Among the numerous royal portraits decorating the walls of the world-renowned Kunsthistorisches Museum in Vienna, there are countless masterpieces intimately linked to the Spanish branch of the House of Habsburg. Indeed, one could marvel at Diego Velázquez’s iconic depictions of the Infanta Margaret Theresa and Prince Philip Prospero, or pause before one of the most haunting portraits of Joanna the Mad.
However, if your steps ever guide you through the magnificent galleries of this institution, you run the risk of overlooking one of the most politically intriguing portraits tied to the Spanish Monarchy.
Tucked away in a side gallery, far from the spotlight cast on the adjacent works of Rubens, Titian, or Velázquez, hangs a spectacular painting by the court artist Bartolomé González.
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The canvas features two figures. The first is a young girl of about three years old: the Infanta Anne of Austria, who would later secure her place in cultural lore as the Queen of France, immortalized by Alexandre Dumas’s highly entertaining—yet historically inaccurate—masterpiece, The Three Musketeers.
Yet, it is the second figure that demands our analytical attention. Beside the young infanta stands her mother, Queen Margaret of Austria-Styria, wife of King Philip III of Spain. She is presented in unimaginably lavish court attire, with a deliberate visual emphasis on her prominent womb, which at that exact moment carried the future King Philip IV.
By emphasizing her imperial status through regal vestments, and cementing her political power through fertility—showcased by both her young daughter and her pregnancy—this portrait unveils a queen who, during her brief life, wielded far more political influence than traditional historiography has assumed.
A Queen by Chance: Dynastic Alliances and Destiny
Margaret of Austria-Styria was born in Graz on December 25, 1584, the daughter of Archduke Charles II of Inner Austria and Maria Anna of Bavaria. Although she belonged to a cadet branch of the House of Austria, a critical lack of direct heirs among her imperial cousins—Emperors Rudolf II and Matthias, alongside Archdukes Albert, Ernest, and Maximilian—forced the dynasty to look toward her immediate family for royal succession.
The male heirs of Charles II emerged as the most viable candidates to secure the imperial line. With the diplomatic consent of the senior Spanish branch, this succession was formalized after intense geopolitical negotiations at the dawn of the 17th century. Consequently, Margaret’s eldest brother would eventually ascend as Emperor Ferdinand II of the Holy Roman Empire.
This widespread lack of direct heirs across the Habsburg empire placed the daughters of Charles II of Styria at the absolute center of the European matrimonial market in the late 16th century. Their marital alliances rewrote the map of Europe: two of Margaret’s sisters sequentially became Queens of Poland by marrying King Sigismund III; another became the Grand Duchess of Tuscany; a fourth married Sigismund Báthory; and Margaret herself was chosen to sit upon the throne of what was then the most extensive global empire in existence.
In the mid-1590s, King Philip II of Spain turned his eyes toward these Central European archduchesses to find a suitable consort for his only surviving son, the future Philip III, aiming to renew the crucial blood alliances between Madrid and Vienna.
However, Margaret was very nearly passed over. When the marriage pacts were initiated, Archduke Charles II had four unmarried daughters of eligible age: Catherine Renata, Gregoria Maximiliana, Eleanor, and Margaret.
Four Portraits and a Game of Chance
To facilitate the prince’s choice, the court of Graz sent four court portraits to Madrid. The princesses looked so remarkably alike that the only way to differentiate between the models was by checking the unique initialed ring each one wore on her finger. Archduke Eleanor was quickly discarded due to diplomatic reports concerning her fragile health, leaving the final decision between the remaining three sisters.
Historical chronicles note that the young Prince Philip was entirely unable to decide. He deferred the choice to his father, Philip II, who in turn insisted that the groom must choose his own bride.
Seeing the gridlock, the Infanta Isabella Clara Eugenia stepped in. She proposed that if neither could decide, destiny should take the reins. The four portraits were turned face-down, and a formal draw was conducted to reveal the chosen bride. When the game concluded, the portrait turned over was that of the young Archduchess Margaret.
“King Philip II, however, deemed this lottery method entirely lacking in the gravity required for an imperial state marriage.”
The aging monarch overruled the draw, decreeing that protocol dictated choosing the eldest available sister, Catherine Renata.
Yet, fate had other plans. Catherine Renata died suddenly at the age of twenty-three in Graz before the marriage contracts could be signed. Unfazed, Philip II formally requested the hand of the next eldest sister, Gregoria. In a tragic twist of historical irony, she also passed away at the age of sixteen before the betrothal could be executed.
Thus, the only remaining option was the very archduchess whom blind luck had originally designated to accompany Philip III on the Spanish throne: the young Margaret of Austria-Styria.
Margaret vs. The Duke of Lerma: A Silent Court War
The royal wedding between Philip III and the fifteen-year-old Margaret was celebrated in 1599. It took place simultaneously with the nuptials of her sister-in-law, Isabella Clara Eugenia, and Archduke Albert of Austria, who immediately departed to govern the Spanish Netherlands.
By the standards of early modern European royalty, the marriage between Philip III and Margaret was exceptionally harmonious. Sharing a similar cultural upbringing and personal interests, they connected instantly. Court chroniclers emphasize that the king loved his wife tenderly until her untimely death in 1611, a brief twelve-year union that nevertheless produced eight children. Philip III survived her by a decade, but he never remarried, holding her memory up as the ultimate paradigm of queenly virtue.
Yet, upon her arrival at the Court of Madrid, the young queen encountered an imposing adversary: the powerful Duke of Lerma, the king’s valido (royal favorite). Lerma recognized that an intelligent queen represented a direct threat to his absolute monopoly over the monarch’s will. He attempted to isolate Margaret by packing her royal household with his own loyalists and strictly rationing her private access to the king.
Margaret, however, refused to be subjugated. She mounted a formidable political resistance against the favorite, emerging as a fierce defender of the Austrian imperial faction in Madrid. Supported by the Dowager Empress Maria and the imperial ambassador Count Khevenhüller, she played a sophisticated diplomatic game.
As modern historians have demonstrated, Margaret utilized ingenious court tactics to bypass Lerma’s blockade. She successfully refused confessors handpicked by the favorite under sophisticated theological pretexts, and routinely simulated sudden illnesses or pregnancy complications to force her husband to leave state councils and attend to her privately, allowing her to influence his political decisions.
She secured minor victories over Lerma, exposing some of his financial corruption schemes to the king and exiling several of his close allies, but she never managed to orchestrate his total downfall.
Lerma was still entrenched in power when Queen Margaret passed away. Her fierce opposition to him was so notorious that rumors instantly flooded Europe whispering that the Duke of Lerma, fearing his fading influence over the crown, had poisoned her.
The historical reality was more mundane but equally tragic. She died of severe complications arising from the birth of her eighth child, Alfonso—pointedly nicknamed “El Caro” (The Costly One), as his life had cost the ultimate price of his mother’s existence.
Today, she rests inside the Pantheon of Kings at the Royal Monastery of San Lorenzo de El Escorial, buried alongside her husband and her heir, King Philip IV, leaving behind the legacy of a queen who turned a game of chance into a reign of calculated political survival.
