philip II of Spain may well deserve an even higher, far more tragic place on that grim list. His final illness consumed him over a shorter, more concentrated period of time, but it did so in a far more violent, destructive, and painful manner.
For nearly two months, a devastating combination of infections, absolute immobility, agonizing gout, severe edema, systemic sepsis, and rapidly spreading gangrene confined him entirely to his bed. The torment reached such an extreme extent that he could no longer stand or even shift his weight because of the sheer intensity of the pain.
In fact, the true, harrowing gravity of Philip’s physical condition can probably be best summarized by a single, devastating sentence found in one of the primary historical books we will be drawing from throughout this account:
“The king was so weak in the last days of his life that it was impossible to turn him around, and he had to lie in the filth that produced the rotting of the skin of his back.”
As brutal and unvarnished as that historical description sounds, it gives us a very clear, unfiltered idea of what Philip’s final weeks were actually like behind the closed doors of his royal chamber. His ultimate demise was caused by a catastrophic combination of devastating diseases that continuously overlapped, intersected, and compounded one another, subjecting his body to so much unremitting suffering that when the day of his death finally arrived, it may well have been the happiest, most welcome day of his entire life.
King Philip II of Spain ruled over an unprecedented empire, a global superpower that stretched across much of the known world. Yet, despite his immense terrestrial power, he died within the austere walls of the Escorial in the year 1598, after enduring one of the most gruesome, deeply distressing deaths ever suffered by any European monarch in history. To understand this extraordinary downfall, we must explore his life, his grand achievements, and above all, his profound physical decline. We must examine how so many unique, devastating illnesses could converge within a single individual with such extraordinary, unyielding violence.
Philip II was a monarch of immense title and responsibility, serving as the King of Spain, the King of Portugal, the King of Naples, and the King of Sicily. Furthermore, through his strategic marriage to Queen Mary Tudor, he also became the king consort of England and Ireland. He was a prominent member of the immensely powerful Habsburg dynasty, born as the son of Emperor Charles V and Isabella of Portugal, eventually inheriting the vast Spanish Empire from his father in 1556.
Like many members of his illustrious family line, Philip inherited the highly distinctive physical features that characterized the generations of the Habsburgs. He possessed his father’s fair hair and piercing blue eyes, along with the famous, pronounced Habsburg jaw that had become one of the dynasty’s most instantly recognizable and defining traits. His early childhood and much of his subsequent adult life were prosperous, highly successful years, both for himself personally and for the geopolitical standing of the Spanish Empire. During those golden years, absolutely nothing seemed capable of predicting the terrible, agonizing fate that awaited him at the very end of his life, when he would be forced to die in a state of extraordinary, unimaginable suffering.
As a young child, Philip received an exceptional, rigorous education uniquely befitting a prince born into one of the most dominant and powerful dynasties in all of Europe. He developed a deep, lifelong interest in literature and the visual arts, mastered several complex foreign languages, and could easily be considered a polyglot by the standards of any era.
Very few rulers throughout human history have ever successfully governed a territory as vast and geographically scattered as Philip’s. During his lengthy lifetime, his sovereign rule extended over Spain, the Low Countries, significant parts of Italy, immense territories stretching across the Americas, and even the distant Philippine islands, which were expressly named in his honor.
Long before he ever officially became king, Philip had already gained extensive, practical experience in the difficult art of governance. His father, Emperor Charles V, intentionally entrusted him with major administrative responsibilities while he was still a young man, allowing him to learn firsthand exactly how a global empire functioned on a day-to-day basis. He grew up during a historical period characterized by enormous religious and political upheaval, witnessing firsthand the rapid spread of the Protestant Reformation and the profound, existential challenges it constantly posed to the established order of Catholic Europe.
By the time Charles V finally abdicated his throne in 1556, Philip was no inexperienced, naive prince. He stepped forward to inherit one of the single largest empires on the face of the earth, along with the immense, crushing burdens of administrative responsibility that naturally came with it.
His high-profile marriages also served to significantly strengthen Spanish influence and greatly expand the empire’s diplomatic reach across the continent. As we noted earlier, he married Queen Mary Tudor of England, and later in life, he wed Elizabeth of Valois of France. These were monumental political alliances that successfully helped place the Kingdom of Spain at the absolute center of European politics.
Yet, numerous surviving letters and contemporary historical sources strongly suggest that Philip II was far from an ideal, attentive husband in his private life. His high-stakes marriage to Mary Tudor, in particular, appears to have been remarkably cold, distant, and severely lacking in any form of real, mutual affection. Philip routinely spent long, consecutive periods of time far away from England, leaving Mary behind to face many of her deepest personal and political struggles entirely alone, including her famous, deeply distressing phantom pregnancies.
Historical accounts strongly suggest that when Mary eventually died, Philip responded to the news only a few weeks later with a remarkably detached, emotionally sterile letter. Even more strikingly, almost immediately following her death, he proactively sent a formal marriage proposal to her royal successor, Queen Elizabeth I, before being firmly and decisively rejected.
This profound emotional distance was perfectly reflected in his rigid style of daily government as well. Throughout his life, he was frequently described by those who worked alongside him as cautious, highly methodical, and deeply, intensely religious. Because of his personal faith and his acute awareness of his royal position, he paid an extraordinary, almost obsessive amount of attention to the smallest details. Even during the absolute final stages of the terrible, agonizing illness that would eventually kill him, he steadfastly continued reviewing official state documents one by one, reading them with meticulous care, correcting errors, and signing them personally with his failing hand.
He maintained a vast, complex network of correspondence and involved himself directly in the minutiae of administrative affairs. Philip was not simply a detached king who ruled abstractly from a comfortable distance; he concerned himself directly with the smallest, most specific details of local government and daily international policy.
Unfortunately, this highly centralized characteristic also carried significant practical drawbacks for the empire. His absolute determination to personally review nearly every single important document often drastically slowed down the state’s decision-making processes and severely delayed the routine administration of his global territories. Because of these distinct qualities, one highly prominent contemporary writer famously labeled him as the prudent king.
Yet, certain modern historians have preferred to describe him instead as the imprudent king, arguing forcefully that what appeared to be wise caution was actually a fundamental inability to delegate authority effectively to his subordinates. Overall, Philip’s lengthy reign was deeply marked by both remarkable, historic successes and significant, crushing setbacks. It was an era of immense economic prosperity, legendary military victories, and unmatched Spanish influence on a truly global scale, but it was also a period that produced devastating military defeats whose long-term consequences would continue to negatively affect Spain and Europe long after his death.
Philip’s characteristic coldness and rigid, diplomatic nature extended deeply even into his private family life. One of the most striking, unsettling examples of this trait is the tragic story of his eldest son, Don Carlos, who was permanently confined within the strict boundaries of the palace and ultimately died after a lengthy period of forced imprisonment and steadily declining health. From what modern historians have been successfully able to reconstruct from surviving records, Don Carlos’s severe behavioral troubles originally began after a highly serious accident during his adolescence, when he suffered a violent, catastrophic fall and struck his head with considerable force against the ground.
Following this traumatic incident, the young prince reportedly began displaying increasingly unstable, erratic, and highly aggressive behavior at court. His unpredictable emotional outbursts, constant volatility, and defiant conduct became a source of rapidly growing concern for Philip, a ruler who was completely obsessed with the maintenance of absolute order, strict discipline, and total control. To Philip’s mind, such wild, unstable behavior from an heir was completely unacceptable.
As a direct result of this ongoing instability, the king ordered that his own son be permanently confined. One of the most famous, chilling episodes of this family tragedy occurred on the precise night of Don Carlos’s official arrest. Contemporary accounts from the court claim that Philip personally entered his son’s private chambers in the middle of the night, heavily accompanied by armed guards, wearing a full suit of armor and a helmet, and directly oversaw the arrest himself. The young prince was abruptly taken away and confined by sheer force.
When Don Carlos eventually passed away in his confinement, Philip did not publicly display any extraordinary signs of grief or emotional devastation. At least from the various written sources that survive to this day, his immediate reaction appears remarkably restrained, controlled, and stoic. He was, without question, a stubborn, unyielding, and fiercely determined monarch—a man often described by his contemporaries as cold, detached, and unwavering. And it was that very same rigid, unyielding attitude that would accompany him through every step of the terrible, progressive illness that eventually claimed his life.
Thanks to an incredibly important historical work known as History and Death of Philip II, which was written by Antonio Cervera and published in Spain only a single year after the monarch’s passing, we are able to reconstruct the final, agonizing stages of his life in remarkable, day-by-day detail. The surviving manuscript carefully follows the last 50 days before Philip’s ultimate death through a detailed combination of medical testimonies, official court documents, and vivid eyewitness accounts describing both the painful treatments he routinely received and the immense physical suffering he endured.
Everything began to fall apart in the hot month of July in the year 1598. Despite already showing undeniable, highly worrying signs of poor health and physical decline, Philip stubbornly insisted on traveling from the capital of Madrid to the distant monastery of St. Lawrence. His personal physicians strongly, repeatedly advised him not to make the arduous journey. They firmly believed that his physical condition was already far too fragile to withstand the travel, but Philip completely ignored their professional medical warnings.
Shortly after finally arriving at the Escorial—the name by which the grand monastery of St. Lawrence is far better known today—he contracted what contemporary 16th-century physicians formally referred to as a Tertian fever. This specific illness took its common name directly from the predictable nature of its symptoms. The fever struck the patient’s body in highly recurring, cyclical waves, typically returning with violence every third day. The king’s internal body temperature would rise dramatically, causing severe sweating and shaking, then it would temporarily fall again, only to return with renewed force a short time later.
Because of this fever, the king was completely confined to his bed for approximately a week. For a brief, hopeful period, he seemed to show slight signs of improvement, but on the night of July 26th, he abruptly awoke in the dark with another violent, overwhelming wave of fever and was once again forced back into his bed. His attending doctors argued that these recurring, exhausting episodes were partly caused by his stubborn refusal to remain inactive. Even while visibly ill, Philip routinely insisted on walking through parts of the palace and continuing many of his rigorous daily routines. He liked to personally inspect the grounds, oversee administrative matters, and remain deeply involved in the complex affairs of state whenever his remaining physical strength allowed it.
According to the writings of Cervera, on the seventh consecutive day of the king’s worsening illness, a highly painful ulcer began to actively develop around the deep muscles of his right knee. Foul pus rapidly accumulated beneath the skin, and despite the various topical treatments and ointments applied by his physicians, the swelling completely refused to mature or break properly. The doctors monitored the progressing wound with growing anxiety, and when they finally realized that it was continuing to expand in size without draining naturally, they decided that a painful surgical intervention was absolutely necessary.
This decision would become one of the most important, catastrophic turning points in the lengthy story of Philip’s illness, because the systemic consequences of this open wound may have played a crucial role in the rapid chain of bodily events that eventually led to fatal sepsis. More importantly, it provides us with a vivid, deeply unsettling glimpse into the pure agony the king was forced to endure during the final, agonizing weeks of his life.
The surgical procedure was carried out, and the highly swollen, inflamed mass on the king’s right knee was cut open. Yet, instead of providing the hoped-for improvement, the condition of the leg worsened dramatically. According to the historical account, the highly infected area continued to expand outward until it occupied much of the knee joint itself. Eventually, it began releasing extraordinarily large quantities of foul pus, and from that specific point onward, the wound never truly healed or closed.
To fully understand the oppressive atmosphere that must have existed inside the king’s private chamber, one has to actively imagine the harsh environment of a traditional Spanish summer. There was intense, unrelenting outside heat, thick stone walls that trapped the warmth, exceptionally poor ventilation, and a severely infected, open wound that continued draining fluid for weeks on end.
According to the historical sources, once the knee ulcer had been surgically opened, pus and highly infected material continued to continuously emerge from the open wound for nearly 40 days. At times, the foul discharge would temporarily slow down, giving a false sense of relief, only to begin leaking heavily again a short time afterward. This exhausting cycle repeated itself over and over. Cervera claims in his writings that there were more than 40 separate, distinct episodes of heavy drainage from the king’s knee. The condition never disappeared; it remained an open, weeping sore with him until the final day of his life.
As if this localized torment were not enough for one man to bear, a rapidly growing list of additional, serious symptoms began to appear across his entire body. One of the most significant and visibly shocking of these was his severe edema. Large, uncontrollable amounts of fluid began to accumulate heavily beneath the king’s skin. His abdomen became immensely swollen and distended, his muscles appeared unnaturally enlarged, and his calves expanded visibly to a grotesque degree.
What makes the contemporary descriptions particularly shocking and horrifying is that despite this massive fluid swelling, Philip himself appeared severely emaciated and wasted away. It was a terrifying contrast: certain areas of his body were covered with almost rotten skin and bones that could barely be held together, yet at the exact same time, other portions of his body were grotesquely enlarged and stretched tight by fluid retention and deep tissue infection. Meanwhile, the foul-smelling, infectious pus continued to pour relentlessly from the open wound in his right knee.
Several highly serious, terminal illnesses appear to have been occurring simultaneously within his body. Multiple conditions overlapped, intersected, and continuously reinforced one another, creating a total medical catastrophe that even the most skilled, highly trained court physicians of the 16th century had absolutely no hope of controlling or curing.
In the detailed chapters describing the king’s final illnesses, another agonizing condition appears again and again: gout. Philip had suffered from this painful ailment for many years of his life. Long before his final physical decline at the Escorial, it had already become a constant, unwelcome companion, causing intense joint pain and showing absolutely no sign of disappearing.
The contemporary descriptions spare very few details when recording this misery. The sources repeatedly mention not only the sheer agony caused by the joint disease, but also the foul, unbearable odor associated with both the chronic gout and the heavily infected wound on his knee. The smell in the room became so incredibly overpowering that many of his court attendants and visitors found it deeply difficult to remain in the king’s presence for any long periods of time.
Adding to this profound misery was the oppressive, stifling heat of the Spanish summer. The Escorial’s thick, massive stone walls trapped the summer warmth like an oven. Ventilation was completely minimal, and every single aspect of the immediate physical environment seemed to actively amplify Philip’s intense suffering. Meanwhile, fresh ulcers continued to appear across various parts of his body. Some of the attending physicians suspected that he was suffering not only from gout, but also from systemic tuberculosis and dropsy. Whatever the exact modern medical diagnosis may have been, it was becoming increasingly clear to everyone present that the king’s body was failing on multiple fronts all at once.
Cervera offers a highly interesting, historical explanation of how gout was commonly understood by medical minds during that specific period. He notes that among the Spaniards, the Italians, and the Frenchmen of the era, the disease was commonly known as “the drop.” This was because people of the 16th century firmly believed that harmful, toxic fluids slowly dripped down into the joints of the arms and legs, causing unbearable, sharp pain. The affected areas would become highly swollen, intensely inflamed, and extremely sensitive to even the lightest touch.
According to the author, these toxic fluids seemed to literally separate the joints themselves, drastically weakening the body’s natural physical connections until they eventually gave way entirely. The description is undoubtedly primitive and inaccurate by modern medical standards, but it offers us a fascinating glimpse into how people desperately attempted to understand complex disease in an age before advanced science.
There is one specific sentence in the historical text that perhaps captures the sheer, unyielding agony of the condition better than any clinical medical description ever could. Philip reportedly believed and stated that:
“There is no difference between gout and the weight of a tombstone or chains fastened around one’s feet.”
The disease tormented him for years and caused such severe, unremitting suffering that it eventually exhausted his mental and physical reserves completely. The pain became so entirely overwhelming that he began refusing food altogether, rejecting even fresh bread, which was well known to be his absolute favorite food.
As his overall condition rapidly deteriorated, new ulcers began appearing not only around the initial site of the knee, but also on his hands and his feet. The suffering these multiple sores caused must have been unimaginable. Contemporary writers who witnessed the scene compared these terrible afflictions directly to the biblical plagues with which God famously punished Egypt.
Seeing the king’s condition worsen, one of his most experienced physicians concluded that another painful surgical procedure was absolutely necessary. The newly formed ulcers needed to be cut open and drained once again. The most dangerous, advanced ulcer of all was located around the muscles of Philip’s right leg and knee. This specific wound is particularly well-documented in the historical records and appears to have played a major role in the king’s final, irreversible decline.
Many modern historians believe that it eventually contributed directly to the systemic sepsis that brought about his ultimate death. The local infection became so severe that the living muscle tissue surrounding the knee joint began to actively die and rot away. The tissue rapidly deteriorated, the damage spread deeper and deeper into the leg, and eventually, the structural destruction reached the bone itself. At this advanced stage, the condition had become completely life-threatening.
In a desperate bid to help, one of the king’s physicians attempted another experimental treatment. A topical medicinal balm made entirely from sweet figs was applied directly into the deep wound. According to the surviving sources, this specific remedy temporarily reduced some of the localized symptoms and offered a small degree of physical relief to the king. But the deep ulcer itself never truly healed or closed; it had become far too extensive, deep, and aggressively infected. By this tragic point, Philip’s entire body was virtually covered with suurating, open wounds. Ulcers leaked foul pus from multiple locations simultaneously, and the situation became so severe that fresh bed linens were constantly required throughout the day and night.
Even then, the frequent replacements often proved completely insufficient because the sheer amount of infectious fluid leaving the king’s body was completely overwhelming.
A highly persistent, horrifying story surrounding Philip II’s final illness claims that various types of insects eventually began gathering in large numbers inside the royal chamber. According to this widespread myth, numerous flies and other insects entered freely through the open windows of the monastery, heavily attracted to the king’s open, weeping wounds. It is important to be completely clear that there is no definitive, verified historical proof that this extreme detail actually happened; much of it remains a matter of historical speculation and potential exaggeration by his enemies.
However, when we carefully consider the overall, verified circumstances of his confinement, the grim idea becomes highly difficult to dismiss entirely. We are dealing with a human being covered in multiple infected ulcers that had been actively draining foul pus for weeks on end, right in the middle of a hot Spanish summer. The rooms were intensely hot, poorly ventilated, and far from sterile by any modern medical standards.
Under such specific environmental conditions, it is entirely plausible that flies would have been heavily attracted to the strong smell of active infection and decaying human tissue. Whether it truly happened to that horrific extent or not, we cannot say today with absolute certainty. But the sheer possibility alone paints a deeply horrifying, tragic picture of a global monarch’s final days.
As the long weeks crawled past, Philip also became increasingly, severely dehydrated. His internal thirst grew completely unbearable. Part of this profound dehydration was caused by the constant, burning fever that continued to plague his system, and by the severe fluid imbalances created by his other overlapping illnesses.
The author writes that words themselves are entirely incapable of describing the true intensity of the king’s thirst. No matter how much water or fluid he drank, it never seemed to be enough to quench his burning throat. The tertian fever continued to return roughly every 3 days, and toward the very end of his life, severe electrolyte imbalances within his failing body began triggering violent, uncontrollable episodes of chronic diarrhea.
Unlike some of his other intermittent symptoms, this specific digestive problem never disappeared; it remained with him constantly until the very end. One can only imagine the truly horrific atmosphere inside that closed royal room. The heavy stench from the open ulcers was already completely overwhelming to the senses; now, it was accompanied by constant, distressing digestive waste as well.
According to the dominant medical theories of the period, the sudden appearance of such violent diarrhea often signaled the definitive onset of cholera. The 16th-century physicians believed that cholera actively attacked the body’s internal organs from within and contributed heavily to the increased discharge of fluids from ulcers and wounds.
Other doctors at the bedside disagreed entirely with this assessment. Some argued that the persistent diarrhea was actually beneficial to the patient—a natural, necessary cleansing of the stomach and intestines known as tenesmus. The result of these conflicting theories was complete confusion and debate. The king’s physicians regularly gathered together in anxious groups to discuss his rapidly worsening condition. Yet, many of them fundamentally disagreed about what disease they were even treating. In an age long before the advent of modern medicine, germ theory, or advanced diagnostics, profound uncertainty was completely unavoidable.
At this low point in the narrative, Cervera cites the personal testimony of a highly prominent court physician named Garcia de Loisa, who described the king’s daily torment in particularly vivid, heartbreaking terms. The constant diarrhea created truly enormous practical difficulties for the caretakers because Philip had become almost completely, utterly immobile. By the final days of his life, he was so profoundly weak that moving him even an inch in his bed had become an extraordinarily difficult, delicate task.
Turning his body required considerable physical effort from multiple attendants, and sometimes it was nearly impossible due to the sheer pain it caused him. As a direct consequence of this immobility, whenever he suffered another uncontrollable episode of diarrhea, he was often completely unable to clean himself or be cleaned properly. There is really no gentler, more dignified way to describe it: he spent long, consecutive stretches of time lying directly in his own bodily waste.
This, in turn, caused a severe, rapid deterioration of the skin on his back. The flesh began to break down completely under the constant moisture and friction, painful ulcerations spread across his shoulders and spine, and his body literally started failing and rotting wherever pressure against the bed remained constant.
By this advanced stage, the king’s physical condition had become completely catastrophic. Yet, what is particularly striking and unique about the historical records is that contemporary accounts rarely describe Philip’s horrific illness solely in medical or clinical terms. Again and again, his immense suffering is compared directly to that of holy saints and ancient Christian martyrs.
The king’s long agony was presented to the public and to history almost as a profound spiritual trial—a final, grand act of divine devotion endured by a faithful believer preparing his soul for eternity. Alongside the immense physical symptoms came another severe torment: total insomnia. Philip spent long, dark nights completely awake. The physical pain from his joints and ulcers was relentless. The burning fevers returned constantly, and his condition required permanent, round-the-clock attention from servants, making uninterrupted sleep almost completely impossible.
Yet, the surviving sources strongly suggest that something more than just physical suffering may have been keeping his eyes wide open through the night. There were clear, undeniable signs of deep psychological distress. The author repeatedly notes that Philip appeared deeply troubled in his spirit. His internal thoughts seemed restless, agitated, and heavily burdened. He was visibly weighed down by deep worries he could not escape, and by profound anxieties that followed him through every waking night. As his physical body deteriorated into a state of decay, he became a helpless prisoner not only of disease, but also of his own complex mind.
The king suffered from frequent, sudden awakenings during the brief moments he did drift off. Sometimes he would suddenly emerge from sleep with a racing heart, gasping for air, and a look of pure alarm on his face. These distressing episodes were often followed immediately by long periods of profound sadness, isolation, and intense melancholy. According to the accounts, he also began suffering from terrifying nightmares. The final weeks of his life were heavily marked not only by immense physical suffering, but also by deep emotional and psychological torment.
What makes these detailed descriptions particularly fascinating to modern readers is that the contemporary chronicers were not interested solely in recording the king’s physical pain; they also wanted to carefully document the precise way he faced it. To them, Philip’s illness was not merely a tragic medical event; it was a supreme test of his royal character and his deep Catholic faith.
Then, something completely remarkable and unexpected happened. Shortly before his ultimate death, Philip experienced what modern medicine would likely recognize and identify as a temporary rally—a well-known phenomenon occasionally observed in terminally ill patients, sometimes referred to as terminal lucidity. After long weeks of a relentless, downward physical decline, he suddenly appeared to be much better.
One day, a priest arrived at his bedside carrying a holy crucifix. To the absolute surprise of everyone present in the room, Philip suddenly sat upright in his bed completely unassisted and began kissing the crucifix with extraordinary intensity and devotion. Witnesses closely noted that his overall mood seemed dramatically improved. His eyes, which had been dull and sunken, suddenly appeared bright, clear, and alert. For a brief, shining moment, he looked far more like the powerful king he had once been, rather than the dying, decaying man he had become.
Naturally, many of the deeply religious people present firmly believed they were witnessing a genuine miracle—a sudden moment of heavenly grace sent directly by God to strengthen the king’s spirit before his death. Others saw it as a clear sign that his lifelong faith was being actively rewarded in his final hours on earth.
Today, however, modern medicine recognizes that terminal patients occasionally experience these brief, unexpected periods of surge energy shortly before death. Sometimes an appetite suddenly returns; sometimes they become highly alert and conversational; sometimes they seem, for a few precious hours, to be completely recovering from their ailments. Then, inevitably, the final decline resumes. For those who love them, these brief moments can feel almost miraculous, but they are often the body’s final spark. For Philip’s 16th-century contemporaries, there was absolutely no doubt about what they had witnessed.
The historical date was September 12th, 1598. This was the final day before the king’s death. Encouraged by his sudden, apparent physical improvement, Philip expressed a strong desire to attend a holy mass and receive communion. Despite everything his broken body had endured over the past two months—the weeping ulcers, the burning fever, the unquenchable thirst, the profound exhaustion, and the unbearable pain—his deep religious devotion remained completely unshaken.
The very following day, September the 13th, 1598, King Philip II of Spain finally died. According to the court accounts, he passed away peacefully during the celebration of mass. What is perhaps most remarkable and surprising about his passing is that during his final day on earth, he showed absolutely none of the mental confusion, delirium, or dementia that so often accompanies such catastrophic, systemic illnesses.
Those gathered closely around his bed spoke with him throughout the day, and he answered each of them clearly, logically, and calmly. Many people came to see him in his final hours; high courtiers, royal attendants, prominent members of the clergy, and those closest to the king gathered around his bedside as the end approached. To the witnesses present, this final, unexpected display of mental clarity carried a profound religious meaning. They firmly believed that God had granted Philip one last, beautiful act of mercy.
For the people around him, his last moments were definitive proof of God’s mercy and favor. For modern historians, they represent the final chapter of one of the most disturbing, detailed, and gruesome royal deaths ever documented in human history. Few kings have ever left behind such a highly detailed, day-by-day record of their final weeks of life. Thanks to the meticulous accounts of those who surrounded his bed, we can follow Philip’s illness almost day by day, watching as one horrific complication followed another until his physical body could simply endure no more. And if those contemporary accounts are even close to accurate, the sheer amount of suffering he successfully endured during those final 53 days was nothing short of extraordinary.
