For a Queen's Love: The Stories of the Royal Wives of Philip II (29 page)

“One day,” he said, “you may be a general leading your armies. Then … you will remember this day. But, Juan, you will learn … you will profit from the mistakes of others …”

And, contemplating the boy beside him, he grew calmer. He shrugged his shoulders. He was an old man in retreat from the world. He had but to brood on his sins and win absolution. The conduct of wars was no longer any concern of his.

He fell to wondering what he would have for dinner—a rich capon, chickens, a fat goose, peacocks roasted by the best cooks in Spain, who now resided at the monastery of Yuste?

Mary Tudor shut
herself away; she lived almost completely in retirement now. She had failed. She had lost Calais, and her people were saying that in the five years of her reign she had brought disaster on England. She had burned men’s bodies—respected men such as Archbishop Cranmer; she had put England under a foreign influence. There was disaster everywhere.

And she was old and ill. She could only write passionate letters to Philip, some of which she did not send. She even offered him coronation if he would return to her. For as long as she could, she had believed in the coming of the child; but the months were passing, and it was nearly a year since Philip had gone.

Philip was still urging the marriage of Elizabeth with Emmanuel Philibert. He had made peace with the French, and his son Don Carlos was to marry the eldest daughter of the French King; but Calais was still in the hands of the French.

Jealousy tormented her. Great attention was being paid to her sister Elizabeth, and many of those whom she had believed to be her friends were slipping away to Hatfield and begging to be of service there. Cardinal Pole, that dear friend and staunch supporter, was as sick as she was herself. And Philip did not come back.

He sent his cousin, Christina of Denmark, to try to persuade her to permit the marriage of Elizabeth with Savoy. How she had hated that visit and the visitor!

Christina was noted throughout Europe for her charm and beauty, and there were rumors that Philip had been deeply enamored of her and would have liked to marry her.

Mary’s jealousy would not allow her to treat Christina with the honor due to her rank. She was coldly received in England, and went back, her mission unaccomplished.

And on the day she left, Mary stood before Philip’s latest portrait, which represented him in armor, and in which he looked very handsome, in spite of the fact that he wore no helmet. She recalled the message he had sent with the picture: It was not in accordance with etiquette that he should stand, his head covered, in the presence of the Queen.

She had been delighted with picture and message. Now she thought with great bitterness how very devoted he could be when he was absent!

And as she gazed at the picture, she cried: “You are cold! You will never come back to me. You are not faithful to me. You stay away, not because of state affairs, but because you hate to be with me. You could be at my side if you wished. But you hate me … hate … hate me …”

She took up a knife and slashed the canvas to ribbons.

Then, in frustration, she fell sobbing to the floor.

Jane Dormer found her thus; she called to Mistress Clarencius and tenderly they carried her to her bed.

The Emperor knew
that his end was near. It was September at Yuste and he felt at peace. His confessor, Juan de Regla, sat on a stool at his bedside. The Emperor was ready to leave this world.

He prayed for Philip, who had so many good qualities. He feared for Philip. What would happen in the great dominions? wondered Charles. Philip was surrounded by enemies. He had shown himself to be a man who could not make the quick decisions which could shape his destiny. He consoled himself; there was much to be said for caution, patience, and steady virtue.

He thought of Orange and hoped that young man would not give Philip any trouble. Orange was a man born to greatness. And Philip was not one who could combine religion and statecraft. Philip had been taught that he must serve God first, his country second; and he believed it. Philip took these precepts too literally. Charles had been Emperor first, Catholic second. That was a sobering thought now that he was nearing his end, but he was too much the realist to deny it.

“God help him …” murmured the Emperor. “God help Philip in the tasks that lie ahead …”

But now Charles was smiling, thinking of little Juan. There was a son to warm the heart of a dying man.

Philip would look after little Juan. Thank God and all the saints that Philip could be trusted. Philip would do his duty. What more could a man ask of his son?

He had been blessed in his sons.

But he must think of his own passing. The time was short. Philip would do his duty. Juan would be a great soldier—he was sure of it—handsome and strong so that the people would love him; it might be that in the future they would speak of Don Juan as they now spoke of the Cid.

He had had a long life and it had been a satisfactory life since it had given him two such as Philip and Juan.

To his eyes, the light in the room seemed dim. His priest was at hand. They were giving him extreme unction. So the end was as near as that. All the sins of a long harsh lifetime were forgiven …

“Christ … crucified … aid me.”

He was fast sinking; his lips moved. “Christ crucified …”

But his hazy thoughts were reaching into the future … that future which was Philip’s and little Juan’s.

Death did not
come singly. Hard on the news of the Emperor’s death came the messenger from England with news of Mary’s sickness.

Philip would not believe that she was dying.

“How can I go to England now?” he demanded. “My father is dead. My duties increase. Moreover, the Queen has been ill before.”

She had had a false pregnancy, he was remembering. Might not this also be a false alarm?

He decided to send Feria with a message and a ring.

“If the Queen is dying,” he said, “we must at all costs secure the accession of Elizabeth. She is suspected of heresy, and that is deplorable; but if she does not succeed to the throne, the King of France will have the crown for Mary of Scotland. That we must prevent. If France
succeeds, all our work will have failed. We shall lose our footing in England; and before long we shall have the English and French banded together against us.”

“There is the match between Elisabeth of Valois and Don Carlos,” said Feria.

“These matches! They sometimes come to naught. We will not rely upon it. The English law says that the reigning monarch must name his successor. Mary must name Elizabeth.”

“I will make known your Majesty’s wishes to her.”

“And, Feria, give her loving greetings from me. Explain that I cannot come. Speak of my duties here … my father’s death … Surely there are excuses enough; and even she must see that I must be here.”

“I will endeavor to make her see reason, your Highness.”

When Feria had gone, Philip stared ahead, seeing that bed-chamber which he felt would be engraved upon his mind for ever. Could it be true that his wife was dying? If so, it would mean the loss of Spanish power in England, but oh, what glorious freedom for the King of Spain!

Mary was tossing
on her bed. There were few ladies to attend to her wants, and she knew why. They had deserted her—so many of them—and were on their way to Hatfield.

There, her red-haired sister would have put on new dignity. That haughtiness which ever lurked behind her blue eyes, would emerge. Elizabeth … Queen of England.

She, so young, would be so powerful. She would choose her own husband. Perhaps Philip would sue for her hand. No, not that! She must not imagine such things. She must try to be calm.

The fever was with her again. It had been decided that the Palace of Richmond was too damp and had aggravated her fever. Her dear friend Reginald Pole suffered from the same fever. He was not expected to outlive her.

Will Philip come? she wondered. Surely none could refuse the request of a dying woman?

This time she wished him just to touch her hand and to smile, to pretend to the last that he loved her. Was that asking too much of him?

Ah, but he had hated her. Her people hated her. They would say after she was dead: She brought strangers into the land; she restarted the fires of Smithfield; she lost Calais.

How bright had seemed her future on that day five years ago when she had ridden into London to the Tower to be crowned. Queen of England! And all England was with her then, all shouting: “Death to the false Jane Grey!”

But now it was a different tale. Now they would shout: “Death to Mary. Long live Elizabeth!”

One of her ladies came to tell her that the Count of Feria was without and craving audience.

The Count of Feria! But it should have been Philip.

Yet why should Philip come? There was nothing he wanted of her now.

She greeted the Count with her melancholy smile. There was one who would be more glad to see Feria than Philip. Might he prove a good husband to Jane Dormer, better than the husband the Queen had had!

But she would entertain no evil thoughts against Philip. He was good and noble. Was it his fault that he could not love her? He had tried. How he had tried!

The Count knelt by her bed and, kissing her burning hand, gave her the loving message and the ring; then he told her the real reason for his coming. “His Highness declares it is imperative that you name the Lady Elizabeth as your successor.”

She smiled wanly. Ah, yes, of course. She must ensure English friendship with Spain. She must remember Spain’s enemies, the French. She nodded feebly.

“If Elizabeth will pay my debts and swear to keep our religion as she found it, then I agree.”

When Feria had left her, she lay half-conscious, thinking that Philip was beside her. Then she became disturbed. She cried out that she could hear the screams of men and women in agony. Were they burning now outside the Palace? Did they not know that Smithfield Square was the appropriate place?

Mistress Clarencius soothed her. “Nay, your Majesty. All is well.”

“But I smell the fires.”

“It is the one here in your chamber, your Majesty.”

“I hear the crackle of wood. What of Cranmer?”

“It is not for your Majesty to concern yourself with heretics at this time. Rest is what you need.”

She said: “He held out his right hand that it might burn first. My father was fond of Cranmer. He gave him much honor. Oh, Clarencius, less than three hundred were burned under my rule; and in my husband’s land there have been three hundred at one
auto-da-fé.”

“Do not speak of it, dearest Majesty.”

“In the streets they speak of it. They call me Bloody Mary. I know it. There are things which cannot be kept from me. They are all going to Hatfield now. They will shout for her. She is young and fair enough … though not so fair as she thinks she is. She will have many suitors for her hand, and Philip … Philip …”

“Rest, your Majesty, rest.”

She closed her eyes and the tears rolled slowly down her cheeks. She smiled suddenly and said: “What matters it, my friends? This is the end.”

She asked for extreme unction and that afterward Mass should be celebrated in her chamber; and at the elevation of the Host she lifted her eyes and she bowed her head at the benediction.

Then she seemed contented and at peace. She seemed to have forgotten the martyrs who had perished in her reign, that the people had called her Bloody Mary, and that she had lost Calais.

Her smile almost beautified her face in those last moments, and those about her bed thought that she could only have smiled thus if she had believed that Philip was with her.

C
arlos had changed. He had grown quieter; he
had assumed more dignity; he no longer referred to himself as little one. He was Don Carlos, heir to the throne, and he did not forget it.

The reason was that he was to have a bride.

He had seen her picture and as soon as he had seen it this change had come upon him, for never had he seen anything so beautiful as the face in the locket which he carried about with him. She had a small, oval face, great dark eyes, and masses of black hair; she was half French, half Italian, and she was the daughter of Henri, King of France, and the Italian Catherine de Medici.

He had heard some time ago that he was to have this bride, but he had taken little heed at the time because, as Prince of Spain, many brides had been suggested for him. It was not long after his father had left for England on the first occasion that his father and the French King had decided Carlos should marry the young Princess when the Peace of Vaucelles had been signed. That seemed to have been forgotten, as so many plans were; but now there was a new treaty with France, the portrait had arrived, and, having seen it, Carlos could think of little else but the Princess of France.

At first he had thought it would be amusing to have a bride, to be the master, to force her to do all that he desired; but when he looked at the picture, those feelings left him. There was nothing within him now but a tenderness and an apprehension, for what would she, this beautiful
Princess, think of him—stunted, crippled, and so ugly when the fits of anger came upon him?