For a Queen's Love: The Stories of the Royal Wives of Philip II

TWO

In the city of Valladolid, flags of rich velvet and brocade fluttered from the windows. In the streets the people stood about to admire the decorations and see what they could of the bullfights, the sports, and the tourneys. This was a great day for Spain, it was said, for now Spaniards would see an end to continual wars. When they were allied with England none would dare attack them; and they would soon be allied with England through the strongest tie it was possible to make—that of the marriage of their own Philip with Mary Tudor.

They would have to lose their Prince for a while, and that saddened them; but he, alas!, would feel the sadness more than they did. They had but to stay at home and await his return, while they reaped the benefit of the marriage; he had to marry the Queen of England. They had heard tales of her. She was a witch, it was said. She was ten … fifteen … twenty years older than Philip. She was eagerly awaiting him because she badly wanted a husband; she had been promised to so many and had never managed to get one. Their long-suffering Prince must make the sacrifice; he must make this marriage for the sake of Spain.

Philip himself, sitting in the palace of Valladolid, yet again reading dispatches from his father, thought sadly of his departure.

How glib the Emperor seemed: “Do this …”

“Do that …” It was so easy to advise; to carry out the advice quite another matter.

Such thoughts were rare with Philip, and he dismissed them immediately. His father was right when he said this should end their troubles, and Philip was stupid to dream of a beautiful young wife whom he could love as he had loved Maria Manoela.

He continued the perusal of his father’s documents.

“My son, let us look facts in the face. Your solemn manners did not please the Italians and the Flemings. Believe me, they will not please the English. They are a rough people, a hearty, lusty people. They eat and drink with more gusto than any other nation we know. You will have to learn to do the same and appear to enjoy it. As a rough, uncultured people, they will expect you to enjoy what they enjoy. Your clothes must not be too somber. These people love bright colors … scarlets … blues and gold. You must not ride among them simply clad. You must feign great pleasure to be among them. Do all you can to learn their language. Remember, you will be their King. We will try to bring about your coronation as soon as possible, but they are a difficult people. It would seem that since the death of Henry VIII they have been ruled more by their parliaments than by the monarch.

“I shall make you King of Naples. We cannot have you merely a Prince when you mate with a Queen. Your rank must be equal.

“My dear son, there is one matter which I know you will join with me in wishing to bring about more speedily than anything else: the saving of this island for Holy Church, bringing them back to the Catholic fold. Your bride will help you in this, for she is a fervent Catholic. But it will be necessary to act with the utmost wariness. I know from our ambassadors and spies—as you do—that we shall not be dealing with a docile people. Do not attempt to force the Inquisition upon them … at first. Wait until you are firmly settled, until your son is born; wait until you are indeed King of England. I doubt not you will soon have your way with this old virgin, who, I understand, is delighted at the prospect of the match. But remember … first of all tolerance, for these islanders are lovers of tolerance. They have never been as deeply religious as our people have. But we will make them so in time. But at first … tolerance, bonhomie, and popularity.

“So to England, my son, richly clad and in great splendor, carrying magnificent gifts, smiling on the people, quaffing their beer—it is loathsome, Renard tells me, but you will become accustomed to that— dancing attendance on the ladies, being a bluff and hearty fellow rather like their old King Henry—one of the biggest rogues in Christendom, but well liked among his people, who forgave him his sins because of his hearty manners.”

Philip let the dispatch drop from his hands. He went to the window and looked out on the shouting, laughing crowds in the streets.

He must go to England, marry an aging woman whom he disliked on hearsay, and get her with child; and he must be a jolly, hearty, bluff, splendor-loving man; he had to learn to become a person quite different from himself.

Ruy Gomez da Silva came into Philip’s apartments. Philip had showered honors on this well-beloved friend. Ruy was now Prince of Eboli; moreover, Philip had arranged his marriage with Ana de Mendoza y la Cerda, one of the richest heiresses in Spain. The marriage had taken place, but had not yet been consummated on account of the youth of the bride.

Philip was glad that Ruy was to accompany him into the barbaric island, but he did not say so, being as chary of showing his feelings as ever.

“What news?” he asked.

“Not good news, Highness. The English are gathering in the streets of their cities, shouting insults against Spain. They smile on the Princess Elizabeth; and they wish the Queen to marry Courtenay.”

“That we know,” said Philip. “But the Queen is strong. She put down the Wyatt rebellion, and she is eager for our match.”

“She is madly in love with your Highness.”

“It is not her feelings for someone she has never seen which are important,” said the Prince primly, for the thought of Mary’s doting adoration disturbed him deeply. “It is the temper of the people with which we are concerned.”

“Highness, doubtless they will try to keep this from you, but I think you should know it, for to be warned is to be armed: We go—and I thank the saints that I shall go with you—into a strange land; and there the people will hate us; they will mock us; they will watch us; they will misconstrue our actions.”

“I have already been warned that I must change my very nature. I must be as one of them—gay, ribald, eating too much, drinking too much—a real English gentleman.”

“Then you would assuredly win their hearts. But the English wish their Queen to marry an Englishman. They distrust us and are afraid of us; that means they hate us. I must tell you this: A fight took place in Moor Fields—which I understand is open land situated in or about the city of London. In the games the boys who played divided themselves into two parties, one representing Wyatt’s men, the other the Queen’s and your own troops. One urchin played Wyatt, another your Highness. And the one who was representing yourself was taken prisoner. The whole gang then joined to take vengeance upon him. They hanged that boy; and had they not been seen and the serious nature of the offense against yourself been noted, he would have lost his life.”

“You imply that if they would hang my impersonator, what would they do to me if they could lay their hands upon me?”

“Highness, I imply that we must move with the utmost caution.”

Philip smiled. He almost confided in Ruy then: It is not these barbarians whom I fear; it is not the rope they might put about my neck, the coarse food I must eat, the ale I must drink. No. It is the woman … this aging spinster. I dread the moment when, the ceremonies over, I shall find myself with her in the marriage bed and with what I am led to believe will be her cloying affection, her long-delayed passion.

Philip got up and walked to the window. “How go the preparations?” he asked briskly.

“The Marquis de las Nevas has set out for England with the priceless jewels you are sending to the Queen. Egmont, Alba, Medina Celi, Feria, Pescara, and the rest are making their final preparations. I am ready. It will not be long now before your Highness rides out of Valladolid on your way to England.”

“The sooner the thing is accomplished the better,” murmured Philip.

“I rejoice to hear your Highness say so. Then you are reconciled?”

Philip turned away as he said almost haughtily: “How could it be otherwise? Is it for me to flinch from what I have to do for the good of our country?”

Ruy bowed his head. If Philip curbed his feelings, so did Ruy. There were times when Ruy wished to embrace his friend and to tell him of the love and admiration he had for him, which exceeded that expected of a servant for a royal master.

Tomorrow they would ride out from Valladolid in a glittering procession under a Castilian May sky. And Philip, as he lay beside his mistress, Catherine Lenez, felt as though he would be shedding the personality of one man and putting on that of another.

He was a very different man now from the lover of Maria Manoela. Too much had happened to him; it had changed him. He was hardened; he was sensual as he had never believed he could be. Alone with his mistress, he had ceased to be cold; he had plunged into deep seas of passion. Was this the real man? Was the cold solemnity a mask that he put on to guard himself from the world?

It was typical of this new Philip that his last night in Valladolid should be spent with Catherine and not with Isabel … with the woman whom he thought of as a mistress rather than the one he thought of as a wife. That would sadden Isabel. But he, Philip, was the one who must suffer most. Isabel must understand that. Could she not see that he must enjoy to the full the delights of carnal love before he walked into the marriage chamber of Mary Tudor?

Catherine was soothing as well as passionate; Isabel would have spent the night in weeping. Catherine understood, as the more conventional Isabel could not; she knew why he must plunge into these frenzies of passion; Catherine offered balm and sympathy, and she helped to banish thoughts of Mary Tudor from his mind.

In the streets that night the festivities had been robbed of their maddest gaiety. The people remembered that they were to lose their beloved Philip; moreover, news had come of the death of the Prince of Portugal, young Juana’s husband, so that the royal house must be plunged into mourning.

Philip himself was not sorry that the Prince had died at this moment; it meant that Juana would be coming home to Spain to take up the Regency during his absence; it would mean making a detour in the journey to Corunna, because he must show the proper courtesy to his sister by meeting her at the borders of Spain and Portugal.

So, the following morning the cavalcade set out from Valladolid. All the nobles who accompanied Philip had received instructions from the Emperor, with the result that they and their followers were dressed in the gaudiest of costumes. Philip’s guards—Spanish and Teuton—were magnificent in their uniforms; and, thought Philip, the livery of his servants, being red and yellow, would please the English.

Philip himself was soberly dressed; he was still in Spain, he had reminded himself, and although he intended to carry out to the best of his ability what was expected of him, there was no need to become an Englishman in appearance just yet.

Beside Philip rode Carlos. This was an added trial to Philip. He was unsure how the boy would behave; already the people’s cheers for the young Prince seemed forced. No doubt they had heard rumors of his behavior.

Yet Carlos seemed a little brighter than usual as they rode out of Valladolid. There were two reasons for Carlos’s pleasure; one was that his father was leaving Spain and it was possible that the English might hang him as they had tried to hang the boy who had impersonated him; the other was that his beloved Aunt Juana was coming home. It was nearly two years since she had gone away, and she had a little baby of her own now—Don Sebastian—but Carlos was sure that she would have retained her affection for her Little One.

Carlos looked quite attractive in his dazzling garments cunningly cut to hide his deformities. Seated on his mule with its rich trappings, it could not be seen that he was lame.

He was enjoying the journey and the rests at the various towns where great festivities had been prepared to welcome them. One of his greatest pleasures was to watch the bulls and the matadors. When the blood began to flow and the horns of a bull cruelly gored a victim he would cheer wildly. Then he wanted to stand on his seat and shout: “More! More! Bring out more bulls!” But he was aware of his father’s stern eyes upon him.

And at length, at the borders of Spain and Portugal, the two processions met. There was Juana looking rather unlike herself in her widow’s clothes, tearful, weeping for her husband, kneeling solemnly before her brother. Yet when she took Carlos’s hand and smiled at him, his heart beat faster with pleasure, and tears of joy filled his eyes.

“Juana! Juana!” He did not care for etiquette; he could not hold back the words. “You have come home to your Little One.”

Philip conducted his sister back to Valladolid, instructing her every day during the journey on her duties as Regent. She would, among other tasks, have charge of the young Prince during his father’s absence.

“Remember,” said Philip. “There must be no pampering. Carlos gives me great anxiety. He must be curbed, and above all kept at his lessons. I have arranged a separate household for him under his guardian, Luis de Vives. But much will rest with you. I hope to see an improvement in Carlos when I return.”

“Your Highness shall.”

Philip, looking at his sister, saw that she was weeping softly. Had she loved her husband so much? Was she the best person to look after Carlos? She lacked his own calmness and the common sense of his sister Maria, who was now in Austria with her husband, Maximilian. It was too late now to alter arrangements. Besides, it would be a breach of etiquette to leave any other than Juana in charge of the boy.

He reminded himself that he would beget more children; and that thought led him to another; he was getting nearer and nearer to the marriage bed of Mary Tudor.

“My son,” said Philip as they left Valladolid on the way to Corunna, where Philip would embark for England while Carlos returned to Valladolid, “we shall pass through Tordesillas on our way and visit your great-grandmother.”

“Yes, Father.” The boy’s eyes were alight with excitement. Each day brought nearer the farewell between himself and his father; then he would return to Valladolid and Juana. In the meantime, here was another treat; he was going to see his great-grandmother of whom he had heard so much. There were many rumors about her, and Carlos had bullied one of the younger boys into telling all he knew. He had kept the boy in his apartment, and even tickled his throat with a knife while the boy, with bulging eyes and twitching lips, had told all he knew.

“She is mad … mad,” he had said. “‘Mad Juana’ they call her. She lives in the Alcázar at Tordesillas, and she has jailors who are called her servants. She speaks against Holy Church and once she was tortured by the Holy Office.”

Carlos’s eyes had glistened. Tortured! Carlos must know more. He must have details of torture by the pulley, when men or women were drawn up by means of ropes, and left hanging by their hands with weights attached to their feet, until every joint was dislocated; he must know of the burning of the soles of the feet, of the red-hot pincers, of all the wondrous arts of the Holy Inquisition.

And the fanatical monks had dared to torture his great-grandmother, who was a Queen!

“They would have burned her at the stake,” his informant had said, “but for the fact that she was a Queen.”

And now he was going with his father to see this mad great-grandmother. It seemed that life was smiling for him at last.

As they rode the few miles between Valladolid and Tordesillas, Philip was wondering what effect Juana would have on Carlos. He would have preferred not to have his son accompany him, But how could it be arranged otherwise? Juana was a Queen, if living in retirement, and Carlos was her great-grandson.

Philip said as they came near to Tordesillas: “You will find your great-grandmother unlike other people whom you have known. You must be quiet in her presence and speak only when spoken to. Do not be alarmed by what may seem strange to you. I shall speak with your great-grandmother, and you will stand very still. You will receive her blessing.”

“Yes, Father.”

Was it imagination, thought Philip, or had the boy improved?

“You may hear me speak to your great-grandmother on religious matters,” went on Philip. “She is a little strange and needs guidance.”

“Father, is it true that she has offended the Holy Office?”

“You should not have heard such things. None has any right to say such things of a Queen.”

“But even Kings and Queens should not offend the Inquisition, should they, Father?”

“My son, one day, I hope, you will support the Inquisition with all your might … as I intend to do.”

Carlos seemed almost reverent. He was thinking of the torture chambers below the prisons of the Inquisition, where the walls were lined with heavy, quilted material so that the cries of the sufferers might be deadened. Carlos thought of blood and pain, but with less excitement than usual.

Carlos walked beside Philip into the apartment of Queen Juana.

A few candles were burning, but they gave little light to such a vast room and the effect was one of gloom. On the floor food lay about in dishes on which flies had settled. The air seemed to hold the smell of decay.

Carlos thought it was a very strange room, and as his eyes grew accustomed to the dim light he became aware of the woman in the chair, and she was stranger than anything else in that room. She sat on a chair with ornate arms; she looked like a witch. Her mouth was toothless; her gown was tattered and splashed with food; her hair hung loose about her shoulders; her long thin hands lay on her lap, showing uncared-for nails, black and overgrown.

So this was Juana, the Queen, who might now be Queen of Spain had it not been decided that she was mad, and that it was best for her to live out her crazy life in solitude.

Carlos was filled with horror that held something of fascination.

Members of Philip’s entourage had followed him and Carlos into the apartment; they stopped at a respectful distance.

Carlos felt his father’s hand on his shoulder, forcing him to his knees. Obediently he knelt before the Queen in the chair.

Philip, conquering his repulsion, took Juana’s hand and kissed it.

“Your Highness,” he said, “I have brought your great-grandson to pay you homage and receive your blessing.”

“Who is that?” asked Juana, her eyes growing suddenly wilder yet alert. “Carlos! Where is Carlos?”

“Here, at your Highness’s feet.” Philip took one of the dirty hands and laid it on Carlos’s head.

“Carlos,” she muttered, leaning forward. Her hair fell over her face and she peered through it as though it were a curtain. “Carlos. Carlos. That’s not my Carlos. That’s not Caesar … ruling the world.”

“Not your son,” said Philip. “But my son. Your grandson’s son. You are thinking of my father, the Emperor.”

“Ah!” The eyes were cunning. “You are trying to deceive me. You bring him here … as Esau was brought to Isaac. I know. I know.”

“Give him your blessing, I beg of you, Grandmother.”

Carlos then lifted wondering eyes to her face. She laughed, and Philip was reminded of the laughter of Carlos. There was the same wild abandonment which he had heard his son display.

But the old woman was looking at Carlos, and she seemed to sense some bond between herself and the boy. “Bless you,” she said quietly. “May God and the saints preserve you … give you long life, little Carlos, great happiness and many to love you.”

“To your feet, my son,” commanded Philip. “Kiss your great-grandmother’s hand and thank her for her blessing.”

Carlos, still as though under a spell, obeyed. The woman and the boy kept their eyes fixed on each other; then slowly tears began to flow down Juana’s cheeks, making furrows through the dirt on her skin. This was comforting to Carlos, but to Philip quite horrible. He signed to one of his attendants.

“Escort Don Carlos to his apartments,” he said. “And leave me alone with the Queen and Father Borgia.”

Carlos was led out of the room, and Philip was alone with the priest and his grandmother.

“Grandmother,” said Philip, “I have heard sad stories of your state. I understand that you have once more spoken against Holy Church. Grandmother, cannot you see the folly of this?”

She shook her head, mumbling to herself: “We should not be forced to perform religious rites … We should worship as we please. I do not like these ceremonies … and if I do not like them I will not perform them … nor have them performed in my presence.”

“Grandmother, such words are in direct defiance of the Holy Inquisition itself.”

“So you have come to torture me … as I was tortured once before! I was tortured when I spoke against the Catholic Church and the Inquisition. They take people to their dungeons, they tear and burn the flesh … all in the name of God. Is He happy, think you? Does He say: ‘Look at all the blood they have shed in Spain! It is all for Me. It is all in My Name …’? Ha … ha …”

“Grandmother, I beg of you, be calm. Father Borgia tells me that you have been a little more reasonable of late, but that your conduct leaves much to be desired.”

“And who is this come to torment me, eh?”

“I am Philip, your grandson … Regent of Spain in the absence of the Emperor, but I have not come to torment you.”

“Philip … oh, speak not that name to me. You come to torture me with memories … and memories torture even as do the red-hot pincers … even as does the rack … Philip … oh, my beautiful Philip, I hate you. Yes. I do. I hate you … because you are so beautiful … and I love you …”

Philip looked helplessly at Father Borgia.

“She swept everything off the altar we set up for her, your Highness,” said the priest, “screaming out that she would not have it thus. But I beg your Highness not to despair of her soul. She grows more reasonable as her health fails.”

“What are you mumbling about, eh, priest? What are you mumbling about there in the shadows? You are a woman in disguise, I believe. I won’t have women about me. He’s not to be trusted with women, that Philip!”

“There seems nothing I can say,” said Philip.

“We might apply … a little force, your Highness.”

Philip looked at the sad figure in the chair, the filthy hair, the tattered garments, the legs swollen with dropsy. Philip hated cruelty for its own sake. He hated war because that meant much bloodshed; in his opinion, the tortures of the Inquisition were only inflicted for the purpose of guiding heretics to the truth and saving their souls, or preparing them for eternal torment. That seemed to him reasonable. But to inflict suffering when no good could come of it disgusted him. And how could they, by torturing this woman, make her see the truth? She might see it for a day, but after that she would lapse into the old ways. She was mad; they must remember that.

He would not have her hurt. They must accept her madness as an additional burden on the royal house. They must try to lead her gently to salvation.

“Nay,” he said. “Persuade her with words only. I forbid aught else.”

“Your Highness has spoken. And it is a fact that she did not resist this day when I conducted the usual rites. Though I must report to your Highness that she always closes her eyes at the elevation of the Host.”

Philip sighed. “Continue to reason with her.”

“I will, your Highness. And I think you should know that there was an occasion when she stated that the blessed tapers stank.”

“You must have done well, Father Borgia, since she is quieter now. Continue with your work. I doubt not that we shall save her soul before she leaves this Earth.”

“That is what we will strive for,” promised the priest.

They looked at Juana; she had suddenly fallen asleep, her head lolling sideways, the mouth open as she emitted loud snores.

Philip said: “There is nothing more to be done at this stage. Let us leave her now.”

He went slowly to his apartments; he would be almost glad when next day they continued the journey to Corunna and England.

Carlos could not sleep. He could not forget the old lady in the strange room. He wanted to know such a lot about her, because vaguely he believed she could tell him something which others would not.

He sat up in bed. It was very quiet and must be past midnight. His heart was beating very fast, but he was not afraid.

She would be in that room still, he knew, for he had heard that she rarely went to bed. She sat in her chair and slept at any time of the day or the night; and sometimes she lay on the floor.

If he tiptoed out of his apartment and went along the corridors he would come to that room. He knew the way, because he had noted it carefully.

Cautiously he got out of bed and tiptoed to the door. He could hear the rhythmic breathing of his attendants. They were all fast asleep.

He was in the corridor, clutching about him the cloak he had picked up as he had got out of bed. Along the corridors he went, creeping cautiously past the sleeping guards. Outside the door of his great-grandmother’s room were two men-at-arms. They were slumped on stools and both were fast asleep. Quickly Carlos slipped past them and into the room.

The candles were still burning and she was in her chair, sitting there just as he had seen her when he had entered this room with his father. He shut the door very quietly.

She moved in her chair. “Who is there?” she croaked.

“Carlos,” he whispered. “The little one.”

He limped across the room.

“You limp, little one,” she said. “Philip limped at times. It was one of the joints in his knees.” She spoke in whispers, as though she realized the need for quietness. “That did not stop his running after the women, though.”

“Did it not?” said Carlos.

“Sit at my feet.”

He sat, and she let her fingers run through his hair.

“He had thick hair,” she said. “Ripples and curls. He was the loveliest man in the world. Who are you? You’re not Philip.”

“He is Carlos, this little one. Philip is his father.”

“Carlos … Not that Carlos! Not my son. Not Caesar.”

“No … no. I am your great-grandson. The son of Philip.”

“My Carlos took him from me … He took my Philip. He said: ‘My Mother, you cannot keep a dead body with you forever. I must take him away for decent burial.’ But my Philip was not dead. I would sit by the coffin and I would have it open … and I would kiss his lips … He could not escape me then. He could not run to other women then.”

“The Emperor who took your Philip away is this little one’s grandfather. There is another Philip now. He is this little one’s father. Carlos hates that Philip. He hopes he will soon die.”

“Your Philip, Carlos? Your Philip. He is not my Philip. They said I must marry my Philip and I wept and I stormed. I could weep and storm, little Carlos. Oh … I could. And my father … Great Ferdinand … the King of Aragon … he said I was mad when it was good for me to be mad … Good for me … Who cared for me? It was good for him that I should be mad … and sometimes it was good that I should be sane … Mad … sane … mad … sane …”

“They look at Carlos as though he is mad.”

“Mad … sane … mad … sane,” she murmured.

“You hated your Philip, did you not?” asked Carlos.

“Hated because I loved … loved because I hated. I sat by the coffin. I’d take off the lid and kiss him … fondle him … I said: ‘You cannot leave me now, Philip. Where are your women now?’ Ha … ha …”

Carlos joined in her laughter, then held up his fingers to his lips to remind her of the need for quiet.

“I would let no woman come near the coffin,” she murmured.

“Why not?”

“I could not trust him. He was full of cunning. I thought he might slip out … I could not keep him from women. Could death?”

“Could death?” asked Carlos.

“They have taken him from me … Carlos …”

“Not this Carlos. The other one … the father of my father. Not this Carlos. He loves you. This little one is your friend.”

“This is my friend, this little one.”

“He wants to bring his Aunt Juana here and live with you forever.”

“Carlos … you will live with me here, then?”

“Yes … yes … When Philip goes to England, Carlos will run away … he will come to you …”

“They wished to send me to England.”

“No, no … It is Philip who goes to England.”

“They said the King of England cannot marry a mad woman. I was mad then, you see, little one. Mad … sane … mad … sane … Mad! They said the King of England did not mind insanity. Insanity did not stop the bearing of children … So said the English …”

“The father of Carlos is going to England. He is to marry the Queen.”

“Henry Tudor wished to marry me. King Henry the Seventh of England. They said he was such a good man that he would make me sane again … mad … sane … mad … Sane!”

“Great-grandmother, you must not laugh so. They will hear, and send Carlos away from you.”

“They poisoned him, you know.”

“Whom did they poison, Great-grandmother?”

“My Philip. My father sent his agents to poison my Philip.”

“Then you hate your father. Carlos hates his father too.”

“It was after a banquet that he died. They said it was a fever … but I know what it was.”

“Poison!” cried Carlos.

“I stayed by his side and none could move me from him. And when they said he was dead, I had him set upon a catafalque covered in cloth of gold, the color of his hair. I wrapped him in brocade and ermine. I sat beside him … through the days and nights. They could not tear me from him. Do you know who did it?”

“Your father? And you hate him?”

“My father’s friend and counselor. What was his name? I forget it. He was an Aragonese gentleman. I know! It was Mosen Ferer. He was a wicked man. They set him in charge of me … He said I was a heretic and he tortured me.”

“Tortured you! Tell Carlos.”

“Oh … torture … torture …”Her mouth twitched and she began to cry. “They told me they must save my soul.” She was silent for a while; then she began to mutter under her breath: “Mad … sane … sane … mad. Carlos … Carlos … are you there, little one?”

“Carlos is here,” whispered Carlos.

“Never … never let people make you do what they want, little one.”

“No!” breathed Carlos. “No.”

“Love that is hate … and hate that is love … mad that is sane and sane that is mad … My Philip was the handsomest man in the world. I would have a throne made for him and I would set him on it. I would sit at his feet and he would be my prisoner. I would never have women near him. I never will, Carlos … never … never … None save my washerwoman. She is ugly. He would not care for her. Carlos … come near to me and I will tell you something.”

“Yes … yes? Carlos is near you.”

“The whole world is mad, Carlos, and only you and I are sane …”

He looked wonderingly into her face, but she had closed her eyes suddenly; he watched the tears running down her cheeks; he thought that they were like rivers pushing their way through the soil.

There was silence in the room. One of the candles had gone out. He put his head against her ill-smelling gown, but he did not mind the smell. He was excited because he and she were the only sane people in a mad world.

“Great-grandmother,” he whispered; but she did not answer; the effort of talking so much had tired her and she had fallen asleep.

He sat there for a long time. He did not want to leave her. He and she had much to say to each other; but after a while he, too, fell asleep; and he lay against her, keeping his hand in hers.

The guards looked in, as they did periodically, to see that all was well.

She awoke and immediately was aware of the boy on the stool at her feet. There was queenly dignity in her voice as she said: “Don Carlos visited me. We talked and he grew tired. Carry him back to his apartments and carry him gently. Do not wake him. He is but a child.”

And the guards, who were never surprised at what she might do or say, bowed low, and one of them picked up the sleeping boy and with him went quietly out of the room.

The next day the brilliant cavalcade set out on its journey to the coast.

Carlos, riding beside his father, hated him more than ever. Carlos did not want to ride with his father; he wished to stay with his great-grandmother in Tordesillas. But he was quieter than usual and he did not make his wishes known. He believed that his father was going among savages who—if he managed to survive the terrible sea journey—would make short work of him.

At Santiago de Compostella, the procession halted. There they must stay for several days that Philip might pay his respectful devotion at the shrine of St. James, the tutelar saint of Spain. There were always many pilgrims gathered in this city, but on this occasion their numbers were increased on account of the royal visit.

The sojourn in this town was devoted to religious ceremonies, which were a change after the tourneys and bullfights which they had had to witness at Astorga and Benavente.

Here they met the envoys from England.

When Philip received them, his friends and followers were astonished by the change in him. It was as though he had found a lifelike mask which he had put over his severe features. He smiled at these Englishmen; he greeted them with warmth; and those of his friends who were not amazed were jealous.

“See,” they said to one another, “what smiles he has for these English! When has he ever given us such smiles?”

Only Ruy seemed to understand and, when they were alone, congratulated him on a masterly performance.

When Philip had given every Englishman in the Duke of Bedford’s embassy a costly present, the party began the thirty miles’ journey to Corunna.

A wonderful sight greeted them in the harbor there. A great armada had assembled to escort Philip to England, and protect him if need be from the French King’s fleet; for that monarch would doubtless do his best to prevent Philip’s arrival in England, as he was hoping to secure the English throne for his daughter-in-law, Mary Queen of Scots.

None watched that array with more delight than Carlos. As he looked at the banners of red silk and the brilliantly colored pennons, as he admired the crimson damask and the great standard decorated with the Imperial arms, he was thinking: “Philip is going, and may it please God and the saints that he never comes back.”

Then Carlos bade a public farewell to his father, and the fleet of a hundred ships set sail for England.

Ahead lay Southampton.

Philip stood on deck and looked at the land he had come to conquer, not by war, but by marriage with its Queen, by the son he would have, and by the new man he must become for the sake of the English.

On the deck with him stood the important men who had accompanied him on this great mission. Ruy was there, ever a comfort, shrewd and calm, always to be relied upon; there was noble Alba of great experience, the handsome Count of Feria, Egmont, and the rest.

A boat was being rowed out to their vessel. In it were Lord Howard, the Queen’s Admiral, Lords Shrewsbury, Arundel, and Derby with Sir John Williams.

Philip was dressed in black velvet and cloth of silver, and his doublet was hung with chains of gold. His garments were decorated with dazzling jewels of many colors; he was a glittering and magnificent sight; and in such garments he, who had always insisted on wearing the simplest clothes except for state occasions, seemed almost a stranger to his friends.

He spoke to the English in Latin, and apologized for his ignorance of their tongue. His manner was gracious and charming; it was clear—for the English made no secret of their feelings—that these men who had come to welcome him in the name of the Queen were agreeably surprised.

Now a barge, lined with cloth of gold and manned by men in the white and green of the Tudor livery, approached the vessel. This was the royal barge which had been sent to carry Philip to English soil; and when he reached the land, the Earl of Arundel begged his leave to perform a little ceremony which, he said, he would do at the express command of the Queen. Philip was then presented with the Order of the Garter.

The company rode to lodgings which had been prepared for them, and there, to the further astonishment of the hidalgos, Philip expressed his desire to pledge his friendship to England in a draught of English beer.

This he drank as though it were Spanish wine, smacking his lips, declaring that he could wish to be drowned in such nectar.

The Englishmen were deceived. Who had said a moody, morose man was coming to wed the Queen? Someone had lied to them. This Philip of Spain was a hearty fellow—for all that he was of such low stature.

Only when he was alone with Ruy in that alien house in that alien land did Philip’s features relax into their familiar expression.

“Highness,” said Ruy, “your father would be proud of you. This night you have shown these barbarians a man they will love. You might have been one of them, Highness. It was as though you played a part with mummers.”

Philip was reflective. “There are times, Ruy,” he said, “when I wonder what manner of man I am. I am sober, am I not? And yet perhaps there is in me something of the barbarian I showed these people tonight. But the test lies before me. Oh, fortunate Ruy! You who are soon to delight in the beautiful Ana!”

Ruy lifted his shoulders and smiled. “Perhaps she has lost her beauty before I shall enjoy it. She has been fencing with a page and lost an eye.”

“She is a wild girl, Ruy, but the loveliest in Spain. The most haughty too, I’ll swear. I doubt even the loss of an eye could entirely alter that. Well, your trials will come, Ruy, with Ana. In the meantime … think of me … with Mary. Think of me and pray that I shall not flinch from my duty.”

“Your Highness flinch from his duty! As well imagine that the sun will not rise.”

“Yet pray for me, Ruy, for in this alien land I need your prayers.”

So Philip set out from Southampton.

The coldness—although it was July—seemed to penetrate every garment to his bones. His surcoat was of black velvet, twinkling with a hundred diamonds; his trunks and doublet were of shining white satin with a pattern of gold. It was fine at first, yet it seemed drear to the Spaniards, because there was a mist in the air; and they had scarcely begun the journey when the rain began to fall.

It was necessary then for Philip to put on the thick cloak of red felt, but the rain seemed to penetrate even that thickness. People had gathered at the roadside to watch them; they were an ill-mannered crowd. Some of them shrieked with laughter, which could not be misunderstood; they were shouting their derision of the foreigners who were afraid of a drop of rain.

At Winchester it was necessary to stop and change their garments; and here at the Cathedral the bishops paid their homage to Philip. Here the Prince met that Bishop Gardiner—the Queen’s favorite—who rejoiced in his coming and believed that here was a Moses come to lead England back to the promised land.

Philip and his followers were then taken to the Dean’s house.

“Our Queen, being a maiden lady of great delicacy,” explained the Dean, “does not think you should spend a night under her roof until after the ceremony.”

Philip smiled approval of the Queen’s delicacy, and declared that he would be delighted to accept the hospitality of the Dean.

“Her Majesty is lodged in Bishop Gardiner’s Palace, which adjoins the Deanery.”

“Then I see in that a delightful arrangement,” said the new and charming Philip.

In the Deanery a banquet was prepared for Philip and his men.

Once more they removed their wet clothes, but they found the rooms draughty, and in spite of the time of year they were shivering with the cold. The Spaniards were disgruntled; they sensed the contempt of the English; and the new character which Philip had assumed, while delighting the English, was distasteful to them. Never, they declared, had Spaniards been treated with such lack of courtesy. These English had no manners; they were too bluff, too hearty. During the sojourn in Southampton, when his Spanish followers had gone to church with Philip, they had at the end of the service been ordered out by officious Englishmen, they were told that the people would like to see Philip leave the church surrounded by Englishmen. Nor had Philip protested; in his new role he seemed prepared to do everything these people wished. And as they left the church the rain had teemed down, and Philip borrowed a cloak and hat from one of the English and walked forth in the rain in these most undignified garments.

Now at the banquet in the Deanery they were expected to eat the food prepared for them—and not eat delicately either. They must partake of every dish upon the table, and while the English were prepared to tackle the great mounds of beef, venison, peacocks, and pastry, and to wash these down with quantities of beer, the Spaniards must follow their master’s lead and feign to enjoy barbarians’ food with barbarians.

When they had retired to their rooms for the night, Philip said to Ruy: “We have been but a few days in this country, but it seems like years.”

“Your Highness will grow accustomed to it before long.”

“I rejoice that one more day is over.”

But that day was not over, for there was at that moment a knock on the door. Ruy, grasping his sword—for there was not one member of the party who trusted the English—went to the door.

A woman stood there. She said in halting Spanish: “My lord, I am Mistress of the Queen’s Robes, and I come to tell His Majesty that Her Majesty the Queen wishes him to visit her in her closet tonight. It is her wish that he should bring with him but few of his followers.”

“I fear His Highness has retired for the night,” began Ruy.

But Philip was immediately beside him, forcing a smile. The woman, seeing him, dropped a deep curtsy.

“The Queen wishes to see me!” cried Philip. “Then I am delighted, and eagerly will I go to her. But I must have a few moments in which to make myself presentable.”

The woman rose and looked at Philip with admiration. He could see by her expression that she was wondering who had circulated those ridiculous stories about Philip of Spain. Solemn! Full of ceremony! Nothing of the sort! She would go back to her mistress and report that she had seen him and that he appeared to be not only handsome, but the kindest of men.

“Then may I send the Queen’s envoy in ten minutes to conduct your Highness to her?”

“I am all impatience,” said Philip.

The door shut on her and the two men looked wearily at each other.

“There is no help for it,” said Philip. “Now … for another change of costume.”

Ruy helped him put on the French surcoat with gold and silver embossments; the doublet and trunks were made of white kid, decorated with gold embroidery.

“We must not go alone,” said Ruy. “How do we know what these people plan? I’ll summon Feria and Alba … and I think Medina Celi, Egmont, and Horn … with perhaps a few more.”

Philip did not answer. He was thinking: Now the moment has come. Now I shall be brought face to face with my bride.

In ten minutes he was ready, surrounded by those grandees who Ruy had considered should accompany them.

The messenger from the Queen led them out of the Deanery and across a small garden to the Palace of the Bishop of Winchester. They mounted a staircase, and the messenger threw open a door and announced: “His Highness King Philip.”

Philip went forward. He was in a long gallery, the walls of which were hung with tapestry. Pacing up and down in a state of acute nervousness was a little woman. With her was Gardiner, Bishop of Winchester; some other gentlemen and ladies, obviously of high rank, were also in the gallery.

She stood still as Philip entered.

For a moment he thought her a charming sight. She was magnificently dressed in black velvet, cut away at the waist to show a petticoat of silver; the coif which adorned her sandy hair was of black velvet and cloth of gold; about her waist was a girdle made of flashing stones of many colors.

Philip approached and with a qualm kissed her on the mouth in accordance with the English custom. He saw the warm color flood her transparent skin; he saw too that, although she was far from being as ugly as she had been represented, she was a woman completely lacking in physical attractiveness. On her face were lines put there by ill-health and bitterness; clearly she showed herself to be a woman who had so far gone unloved through life.

What had she heard of him? he wondered. That he was cold, moody, and hardly ever smiled? Now he was all smiles, all eagerness.

“It was good of your Highness to come,” she said in Latin, for although she understood Spanish well enough to read it, she did not speak it.

He answered in Latin: “The Queen commanded. She must be obeyed. Nor was it any hardship when she commanded me to do that for which I have been longing these many weeks.”

What is happening to me? he asked himself. How can I talk thus? Have I really become this hypocrite, this sly schemer?

But it was not only expediency which made him wish to please; she moved him—not with love nor physical desire, but with a deep pity.

She looked a little younger now, flushed, excited, clearly liking the looks and manners of the man who was to be her husband. She led him to a canopy, at one end of the gallery, beneath which had been placed two royal chairs. They sat, and one by one the Spaniards came forward to kiss the Queen’s hand.

When this was done, the party went into the next room that Philip might greet the Queen’s ladies; and this he did by kissing them all on the mouth. As the Queen watched him, it was clear to many of the Spaniards that she did not care to see Philip salute her ladies thus. They considered that significant. Was she already half in love with her Spanish bridegroom? That augured well. Soon England would be completely under the domination of Spain.

After he had saluted the ladies, the Queen led Philip back to the gallery.

“Your Majesty will have a busy time before her,” said Philip solicitously. “I will not stay to tire you.”

“Nay!” cried Mary. “I am not tired. It is so pleasant to see you. Let us stay here and talk for a while.”

There was nothing to be done but sit under the canopy. The Queen signified that ceremony was to be set aside. The Spaniards might talk as well as they could with those of her ladies and gentlemen who were in the gallery, and leave Philip to the Queen.

She looked at him almost shyly. “You are different from what I have been led to expect,” she said.

“I trust I do not disappoint you?”

“Far from it. Far … far from it. You … you please me.”

“Then I have my heart’s desire.”

“I was afraid … being so unversed in the ways of love and marriage. I thought you might be a lusty gentleman given only to carnal pleasures and …”

“Nay,” he said with a smile. “I shall be a sober husband.”

“And not too sober,” she answered. “I was told that you never smiled. I have seen you smile this night.”

“That is due to being in your Majesty’s presence.”

“Ah!” sighed the Queen. “You are gallant … you Spaniards.”

“Your Majesty is half Spanish.”

“That is true. My mother would often talk to me of Spain.” Her mouth squared, as it always did when she spoke of her mother. “I longed to visit that country and know more of my mother’s people.”

“And now one of them comes forth to wed you.”

“There was talk, at one time, that I should marry your father.”

“That was when you were a baby and he a young man.”

“He wrote to me recently and said he remembered that he was once affianced to me. He said it was ever a matter of regret with him that nothing came of it. He said he was sending me his son, who was young, handsome, and strong, while he had grown ugly, old, and tired. Why, had I married him you might be my son!”

“Impossible! Impossible! We are of an age.”

She was pleased. Did she really think that he did not know she was eleven years older than he was? That was impossible, for time had not been very gracious to her. It had engraved its marks on her face—lines of suffering, lines of bitterness, anxiety, and sickness. Poor Mary!

He said: “What must you think of me—unable to speak your language?”

“I will teach it to you … Philip.”

“I trust, Mary, that I shall be an apt pupil in all that you teach me.”

“Nay, you must be the one to teach, I the one to learn.”

Yes, he thought; that must be. I must make you see that I will govern this kingdom in accordance with the Emperor’s wishes.

He longed to leave her, but now she was growing bolder. She let her hand rest on his sleeve. He looked at it, and with an effort he took those heavily ringed fingers in his. She was smiling and he could feel her trembling as he raised her hand to his lips.

He knew that he was watched, that the English were saying: “He is winning the Queen’s heart with his chivalrous Spanish manners.” And the Spaniards were saying: “We did not know Philip. What a man he is! He can act any part for the glory of Spain, for he surely cannot be as enamored of the old lady as he pretends to be—particularly when some of the other ladies are so charming.”

At length Philip said: “I will not keep you from your sleep any longer, gracious lady. Now you shall teach me to say ‘Goodnight’ in English, and I shall say it to the ladies here and in the next room. Then I shall leave you until the morning.”

She enjoyed teaching him the words for he found them so difficult to say. “Goodnight. Goodnight …” The Queen burst into merry laughter and brought her face close to Philip’s. “No … this way. Goodnight. You see? Goodnight.”

Then Philip kissed her hand and went to the door of that room in which the ladies were, and there he cried out in Latin: “But I have forgotten. What is it? Gooda … What is it?”

Then, while the Queen smiled in almost childish pleasure, he went back to her and learned the words again; then he went to the ladies and said it in such a manner as to set them all laughing and repeating “Goodnight” with that Spanish accent which they said was so charming.

“Your Highness,” said Ruy, when they were alone, “goes from strength to strength. Why, the lady dotes on you already.”

But his words did not please Philip. He had discarded the gay mask of the wooer and become the sober young man whom his friends knew so well.

In the Queen’s bedchamber her ladies were helping her to disrobe.

Mistress Clarencius, her old nurse, whom Mary regarded as one of her true friends, was obviously in a state of high delight.

“He is a lovely little King,” she declared. “I thank God for the day he landed here to make your Majesty the good husband I know he will.”

Tall Magdalen Dacre said: “How magnificent he looked, your Majesty! And he had eyes for none but yourself!”

Mary said sadly: “But he is so much younger than I.”

“None would guess it, your Majesty.”

But Mary knew that they did not speak the truth.

Jane Dormer had said nothing, and, turning to her, the Queen inquired: “And what think you, Jane? What thought you of our visitors?”

“The Spanish gentlemen are very handsome, your Majesty. And it is a great joy to us to know that your Grace is to marry a strong adherent of the Holy Catholic Church.”

Janet was thinking of the handsome Count of Feria, whom she had found at her side in the gallery. They had talked together, for he spoke English with remarkable fluency. Jane was as excited as her mistress; if she was struck with the handsomeness of the Spanish gentlemen, Feria had been equally impressed with the beauty of at least one English girl.

Mary looked at Jane and smiled, for she had noticed her with Feria during the evening; she had felt envious of the girl’s youth and beauty. How wonderful it must be to attract by those qualities, she thought, and not because one was the daughter of a king.

They put her to bed and drew the curtains. “Your Majesty must sleep well,” they told her.

But how could she sleep? She had seen him, and he was kind and gentle; he would be loving and tender, she was sure.

But was she as foolish as a young girl to imagine he had really meant those handsome compliments which he had paid her? Did she not know the truth? Strip her of her silks and velvets, take away her jewels, and what was left but a plain, aging woman who had lost almost everything in life but her throne?

Courtenay had deceived her; he had pretended to love her, and all the time he was plotting to marry her younger and more attractive sister Elizabeth, and take the throne from her. Courtenay and Elizabeth had both deceived her; they treated her with great respect because she wore the crown, but they were awaiting their opportunities to destroy her.

Gardiner and Renard, the Spanish Ambassador, had tried to persuade her to have Elizabeth executed. Why did she not? Would it have been so difficult to prove her guilty of treachery? Had not her name been mentioned in connection with the Wyatt rebellion? But she could not forget Elizabeth … Elizabeth as a little girl of three, so desolate, so alone, when her mother fell from favor. Although their mothers had been so different, they had the same father—there was no doubt of that. They were sisters.

What a bitter childhood Mary’s had been! The grand marriages which had been prepared for her had all come to nothing, for the King had sworn that her mother was no true wife to him, and Mary who had been the beloved daughter, became a bastard. How many times had her life been in danger, not only from sickness, but from the axe?

And now she was thirty-eight—old for any woman, but for one who had passed through such desperate hazards desperately old; and now a young man had come from across the seas to marry her.

She smiled, thinking of him. He was beautiful with his trim figure, his golden hair and beard, his pale skin. When she had touched him she had thrilled with pleasure … more than pleasure—excitement. She was a virgin; she had never dared think of carnal love before this; if in her youth the sight of a handsome man had aroused such thoughts, they had been instantly suppressed; she had stifled her feelings then by kneeling before her altar, until she was cramped with pain, and must think of that rather than the strong arms of a lover.

But carnal love had become legitimate love. Love between herself and Philip must be more than pleasure; it must be duty. Without it, how could they produce the heir for which England and Spain were waiting?

So now … there need be no suppression. Now thoughts could run riot like mischievous children in hitherto forbidden gardens.

“Philip,” she murmured; and all through the night she dreamed of him.

They were married in the beautiful Cathedral of Winchester. Gardiner, with the help of three bishops, performed the ceremony; and not since the days of the Queen’s great father had such pomp been seen.

The greatest nobles of Spain and England were assembled in the Cathedral. Many of the English—chief of whom was Bishop Gardiner—were in a state of exultation, for they saw in the marriage that for which they had long prayed since King Henry broke with the Pope: the return of England to Rome.

After the ceremony had been performed, Philip and Mary, surrounded by the noblemen of both countries, went to the Bishop’s Palace, where a great feast was awaiting them.

Here dishes were served with the utmost ceremony, as though the food itself were royal. The minstrels played gay music while the guests ate; but all the Spanish guests were furious because Philip ate from a silver plate while Mary had a gold one. They realized that these people meant to show them that Mary was Queen of England, Philip but the Consort; and that England would be ruled by the English.

It was a matter over which hot-headed Spaniards would have drawn the sword had they not been warned against this by Philip himself. They must content themselves with smiling at the Queen’s loving expression when her eyes fell on Philip. Soon she would be his slave; then her parliament and her courtiers would follow.

Nor were the Spaniards allowed to serve Philip at table.

“Nay,” said the hearty English: “he is our guest. He has married our Queen and we demand the privilege of serving him.”

And what could be done? Nothing. The Spaniards could only marvel at these people, at their crudeness, their huge appetites, and their ability to sweep aside etiquette and make the rules which best suited themselves. Spanish discipline was needed here, thought the guests. Let them wait until Philip’s son was born! Let them wait until the Holy Inquisition was set up in this land!

The Queen gave the toast of her guests, and this she drank from a golden cup. Then she drank the health of her husband, whose titles were proclaimed by a handsome herald. “King of England, Naples, and Jerusalem, Prince of Spain, and Count of Flanders.”

And every eye of every Spaniard gleamed with loving devotion.

To Philip it seemed that the celebrations would never end, yet he dreaded their climax. Mary was growing fonder of him with every passing moment. What tenderness had she known in her life? Very little. And when this young man—one day to be the greatest monarch in the world—showed her kindness, it was almost more than she could bear. All her feelings, so carefully suppressed, were about to burst forth like a river in flood; she was longing for the consummation of her marriage. This Philip had everything to offer her; youth, quiet dignity—which penetrated his new aspect of bonhomie—tenderness, kindliness, and understanding. Mary was happier at her wedding feast than she had ever before been in the whole of her life. There was one thing she regretted besides her lost youth—that her mother could not see her now. How happy Katharine of Aragon would have been to see her daughter, Queen of England, married to her kinsman, that together they might rule the world while they led it to the only true faith.

After the banquets the great ball began. To the Spaniards and the English this was a further cause for dissension. For could Spaniards dance the crude English dances? It seemed to them that the English had no notion of grace; they pranced, leaped, and laughed as they danced, as though a dance were an expression of joy rather than of grace. They laughingly declared—in their barbaric tongue, which only a few of their guests could understand—that if the Spanish dances were danced they would all die of laughing, for such laughter as they would be unable to suppress would result in death after such a surfeit of beef, mutton, and roast peacock. As for the grandees, the hidalgos, and the stately dons, how could they so fling their arms about? How could they leap into the air, guffawing as they did so?

Only the King and the Queen seemed to find the contrast between Spanish and English customs amusing. Philip, charming and courtly, discovered that the English knew the German style of dancing, which was not quite so crude as the English and was known to the Spaniards. So, in German fashion, they danced, led by the short, trim Philip in his dazzling wedding garments, hand-in-hand with the Queen, who was made almost handsome by the glitter of jewels and the shine of happiness.

Had that been all that was demanded of him, Philip would have felt great relief. But now the night was upon them. He and his Queen had been disrobed; their attendants had retired, and all but a few candles doused.

She was waiting for him—her eyes ardent, her thin arms eager. She was frightened yet desirous, seeing in him the embodiment of a dream. He was the belated lover; he was the savior who would help her to lead her country back to Holy Church.

And he? He was smiling; she did not notice that the smile was fixed on his lips to make of him an eager lover, as a crown, set on Mary’s head, had made her a Queen. He was seeking to sharpen his pity for her into some semblance of desire.

She, so thin, so tense, so trembling, shocked him. How could he make love to her? He thought of Maria Manoela, the bride of his youth; he thought of Isabel, Catherine, and his Flemish mistress. He longed for them—any of them—anyone but Mary Tudor.

Fervently he beseeched the saints, and the saints, it seemed to him, came to his aid. He thought of his father’s words; of the cheers of the people which had never failed to greet him; momentarily he thought of the misshapen body of Don Carlos. With his life Philip wished to serve Spain and the Holy Inquisition. He felt single-minded in his devotion to them. He was ready to serve Spain and the Holy Inquisition in the arms of Mary Tudor.