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

THREE

A slight mist hung over the great chamber in the Palace of Whitehall. It was the month of November, the most significant day, said all Spaniards and some Englishmen, in England’s history. That morning, Philip, making his way to hear Mass in Westminster Abbey, had been accompanied by English, Spanish, and German guards, all clad in dazzling uniforms. The people in the streets had gathered to watch them—some with approval, some with lowering glances. “This is the return to God,” said some.

Others muttered: “Now we shall see terrible sights. Now we shall have the Inquisition in our land. That is why they made the Spanish marriage; this is the darkest day in English history.”

Thus the people were divided.

During the last four months there had been numerous affrays between Englishmen and Spaniards; many a Spaniard making his way through a lonely place was set upon and robbed. He might call for help, but no Englishman would succor him.

“Get back to your own country!” children shouted after the foreigners.

“These are the worst people in the world!” wailed the Spaniards. “This is the least Christian nation. The English make no attempt to understand our language. They are barbarians.”

Barbarians they might be, but the Spaniards knew them to be no fools. They managed to get their own way and they would not crown Philip King. They insisted on treating him as Consort only, and, although the Queen loved him to such an extent that she would grow hysterical when he was absent, it was still the English who were ruling England.

Once the Queen is with child, the Spaniards promised themselves, we shall return home.

Those were Philip’s thoughts, as he sat with Mary in the Palace of Whitehall on that misty day. Today he would see the first of his missions accomplished; it but remained to get a son. This was the great day of England’s return to Rome.

Cardinal Pole, who had long been exiled, had come back to England, where he was being treated with honor by Philip and Mary. Pole came as envoy from the Pope. He was a sick old man now, but his face was lit by great enthusiasm. Here was the fulfillment of a dream; and he was the one chosen to bring it about.

Now he sat in his chair in the great hall, looking frail in his Cardinal’s robes, while Philip and Mary, hand-in-hand, came to him and asked with great humility if he was prepared, as the Pope’s ambassador, to receive the submission of England.

Philip and Mary then went back to their chairs while the Cardinal read messages from the Pope in which His Holiness proclaimed that he rejoiced to welcome back this great country which had strayed from the fold.

Philip and Mary knelt, pressing the palms of their hands together, their heads bent in attitudes of devotion, while the Cardinal pronounced the Pope’s blessing and gave the Absolution.

There was a deep silence when he had finished speaking. The silence spread through the Palace and into the streets, where people stood about in groups, some exulting, some fearful.

England had become a Catholic country.

The royal procession passed in state through the City of London to St Paul’s.

Cardinal Pole, in his own procession, with its banners, censers, crosses, and churchmen, took a different route to the Cathedral.

Great crowds were in the streets to see the splendors; but what caused most excitement—and anxiety—among the crowd was the sermon Bishop Gardiner preached that day.

He quoted St. Paul: “Brethren, know ye that it is time we rose from slumber …” They must start afresh, he said: they must forget the fearful days through which they had lived. The blackest day in England’s history was when she broke from the Church of Rome. Now she was back in the fold. Let all men hear that and rejoice.

Then came the significant part of Gardiner’s sermon.

He cried in a voice of thunder: “Brethren, we have been lax in these matters. We have stood aside and looked on indulgently at abominable heresies, tumults, and insurrections. These we could have averted, my friends, and England might have been saved much shame, had we taken these offenders and purged them of their wickedness …”

The news spread through the city and gradually to the provinces.

“It is here. Persecution is here.” Every man looked at his neighbor and wondered whether it was remembered that this year … last year … he had spoken against the Pope.

The fires of fanaticism had burned in Gardiner’s eyes. That fire would light other fires.

On that day it seemed to the people of London that they could already smell the smoke over Smithfield.

To Philip those were not unhappy days. He felt that his journey had not been in vain. He knew that throughout Spain there would be rejoicing. God and the Emperor would be pleased. But there was one thing the Emperor wished to hear more than anything. It was four months since Philip had left Spain, and still there was no news of a child. Charles had written several impatient dispatches. Philip could only reply that no one longed for the child’s conception more than he did.

But … these were the happy days, for during one of them an excited Mary came to him as he sat in his privy chamber at Hampton Court turning over the dispatches from his father. He wondered at her interruption, for she, knowing that he wished to be alone when working, had given strict instructions that no one was to approach him at such times. And she herself came in.

“Philip,” she said, and she looked almost like a young girl as she spoke, “I could wait no longer. I had to see you. I have wonderful news.”

He took her hand and kissed it.

“It has happened,” she went on. “I bring you the tidings we most want to hear. I am with child.” She threw back her head and laughed. He kissed her cheek.

“I am so happy,” he said.

“Happy!” She had turned away. Her joy was almost uncontrollable. She, who had led such a miserable life, was now the happiest woman on earth. She began to walk up and down the room, making no effort to hold back her tears. This was the happiest moment in her life … so far, because when the child was in her arms and she knew him for a boy, that would be the supreme moment.

She loved Philip, but that love was a torment. How could she help knowing that she was old, plain, and worn out with illness? How could she believe in his protestations of affection? She was aware that she must be grateful for his kindness rather than his love.

She faced him suddenly and said: “This I have desired all my life. A child of my own! In a few months I shall be brought to bed, and soon I shall hold him in my arms. I thank God for letting me live until this moment.”

Philip was moved; he went to her and laid an arm about her shoulder. “I share your joy, Mary,” he said.

“Nay, Philip. You have not lived as I have. But everything I have ever suffered is of no account now. ‘My soul doth magnify the Lord and my spirit doth rejoice in God my Savior, for He that is mighty hath magnified me …” Magnified me, Philip; and made me the happiest Queen … the happiest woman who ever lived.”

He watched her. Surely he was almost as happy. I have done my duty, he told himself. Now I shall be free. I may escape. I may leave her and return to all I love.

The news quickly spread, and in the streets the people talked of the Queen’s condition. The bells rang out. In a few months’ time it was expected that the heir of Spain and England would be born.

It was now not so difficult to make a show of gaiety. He would say to Mary at night: “My dearest wife, you must rest. Remember the child you carry.”

She would smile, for her thoughts of the child absorbed her; she would collect her women about her and they would discuss children for hours; and all the time she would sit among them, that rapt expression on her face, while now and then she would smooth the folds of her dress over her swelling figure.

As for Philip, he could not understand himself. Perhaps a man had to rebel. What happened when a man deliberately assumed a character he did not possess? Did he become something of the character he aped? Was he become cruder, more lusty?

He had watched Magdalen Dacre for some weeks, and each time he saw her she seemed to be more beautiful. She reminded him a little of Isabel, a little of Catherine.

During the dance he would seek to partner her; she would accept the honor graciously. Why did she appeal to him? Because she was tall and well formed, and Mary was small and thin? Because she was vital and young, and Mary was old and tired?

There were times when he was conscious of a strong desire for Magdalen Dacre; yet frequently other matters obsessed him. There was a Princess whom he had not yet seen because she was exiled from the court and living in seclusion at Woodstock.

He had heard a good deal of this Princess, for many scandals were attached to her name. Many said she had born the Admiral Thomas Seymour a child; and he knew that she had come near to losing her head at the time of Seymour’s execution because she was suspected of complicity in his schemes. That was not the only time she had been in trouble. Whenever there was a rising, Elizabeth was suspect.

She was a gay jilt, he had heard; she was coquettish, wanton, but so like her father and so full of vitality, so very much one of these barbarians, that the people loved her and shouted for her every time she was seen. That was one of the reasons why Mary liked to keep her hidden away either at Hatfield or Woodstock.

Moreover, said some who were less kind, Mary was jealous. Here was a young girl of twenty-two, with startlingly red hair and bright blue eyes—not exactly a beauty, but fair enough, and with youth on her side.

Philip was eager to meet this Princess.

He broached the subject while Mary was pretending to take an interest in the arrangements for the Christmas revels. She was, of course, not interested. Mary had no interest beyond the infant she hoped soon to bear.

“Your sister should be welcomed back to court,” he said.

Mary looked at him. Now he became aware of that obstinacy of his wife’s; he could see in her face the ugly temper which she had never before shown him, though he had heard of it.

“You do not know what she has done,” said Mary.

“Has aught been proved against her?”

“Plenty could have been proved.”

“But has not?”

Mary’s eyes, beneath the sandy brows which were so pale that they were scarcely visible, blazed suddenly. “Do you forget that it was due to her mother that my mother suffered as she did? When Elizabeth was born, my father declared me a bastard.”

“Her mother suffered in her turn,” said Philip. “Elizabeth was called bastard, and still is.”

Tears gathered in Mary’s eyes; they came easily during these days. “It is such a short time since Wyatt rebelled. Some of my ministers declared at that time that it was folly not to send Elizabeth to the block.”

“You should forgive her now and bring her to court.”

“Forgive her for trying to take the crown! Forgive her for winning over the people against me!”

“It is for the sake of the people that you should bring her to court. In governing a country, it is always unwise to ignore the people. They are not pleased that she should be banished from the court. Bring her here. Forgive her. Make friends with her, and you will please the people.”

“Forgive her! I cannot do that.”

“My cousin, Emmanuel Philibert of Savoy, will pay us a visit soon. He would be a good match for your sister.”

“You think he would consent to marry a bastard?”

Philip was silent. He would go to work slowly. He would not suggest to Mary just yet that she might as well make Elizabeth legitimate, because that was how the people regarded her, and if some still declared Elizabeth illegitimate, there were also those who had doubts of Mary’s legitimacy. Legitimacy was a ticklish subject where such a man as Henry VIII was concerned.

He said cautiously: “We could try to make the match, which would be advantageous from the points of view of both our countries, for, my dear wife, it would be a good thing for us if the Princess were out of the country.”

“Yet you ask me to have her at court for Christmas!”

“As a preliminary step toward getting her out of the country, my dear wife.”

When the Princess Elizabeth heard that she was summoned to court, she was torn between delight and apprehension. To one of her nature exile was purgatory; she loved gaiety and fine clothes; she hated obscurity and poverty. With her governess, Katharine Ashley, to whom she was alternately confiding friend and haughty mistress, she talked throughout the night after she had received the summons.

Katharine Ashley, who herself had spent many uneasy nights as a prisoner in the Tower, was terrified. She had been terrified of what would happen to her charge ever since she could remember. For haughty, wilful, arrogant as the Princess was, she was also warm-hearted, loyal, and brave—only Katharine knew how brave; and Katharine loved her better than anything in her life. It was Katharine’s dream—as it was Elizabeth’s—that one day the Princess would be Queen.

They had been breathless with eagerness when little Edward had died and they had seen first Jane Grey and then Mary take the crown.

“She is old, Kat,” Elizabeth often whispered in the quietness of her apartments at Hatfield or Woodstock. “She cannot live very long, for not only is she old, but she is sickly.”

“Hush!” Kat would mutter, her eyes gleaming with an excitement which never failed to urge Elizabeth to great indiscretion. “That’s treason!”

“Very well, Madam Ashley, report it.”

“What … report the future Queen of England!”

Then they would pretend to laugh together at their presumptuousness, knowing that neither of them thought the idea in the least presumptuous.

But Philip of Spain had married Mary and now Mary was to have a child; that child would stand between Elizabeth’s hopes of the crown forever. But Elizabeth was optimistic. She did not believe that Mary’s child would live even if Mary came safely through her pregnancy. And then? … Well, that was just what she and Kat liked to brood upon.

And now this summons to court had arrived.

“It is my brother-in-law who has asked to see me,” said Elizabeth. “You may depend upon that.”

“And why should he?”

There were several reasons, Elizabeth said. Would not a husband wish to meet his bride’s family? Might he not feel it was safer to have at court such an important personage as the Princess Elizabeth?

“You think the real reason is that he has seen your picture and fallen in love with you!” declared Kat.

“You have said it!” retorted Elizabeth. “Not I!”

They laughed frivolously together, as they did so often to enliven the monotony of their days of captivity.

They loved each other the more because they recognized each other’s weaknesses. Kat knew that her mistress was the vainest creature in England, that she really did believe that every man who smiled at her was in love with her; she was haughty; she could be mean; she could fly into sudden rages; but how Kat loved her! And Elizabeth loved Kat, for a host of reasons. She was her mother’s kinswoman for one; for another, she had taken the place of that mother whom Elizabeth had lost when she was three years old; and although at the time of Seymour’s execution it had been Kat and Elizabeth’s cofferer Parry who had been so indiscreet before the Council regarding Elizabeth’s and Seymour’s flirtatious conduct, Elizabeth knew that Kat had talked because she could not help talking—it did not mean that she loved her mistress any the less.

“In love with you?” cried Kat. “This gentleman from Spain? Why, he has all the beauties of the world at his disposal.”

“They say he is moderate and entertains only one at a time; and that one, for so long, has been my sister.”

“Now don’t you try your tricks with him, your little Majesty.”

Elizabeth laughed and then was serious as she tried to look into the future. She was frightened. How could she, who had known the loneliness of a prison in the Tower and the fear of what footsteps outside her cell might mean, receive with equanimity a summons to appear before that sister who she knew had little cause to love her? There was only one way to meet such an ordeal bravely; and that was not to think of an angry sister, but an amorous brother-in-law who, having seen her pictures, surely must find her more attractive than his wife.

“My darling,” said Kat, “have a care.”

“Silly Kat! What is there to fear? Go now and read what I wrote with my diamond on the window of this very room. Go, Kat, and read it aloud to me now.”

Kat made a mock curtsy and went to the window. She read slowly:

“Much suspected—of me,

Nothing proved can be,

Quoth Elizabeth, the prisoner.”

“’Tis true, Kat. ’Tis true now as it was when I wrote it.”

“Well, sweetheart, if you go tossing your head and frivoling with your sister’s husband as you once did with your stepmother’s, I shall be trembling in my shoes.”

“Nay,” said Elizabeth, smiling a little sadly, for memories of the gay and dashing Admiral Seymour always made her sad. Then she turned suddenly to Kat and cried: “I was a child then, Kat, and do you not remember him? There was none like him … nor will ever be. And they say this Philip is quiet and sober … everything that Tom Seymour was not.”

“None the less dangerous for all that.”

“Say you so? Well, Thomas nearly brought me to the executioner’s axe; and this Philip, for all he is a King, could not take me further than that, now could he, Kat? For, stupid one, I have only one neck, you know; and it has been in danger so many times that once more … well, what is that?”

Then she laughed and Kat laughed with her. In their hearts they both believed that she was clever enough to come through danger and that she would rise to that high eminence which must one day be hers.

The next day she set out from Woodstock. She was cheered as she passed along the way, for many had come out to see her; the more unpopular the Spanish marriage became, the more they looked to Elizabeth. There were many ugly whispers throughout the country as to what would follow this return to the Catholic fold.

“Long live the Princess Elizabeth!” cried the people, at which Elizabeth would become demure, curbing her smiles, remembering that if there was one thing which angered Mary more than another it was to hear how spontaneously the people had cheered her sister.

After several days’ journey, Elizabeth arrived at Hampton Court, where she was taken to the “Prince’s Lodgings;” but no sooner had she entered with a few of her trusted attendants than the doors were locked behind her, and she knew that she was again a prisoner.

Before she had been in her lodgings an hour, messengers came to tell her that Bishop Gardiner, with some members of the Cabinet, was on his way to see her.

Kat was trembling as she helped to adjust her mistress’s robes. “Gardiner … that man?” she cried. “If he could have his way …”

“Yes, Kat. If he could have had his way my head and body would have parted company.”

“How I hate him!” cried Kat.

“Such indiscretion!” mocked Elizabeth.

“I never forget the way in which he persecuted your father’s sixth wife.”

“But she outwitted him. Remember that also. My quiet stepmother outwitted the mighty Gardiner. Do you imagine that what Katharine Parr could do, the Princess Elizabeth could not? Then you are guilty of double treason!”

“Hush, hush, my darling. Now are you ready? I beg of you, I pray you, my precious love, be careful.”

They kissed fondly. “I give you my special permission, Kat, to listen at the keyhole. Though you do not need such permission. Get along with you at once.”

“God bless … your Majesty.”

“Hush! At such a time! You’ll make me give myself too many airs. I must be modest … at least outwardly.”

The Bishop was at the door, so Kat hurried away to take up her position at the keyhole and to experience great fear mingled with pride and love.

The Bishop came forward and Elizabeth gave him her hand to kiss. He bowed over it. Greatly, she thought, would I like to see your head on London Bridge, Sir Bishop; for if I could witness that cheering sight, mine would feel much happier where it rests still, in spite of your efforts to dislodge it.

She did not wait for him to speak. She said: “My Lord, how glad I am to see you! I have been kept a great while from you, desolately alone. I would entreat you to be a means to the King’s and Queen’s Majesties that I may be released from my imprisonment.”

Gardiner replied: “Your Grace speaks truth. Her Majesty has, alas!, found it often necessary to keep you under restraint. And if you would remedy this permission, my advice to you would be to confess your fault and put yourself at the Queen’s mercy.”

It would indeed, Sir Bishop! she thought. Confess my fault! Admit my treason so that she could with free conscience lop off my head? Naturally, that is your advice, my Lord, for are you not at the head of those whose greatest wish is to see me headless?

Her eyes were clear and innocent as she lifted them to the Bishop’s face. “Confess, my Lord? How could I, when I know not what my fault might be? Should I lie to the Queen? Should I invent a fault that she might forgive me for that which I have not committed? Rather than be so false I would lie in prison all my life. I have never offended against the Queen; therefore I can crave no mercy at her Majesty’s hands.”

The Bishop hid his exasperation. He said: “I marvel at your Grace’s boldness. Say you then that the Queen has wrongfully imprisoned you?”

“Nay, my Lord. How could that be? I am the Queen’s subject, and it is her privilege to punish me if she thinks fit so to do.”

“Her Majesty would have you know that you must tell another tale if you would be set at liberty.”

“Then, my Lord, if I must say what is not true, if I must plead for forgiveness when I have done naught to need it, I would rather lie in prison than say aught against my conscience.”

Gardiner changed his method. He insinuated that the Queen was not pleased with Elizabeth’s religious views. The Princess’s eyes were wide with astonishment. Had she not heard divine service after the manner of Rome? Had she not frequently been confessed?

“These things you have done, some say, for expediency only. I should like to hear from your own lips what is your opinion as to the real presence of Christ in the sacrament.”

Elizabeth was prepared for this. It was a question asked of all those who were suspected of being heretics. She spoke earnestly the lines which she herself had composed:

“Christ was the word that spake it,

He took the bread and brake it,

And what His word did make it,

That I believe, and take it.”

What could be done with such a woman? wondered Gardiner. He rejoiced that the Queen was with child, for he could imagine what would happen to such as himself if ever this wily termagant came to the throne. It seemed little use trying to entrap her; she would have one of her cunning answers ready for every emergency.

“I advise your Grace to ponder well your position,” he said severely; and then he left her.

Kat came in as soon as he had gone; she embraced the Princess, and Elizabeth tore herself away to give an impression of the dignified Bishop. Louder and louder grew their laughter, more boisterous their play-acting, until Kat cried: “Be silent. The danger is grave.”

She fancied she had caught an echo, in Elizabeth’s laughter, of that which beset people when they played with death. Thus her mother was said to have laughed in her gloomy lodging of the Tower.

Mary was nervous. As she paced the apartment, Philip walked beside her.

“You do not know what you ask,” said Mary. “She is deceitful. She works with my enemies. She seeks to depose me and take the throne.”

“How could she do that, my dear Mary, when you are the rightful Queen, and now are to have a child?”

The mention of the child never failed to soften her. “Ah, yes … But what if a rising against me were successful? I have to be doubly careful now … because of the child.”

“Forgive her and please the people. Be calm when she comes … and she will be here at any moment. I shall hide myself behind these curtains that I may observe her without her being aware of my presence. I will draw my conclusions of her character; and when we have married her to Philibert, she will give us no more anxiety.”

“Could you ask him to marry a bastard?”

“He is a vassal of my father’s, and doubtless it would not be difficult to persuade him.” He paused listening. “I hear them coming.”

There was a knock on the door, and Mary cried: “Enter.”

The door was opened, and a herald announced: “The Princess Elizabeth.”

Philip had hastily hidden himself behind the curtains. His heart had begun to beat faster. He had heard so many tales of his young sister-in-law. Was it, he wondered, that nowadays every woman except his wife must excite him?

Mary was sitting in her state chair when Mistress Clarencius and Sir Henry Bedingfield brought in the Princess. Mary dismissed Mistress Clarencius and Bedingfeld as Elizabeth fell to her knees.

Through a small gap in the hangings, Philip watched the girl. He saw an elegant young woman with reddish hair and blue eyes; she was rather pale, no doubt because she had suffered many an illness in recent years, generally supposed to be due to her imprisonment and her perpetual fear of death. She lived midway between the executioner’s axe and the throne, and would never be sure which way her steps must take her.

He noticed how cleverly she had dressed herself to enhance what beauty she had; he saw the rings which glittered on her beautiful white hands, and he was aware of how she deliberately displayed them even at a time such as this.

She said: “Your Majesty sent for me?”

“How else could you be here?” asked Mary coldly.

The long, sandy lashes were immediately lowered over the blue eyes. Philip sensed how vital she was. She looked demure, but she did not deceive him for a moment. She was all fire; within her ambition mingled with her womanliness. She might wish, as he had heard, to be a much-desired woman; but her burning desire was to be a Queen.

He must watch her very carefully. She must indeed be made to marry his cousin of Savoy and banished from her country, for one thing was certain: where she was, there trouble would be also.

Elizabeth kissed the Queen’s hand, but Mary withdrew it immediately.

Elizabeth cried with passion: “Your Majesty must believe in my loyalty. Much slander has been spoken against me.”

“Why is it that you always attract such slander?”

“Because it is the desire of mean-spirited people to misrepresent me, to undermine your Majesty’s faith in me. I have never sought to rival your Majesty.”

“What of your relationship with Courtenay?”

Elizabeth fluttered her eyelashes and allowed herself to look even more demure. “That, your Majesty, was no fault of mine.”

She implied, as she said this, that she could not help it if men such as Courtenay found her so attractive that they risked their heads for her sake, even though she knew them to be acting foolishly and had no wish to accept what they offered her.

Elizabeth’s vanity always annoyed Mary; yet, knowing this, and being wise and quick-witted in all other matters, Elizabeth could not eschew it, such was the pleasure of flaunting herself as the irresistible woman.

“I think otherwise,” said the Queen. “I doubt your innocence. There are too many stories.”

“Your Majesty, it is true that men when racked have spoken against me, but can confession made under torture be relied upon?”

Mary said: “Do you swear that you have never been involved in any rebellion against me?”

“I swear it, your Majesty.”

“Would I could believe it!”

“Your Majesty must believe what is true.”

“If you would confess your offense, sister …”

“Your Majesty, gladly would I do so if I had aught to confess.”

“You stand stoutly in your truth, then?”

“I do, your Majesty.”

“I pray God that it will so fall out that you speak the truth, for if you do not and we discover it, then your punishment would be the greater for your deceit.”

“If your Majesty discovered aught against me to be true, then should I deserve all that befell me, and I should never sue your queenly mercy.”

“That we shall see,” said Mary. “Now I am tired. You may go back to your apartment. I have decided to forgive you this time, and unless I find aught against you, you may join our Christmas revels.”

The Princess took the Queen’s hand and insisted on kissing it. “Beloved sister,” she said, “never shall I forget your clemency.”

What was going on behind those blue eyes, Philip wondered. Was she already deciding what dresses, what jewels, she would wear to charm the courtiers? Was she praying that the child in Mary’s womb might sicken and die before it saw the light of day? Was she waiting for the moment when none stood between her and the crown? It might be any of these things; and Philip realized that it could be all of them.

When she had gone he stepped from behind the curtains.

“What did you think of my sister?” asked Mary.

“Comely enough. Shrewd too, I should say.”

Mary looked at him, noting the flush on his pale cheeks. Had he been slightly attracted by Elizabeth? Elizabeth herself so believed that every man must fall in love with her, that others found themselves believing it also. But Philip was no philanderer.

His next words disarmed her suspicions. “It would be well to marry her to Philibert. She is ripe for marriage.”

But on looking at him more closely, Mary began again to wonder.

That was a merry Christmas. What tournaments, what jousts there were, with all the nobility of Spain to tilt against the lords and dukes of England!

There were the usual rivalries; there was sly English laughter at Spanish dignity, Spanish disdain of English crudity.

Philip was happy thinking: Before the summer is here, I shall have left England. Once the child is born, I shall be away—and if he is healthy, my duty is done.

He was watching Magdalen Dacre, that strange girl who seemed remote yet conscious of the honor he conferred on her when he singled her out. It was not always true that English and Spaniards did not get on well together. There were the Count of Feria and Jane Dormer to prove that. Feria had told Philip that he had fallen in love with the English girl and wished to break off the engagement he had made with a Spanish lady of noble birth. What could Philip say to that but wish him luck? If Feria could satisfy the family of his first love, there was no reason why he should not marry Jane Dormer. What a useful spy that lady should make for Spain!

The red-headed Princess, who, delighted to be back at court, was throwing herself wholeheartedly into the revels, gave him cause for anxiety. He suspected her of … he knew not what. Every action which seemed so spontaneous could have its motive. Courtiers said: “How gay it seems now that Elizabeth is back at court!” and he knew they meant to convey: What gaiety there could be, what merrymaking, if she were Queen! That was what she intended; while she was demure she was bold; she seemed full of humility, but what arrogance shone from those blue eyes!

He could not forget her; she turned his thoughts from Magdalen Dacre. When they had met she had made a charming speech of welcome as his sister-in-l aw. Yet what had she really thought of him? He could not understand her; she was all that he was not, and he felt that that gave her an advantage; he could not look at her without being reminded of the immensity of her importance. He was determined to get her married to Emmanuel Philibert of Savoy.

Philibert sat beside him now. What more handsome man could she hope to marry? He was the hero of many a battle. Alas! he had little fortune to offer; but what had Elizabeth apart from her questionable birth and her high hopes?

He watched her in the dance, flushed, excited, lifting her eyes to her partners—flirtatious and yet so regal. He whispered to Mary: “I would speak with the Princess. Summon her here. Philibert must have his answer.”

Mary was nothing loth. She would like to see Elizabeth banished from the country, but there was one thing she would not do, even for Philip, and that was acknowledge her sister’s legitimacy. To do so would cast a slur on her own birth, for how could Elizabeth’s mother, Anne Boleyn, have been the true wife of Henry VIII, while he had another wife living, and that wife Mary’s own mother, Katharine of Aragon? No; at all costs she must stand out against Elizabeth’s legitimacy.

Elizabeth came and took the seat indicated by Philip. She glanced at him in a manner which made him uncomfortable. Was she suggesting that he found her so fascinating that he must have her beside him?

He said coldly: “I trust your Grace has considered the proposals of Emmanuel Philibert?”

Her eyes clouded. “Alas! Sire, it is so difficult for a young girl to know her mind.”

“Oh, come. You have had plenty of time.”

“But marriage is such an important matter, your Highness.”

“His Grace of Savoy has paid a visit to England for the express purpose of wooing you.”

“And of beseeching your Majesty to restore to him his estates,” she said quickly.

She knew too much. How did she learn these things? At one moment she was a frivolous girl; at the next a statesman.

“He has forgotten the latter in his desire to achieve the former,” said Philip.

“Does your Majesty think so, then?” She laughed—the frivolous girl again. “Would it be improper of me to ask how your Highness could have imagined it could be so?”

“You are so young and … fair.” He was playing the game she wished him to play. She threw him a glance from under those fluttering sandy lashes.

“Your Highness honors me. I shall always remember that the King said I was young and fair.”

He felt vexed. He said coldly: “It would please us if you gave him your answer before he leaves.”

She pouted slightly. “And I thought your Majesty liked to see me at court!”

“I do indeed …”

“Then I am twice honored. I am a fair young lady whom your Highness likes to see at his court.”

“I would like to see you married.”

Her eyes were reproachful. Then she smiled brightly. It was as though she were telling him she understood his meaning; he wished her to marry because her presence at court disturbed such a respectable married man as himself. What a pity, her eyes went on to suggest, that the younger prettier sister had not been the Queen whom it was expedient for him to marry. Then there would have been a different tale to tell!

How could she say so much with her eyes? The answer was: Because besides being the vainest woman in the world she was one of the cleverest. She angered, exasperated, and attracted him.

“The match is a good one,” he said swiftly.

“An excellent one for a bastard Princess,” she said, and her looks belied her humble words. “Ah, your Majesty,” she went on, “you know what it means to leave your native land. I think if I left mine I should die.”

“I should have thought you would have been glad to leave these rains … these fogs …”

“Your Majesty has not been here when the first primroses are seen in the hedgerows and the blossom bursts on the trees.”

“Well,” he answered, “I doubt not that Savoy could offer you primroses and blossoms.”

“Not English primroses,” she said passionately. “Not English blossoms.”

Now she was speaking loudly that those about them could hear her. She is one of us, they would say. She loves us and our land; and she is the one for us!

Philip looked at her sternly and wondered whether she should be forced to the match. He sensed that she was the most dangerous person in the country. Now she was trying to lure him to what?… To flirtation! To some indiscretion?

As he would have turned again she laid her hand on his arm with a gesture of charming timidity.

“It is so comforting to a young lady to know,” she said with the utmost simplicity, “that the King has her welfare at heart.”

He could not stay with Mary that night. He was disturbed. He showed the utmost solicitude toward his wife. “These festivities have been too much for you. You must sleep now. Remember the child.”

She was not sorry to be cosseted, to be left alone with her dream of the child.

As he made his way to his apartments, he felt dissatisfied. What did he want? To play that old game of kings? To disguise himself, to stroll out into the streets and join merry bands, to find strange women and make love to them; in any case he wished to escape from the restraint he had put upon himself.

Passing along a corridor, he saw, from where he was, a lighted window. He looked at it idly, and as he did so he saw a woman on the other side of it. She had taken off her coif and was shaking out her beautiful long hair. He recognized her as the beautiful Magdalen Dacre. It was not often that he acted on impulse, but this was one of the occasions when he did.

His heart beating fast, his need for excitement urging him on, he went to the door of Magdalen’s room and silently opened it.

Magdalen had taken off her gown. She stood in her petticoats, her long hair, cloak-like, covering her bare shoulders. She paled when she saw him, and strode to the door where he stood hesitating. She did not speak, but as she laid her hand on the door, he saw the vivid flush in her face. Her excitement was as great as his.

She tried to close the door, but his foot was inside.

“Magdalen …” he began; and he put out a hand to touch her.

But he did not touch her. To his profound astonishment, before he could do so, Magdalen lifted her hand and administered a stinging blow on his cheek. He could only drop his hands and stare. There was no time to do more. This English amazon had, with a second gesture, pushed him backward and shut the door in his face.

As he stood there, bewildered and horrified, he heard her turn the key in the lock.

The new year had come.

Emmanuel Philibert had left England, and Elizabeth had gone back to Woodstock, not exactly a prisoner, but under some restraint. She had declared in the presence of several people that her heart would be broken if she were forced to leave England. Philip realized that between them the royal sisters had defeated him. Both were obstinate: Elizabeth in her determination to remain in England, Mary in hers to insist on Elizabeth’s illegitimacy.

Their behavior was typical of them. Elizabeth, fervently believing in her destiny, though her sister was securely on the throne and about to have a child, was refusing to leave England because she felt that when her great opportunity came she must be in the right spot to exploit it. Yet Mary, secure, with the child in her womb and the might of the Anglo-Spanish alliance behind her, was so afraid of that young girl that she denied her the benefit of legitimacy.

Certainly these had been uneasy weeks for Philip. He could not forget his humiliating encounter with Magdalen Dacre. He did not blame her; he blamed himself. When they met about the court there was no change in her manner to him, nor in his to her; he was as gracious as he had ever been, she as humble and courteous. Neither gave a sign of having remembered the incident. He did not believe she would be so foolish as to report the matter to Mary. Magdalen was clever enough to know that, however angry Mary might be with Philip, she would be doubly so with Magdalen.

Magdalen herself had spent a sleepless night after the incident. She believed that Philip would not allow her behavior to go unpunished. She saw herself disgraced and exiled on some trumped-up charge. She had heard of Spanish vengeance, and she had seen how some of the hidalgos were ready to fight to the death in order to avenge an imaginary insult.

Daily she waited for the storm, but nothing happened. Once she fancied she saw a mute apology in his eyes. Could he really be so reasonable, so just? If so, she must admire his character, for it was not in the nature of powerful kings to see their own faults.

Magdalen eventually became grateful and sought to defend Philip when he was maligned. She mentioned the incident to one of her friends, in strictest confidence, to whom she pointed out that while he might be human in his desires, he was at least man enough to know himself in the wrong and not to seek to avenge a loss of dignity. That, said Magdalen, was admirable, in a King … and a Spaniard.

But how could such a secret be kept? Others must savor it. They must laugh in secret because Philip of Spain had had his face slapped by an English maid of honor.

As the weeks passed the fires of Smithfield had begun to blaze. Gardiner and Bonner had put their heads together; this should have started long ago, they declared. Now that England had returned to the Catholic fold, heretics should learn the folly of their ways, and those who wavered toward heresy should watch the writhing bodies in Smithfield Square and turn from their wickedness.

The people of London looked on sullenly. It seemed to them that a pall of smoke continually hung over the square. They could not get the smell of burning flesh out of their nostrils.

It was the Spanish marriage, the citizens declared. “All was well in this land until we had foreigners among us …”

Spaniards were set upon in the streets from time to time, and soon none of them dared venture out after dark. In the taverns threats were whispered, and the question asked: “Why has this happened to us?” The answer was: “Because of the Spaniards.”

The Smithfield ceremonies were no autos-da-fé. There was not, said the Spaniards, the same reverence in England as in Spain. The English liked a merry spectacle, eating till they could eat no more, drinking until they were boisterous … mumming, dancing. They could find little satisfaction in a religious ceremony that was a solemn dedication. Some came to watch the burnings, but they were a sullen crowd. There was none of the ecstasy which was such an essential part of an auto-da-fé in Spain.

No; the people were sullen, and when these people were angry they showed their anger in ridicule. So now they jeered; and this time they did not spare Philip. The story of Magdalen Dacre and the Prince of Spain had spread to the streets, but it had changed considerably in transit. It was not only a lady-in-waiting whom he pursued; it was every woman he set eyes on. And since the ladies of the English court would have none of him he began to look elsewhere; he prowled the streets at night, said the people, seizing any young girl who happened to be abroad.

In the taverns they sang of Philip’s amours.

“The baker’s daughter in her russet gown

Is better than Mary, without her crown.”

Philip was alarmed by the ferocity with which Gardiner was conducting the burning of the heretics. He approached Mary on the matter.

Mary, thinking perpetually of the child, was lethargic; she was worried because she did not increase her girth sufficiently to please herself; nothing interested her so much as the stories other women had to tell her of their experiences of pregnancy. Sometimes she would cling to Philip with fear in her eyes. She was terrified that the child might not be living within her. He would soothe her, believing that she was pleading for a renewal of that relationship which was so repugnant to him.

He now felt it necessary to speak to her about the fires of Smithfield.

“Gardiner has no restraint,” he said. “No sooner is England returned to Rome, than he begins the burnings.”

“Is this not as it should be?”

“Yes, yes; but it is always necessary to consider the people.”

“Is that not what we are doing?” Mary was fond of Gardiner. If he was the cruellest and most vindictive of men where heretics were concerned, he was a great statesman and a loyal supporter of the Catholic Queen.

“No!” said Philip. “The people are unready as yet.”

“But what are these ceremonies compared with the great work the Inquisition is doing in Spain?” demanded Mary.

“The Spanish people support the Inquisition.”

“And do my people then support the heretics?”

He was irritated when she said my people in that way, and he retorted: “No. I agree our people do not.”

She gave him her tremulous smile then. “Oh, Philip, our people, of course. That is how I would have it. You and I … together always …” She held out her hand, but he pretended not to see it.

This was so difficult to endure, this wavering between the arrogant Queen who was Queen in her own right, reminding him that the English people would allow him to be nothing more than Consort, and the hysterical woman come late to passion and therefore determined to drain the loving cup to the dregs.

“But the people are not ready,” he said firmly. “Later we will install the Inquisition here. We will have an auto-da-fé in Smithfield Square. But that time is not yet. Your people are irreligious by nature. They prefer laughter to prayers, to forget the sins of their neighbors if they may laugh with them. But we will remedy that in time. Now they are sullen. They like not the fires. They blame my countrymen. They blame me. Their insults are more mephitic than ever.”

“We’ll stop it!” cried Mary shrilly. “Any who insults your countrymen shall himself be burned at the stake.”

“Nay; that is not the way to deal with subjects. I have tried to speak to Gardiner on this matter, but it seems he fancies himself the ruler of this realm. He is thirsty for blood. He has longed for this day and is like an excited child!”

“He is a true servant of God!” said Mary vehemently.

“Yes; but do not upset yourself, my dear. I shall command my friar, Alphonso di Castro, to preach a sermon urging leniency toward heretics, suggesting that they should be given time in which to repent.”

“I see you are angry with me,” said Mary. “You are cold. When I give you my hand, you look the other way.”

“I am deeply concerned for you. You must remember the precious burden you carry. You must be calm … live quietly.”

“What would you have me do, Philip, my love? There is nothing I would not do for you. Command me, I beg of you. Shall I send for Gardiner?”

“There is no need. I would have you rest. It is better that the sermon should be preached by my friar. The people will then see that I am not the monster they believe me to be, for they will know that a servant of mine would not dare preach such a sermon without my consent.”

“The people do not know you, Philip,” she said passionately. “They say ugly things of you which are … untrue … so untrue.”

He looked at her anxiously. How many rumors had she heard? He had endured her cloying devotion; must he yet suffer from her bitter jealousy?

In the Palace at Valladolid Juana told Carlos of the news from England.

“You are to have a brother, Carlos. He will be half English.”

Carlos did not care whether or not he had a brother; he was angry with the English because they had not killed his father, as people had believed they might.

“He will come home,” said Juana. “As soon as the baby is born he will come back to Spain.”

“That will be a long time yet,” said Carlos.

He enjoyed those days. He was a little less wild, although he gave way to bouts of frenzy when any suggested he should learn his lessons. Always he would fly to Juana for protection, calling on her to save him from the monsters.

He continued to call himself Little One; nor would he allow even Juana to try weaning him from the habit.

His tutor, Luis de Vives, felt that, as it was almost impossible to teach Carlos anything, there was no point in forcing matters. To force the boy meant kicking, unpleasant scenes, and injuries to his health, which in their turn meant no lessons. There was hardly anyone who could be persuaded to whip the boy, for none could forget that he was destined to be the King of Spain, and they were sure Carlos was one to remember past injuries.

Only his father and grandfather would dare punish him, and they were both absent.

Often Carlos talked to Juana of her namesake; he remembered vividly that night when he had crept into Mad Juana’s room and talked to her. He told his aunt that she had said that he and she were the only sane ones in a mad world. “But she did not know you, dear Aunt. You are sane too,” he told Juana.

One day during that spring there came news from the Alcázar at Tordesillas. A messenger arrived at the Palace of Valladolid and asked audience of the Queen Regent.

Juana put on her cloak and hood to receive him, fastening the hood about her head so that she was just able to peep out of it. It had been a habit of hers to hide her face as much as possible since she had become a widow. It was remembered that that other Juana had adopted the habit after the death of Philip the Handsome when she had kept with her the coffin containing his body.

“Bad news, Highness,” said the messenger. “Queen Juana is ill and we fear for her life. Her illness started three weeks ago. She demanded to take a hot bath. She was wandering in her mind and she said that the King, her husband, would visit her that night and, as it was years since she had taken a bath, he would find her dirty. The water was brought, and she would have it almost boiling, your Highness.”

“And this bath … it was too much for her?”

“Her legs have been swollen to more than twice their usual size, your Highness. The water was so hot that the skin burst and it has not yet healed. The Queen was carried to a bed, and there she has been since. She will allow no one to touch her. She lies … without attention … and it has been thus for three weeks.”

“Have you not had doctors brought to her?”

“She will have no one, your Highness. She screams if any approach. Her legs, your Highness, are in such a state of corruption that she screams in agony the whole day and night.”

“Something must be done,” said Juana. “I will visit her myself and take my brother’s physicians with me.”

So Juana set out immediately for Tordesillas, taking with her Philip’s physicians, but when they arrived at the Alcázar the old Queen refused to see anyone but Juana.

Young Juana caught her breath in disgust at the condition of the bedchamber. The legs were exposed in all their horror, for the old Queen screamed in agony when they were touched by even the lightest covering.

The Queen called out: “Who are you then … come to torment me? You are Mosen Ferrer, are you … you torturer? See what you have done to me with your tortures!”

Juana fell to her knees and put her hands over her face to shut out the hideous sight. She began to sob hysterically.

“What ails you?” asked the Queen.

“It grieves me to see you thus … and you … a Queen.”

“To see me thus … old, crippled, covered in sores … dying … ah, dying! But why be surprised? This is a fitting end for me.”

“Oh, Grandmother, no … no! The doctors can help you.”

“No one can, but I do not care. Soon I shall be past my pains. I shall be with him.”

“Grandmother, your soul is in God’s keeping?”

“I shall be with my Philip. What happens up there, eh? What happens in Heaven? Shall I find him there with his women about him?”

“Grandmother, hush … hush. I must call Father Borgia. You will see the doctors? You must see them.”

“Father Borgia! He is Mosen Ferrer in disguise, I believe.”

“No … no.”

“He poisoned Philip. Comes he now to poison me? Then let him. For soon I shall be with my Philip. Oh, to be with him again! We shall fight … It matters not. Better to fight with him than to live, weary and lonely, without him.”

“Here is Father Borgia, Grandmother. I sent for him. I implore you, listen to him before it is too late.”

“I’ll not see him.”

“You must, Grandmother. I beg of you, do not depart this life with all your sins upon you.”

She began to whimper: “I am tired. Let me go in peace.”

Young Juana beckoned to Father Borgia, who had come close to the bed. “Pray for her,” she whispered.

So he prayed. “Repent,” he urged. “Ask for forgiveness of your sins.”

She nodded—whether or not in answer to him, none of those who had come to the apartment could be sure.

A messenger came to say that learned priests, having heard of the Queen’s condition, had come from Salamanca to do for her what must surely need to be done.

They crowded about the bed, and one held a crucifix before the dying Queen.

“Your soul is in jeopardy,” he cried. “Speak and ask forgiveness. Say after me, ‘Christ crucified, aid me.’ ”

She lifted her eyes to his and the death rattle was in her throat. She murmured: “I feel no pain now.”

“Beg for mercy. Say after me, ‘Christ crucified, aid me.’ ”

Her lips moved. “Christ … crucified … aid me.”

The priest held the crucifix close to her face. Her breathing was very faint and suddenly she smiled.

Juana, watching her, saw her lips form the name: “Philip!” as she slipped away from the world.

It was April. A fitting time for the heir of England to be born. All the trees were in bud; the birds seemed riotously gay as though to welcome the baby Prince. Even the Spaniards seemed reconciled to England in the spring, perhaps because they knew they would soon be leaving it.

In Hampton Court there was a bustling and a hurrying to and fro and many an excited whisper. Any moment now, it was said; and all England and Spain were on tiptoe for the news. The French were hoping for a hitch, for the birth of a Prince would be the death-knell to the hopes of Henri II of securing England’s crown for his son through Mary Queen of Scots.

A peal of bells was rung at St. Stephen’s in Walbrook, and in less than ten minutes bells were ringing all over the city of London. This was taken as the signal.

“The child is born!” cried the populace.

“And is it a boy?”

“Of course it’s a boy!”

Nothing less than a boy would please the people. The bonfires were lighted. There was singing and cheering in the streets.

And on her bed at Hampton Court the Queen was tossing and turning.

Here was all the ceremony that must attend a royal birth. There must be no doubt that the infant was the one born of Mary; therefore there must be important witnesses at hand.

Some of the experienced midwives were looking furtively at one another. They dared not speak their thoughts for fear of being charged with treason.

The Queen screamed aloud in agony and the women closed about her.

One of the women, more bold than the rest, said: “The Queen’s time has not yet come.”

The other midwives nodded in agreement. Mistress Clarencius, her eyes filled with anxiety, whispered to the Queen: “Your Majesty, will you try to rest? The time is not yet here. You should try to rest, they say.”

“Not yet come!” screamed the Queen. “But I swear my time has come. I feel it. I know it. What mean they?”

“They are craving your Majesty to be patient.”

“The child … the child is safe …?”

“Safe, your Majesty,” said Mistress Clarencius, “but not yet ready.”

“Ah! I have come to my bed too soon.”

“Your Majesty should rest. Here is a soothing draught.”

She sipped it and lay back on her pillows. She looked very old without her jeweled coif; her light sandy hair was disordered on the pillows, her sallow face piteously lined. The women looked at her with a terrible fear in their hearts, but they saw that all the Queen’s hopes were with her still.

“I hear bells … shouts …” said Mary.

“It is the people, your Majesty. They rejoice in the blessing which is about to be yours.”

A tired smile was on her lips. “My husband …” she began.

Philip came forward. He could be relied upon to do what was expected of him. He looked at Mary and tried to hide the repulsion she aroused in him. He was not unaware of the tension in the apartment, and he knew that all was not well with the Queen.

Unless this child was born, the discomfort and the humiliation of the last months would have been in vain. If the child died and Mary died, he would have no hold on England. The red-headed Elizabeth would mount the throne; and he doubted that not very soon after such an event she would be snapping her fingers at the Pope himself. And something was wrong … very wrong.

He took Mary’s clammy hand and kissed it.

“It is so long,” she said piteously.

“You were too anxious, my love. There has been a slight miscalculation. You have been brought to bed too soon.”

She nodded. “It seems as though it will never be.”

The draught they had given her was beginning to have its effect. He said: “Sleep, my love. That is what you need. And when you wake … who knows, your time may have come.”

She would not release his hand. Those cold fingers twined about his, pressing, squeezing, like snakes, he thought. As soon as he was sure she was asleep, he gently withdrew his hand.

“What is it?” he asked the midwives.

They lowered their eyes.

“Let us leave the apartment,” he said. “The doctors also. If aught is as it should not be, I would know of it.”

In the antechamber to which he had led them, one of the doctors said: “Your Majesty, I never saw such a strange pregnancy. There seems to be no child … no movement.”

“You think the child is dead?” His voice was cold and precise.

“It is not that, Sire. It is as though there is no child.”

He looked at the doctors. “Well, you are learned men!”

“It is true, your Majesty, that there is all the outward appearance of pregnancy, but … a softness, you understand? It would seem that there is … no child.”

“But how could this be?”

“Sire, there have been similar cases. There have been ladies of the Queen’s age whose desire for children was intense. There followed all the outward signs of pregnancies … but mock pregnancies, your Majesty. The would-be mothers were completely deceived.”

“But this is … impossible!”

“We crave your Majesty’s pardon, but it has happened thus in other cases. Ladies long for children, their longings become hysterical, and they may not be in the best of health. We fear that the Queen’s age may not allow her to bear children, and that in the greatness of her desire she has created a mock pregnancy.”

“I cannot believe this. It is fantastic.”

One of the women curtsied low. “Your Majesty, the Queen expected to be brought to bed last month. She was waiting for her pains. Many times she thought they had started, but they had not. And so it was on this occasion. She waits for her pains in vain.”

Philip said: “Leave me now. Not a word of this to the Queen. It would kill her. We must wait and hope. There must be a child.”

There must be a child. The bells were ringing throughout London. Soon the news of the supposed birth would be all over the country.

And if there is no child, pondered Philip, what hopes are there for Spain? How Henry of France would be laughing up his sleeve! The whole of France and England would be laughing at poor, plain Mary and solemn Philip, who could not get a child.

There must be a child. News of it had been sent to the Emperor, who had written back gleefully to Philip to say that he had heard that the Queen was “hopeful and that her garments waxed very strait.”

Could the hopes of the last months have grown from nothing more secure than a hysterical woman’s delusions?

All through the palace the rumors were circulating. Philip was filled with pity for Mary, that sad, frustrated woman who had already suffered more in one lifetime than anyone should. What would her reactions be if she knew the truth? He must order the cessation of the bell-ringing. Yet how could he tell the people that there was to be no child because it had never existed outside the Queen’s imagination?

Mary was wild-eyed. They had tried to break the news to her. She screamed: “It’s a lie. It’s a conspiracy. My sister has set these rumors abroad. Look at me. Am I not large enough?”

Her women were weeping about her; but she paced up and down her apartment, her hair wild, her eyes blazing. Let others doubt the existence of the child; she would not.

“Send the doctors to me. Send to me the men who have set these rumors working. I’ll have them racked. I’ll get the truth of this matter.”

Philip alone could soothe her. “Wait,” he begged. “I doubt not that shortly you will prove these rumors false.”

She took his hands; she covered them with burning kisses. “My love, you are with me. Oh, Philip, how happy you make me! How we shall laugh at these people when I hold my son in my arms!”

“You shall,” he said. “But calm yourself now. Rest. You must be strong for the ordeal when it comes.”

“How you comfort me! You are always right, and I thank God for bringing you to me.”

He felt the smile freeze on his face at these protestations of affection. Did she notice that? She was watching him suspiciously. “What do you do while I am resting?” she asked. “What do you do at night?” Her voice grew shrill. “Is it true what they say of you? That you are with … women?”

“No, no,” he soothed. “You are distraught.”

“They plot against me,” she cried. “They tell me that I am to have no child. I feel it within me. I know my child is here. And you? How can you love me? Do I not know that I am old and tired and worn out with my miseries? You wish me dead that you may marry Elizabeth, because she is young and healthy and more pleasant to look at than I.”

He shrank from her. He could not bear these noisy scenes; her jealousy shocked and humiliated his reserved nature almost more than did her cloying affection.

“You are not yourself,” he said gently. “I beg of you, for the child’s sake, and the sake of our marriage, be calm. Lie down, Mary. Rest, I say. Rest is what you need.”

“And you?”

He was resigned. “I will sit beside your bed.”

“You will stay with me?” she asked piteously. “I will stay as long as you wish me to.”

“Oh, Philip … Philip!” She flung herself at him, clinging to him, pressing her face against his. He steeled himself to return her caresses. Then he spoke firmly: “Come. You shall rest. This is so bad for you, and the child.”

Then he made her lie down, and tenderly he covered her; and he sat by the bed, her hand in his.

“There is comfort in this,” she said; “my child within me and you beside me—the two I love. I cannot help the fierceness of my love; I went so long without love.”

He sat silently beside her bed, wondering what would happen when she was forced to accept the truth that there would be no child.

Another month had passed. Mary went about with the light of determination in her eyes. She would see none of her ministers. She declared that the child would be born at any minute.

One day a woman came to the palace and asked to see the Queen. She said her mission was concerned with the Queen’s condition, so that none would turn her away, and eventually she reached Mary’s presence.

“Your Majesty,” she said, “I was forty when my first child was born.”

Then the Queen made her sit in a chair of honor while she told her story.

“Doctors are not always right in their reckoning. My child was three months overdue, your Majesty, and everyone declared it was a mistake. I was forty at the time, and a fine, healthy boy is my son today!”

Mary was delighted. She gave the woman a jewel and thanked her for her visit.

In the streets the townsfolk made sly jokes. “Now we know these Spaniards! They beget children who are too shy to put in an appearance!” The jokes became more and more ribald. And more and more women came to call on the Queen. Toothless old women presented themselves with their granddaughters’ latest. “See!” they wheezed. “Old women can have children!” It was well worth a journey to see the Queen and pocket the royal reward.

Every day the midwives and doctors waited on Mary. Continually she was declaring that her pains had started.

But May was almost out and the child was as elusive as ever.

The Emperor wrote impatiently to Philip, demanding to know the truth of this strange story. He feared that Mary was too old to bear children. “Ingratiate yourself with Madam Elizabeth,” he wrote. “I know she is suspected of heresy and that if she takes the throne all our work of bringing England back to Rome may be undone. But remember! Better a heretic England which is a friend to Spain than a Catholic England dominated by France. We must at all costs have the English with us, but I doubt you can do much good by staying in England now. Proclaim yourself Elizabeth’s friend and come to me in Brussels. I grow so feeble I can no longer rule. I wish you to take over my crown; and you must do that here in Brussels that all my vassals may, in my presence, swear fealty to you.”

To leave England! There was nothing Philip wished to do more. But how broach the matter to the love-sick woman who insisted on imagining that she carried a child in her womb in spite of all evidence to the contrary?

The Queen shut herself in her chamber and would see no one. She did not weep. She stared before her in such utter misery as she had never before known in the whole of her life.

She thought of her mother, longing, always longing for the son who would have made her life such a different one. She remembered Anne Boleyn could not bear a son. It seemed as though the very walls of this great palace echoed with the cries of defeated motherhood. “A son … a son!” wailed the wind driving through the trees in the gardens.

She was barren. Her swelling was due to some ailment, they told her now. The new physician had given her potions and had considerably reduced it.

She had said to Philip: “Perhaps there is yet time for us to have a son.”

How could she be blind to the look of horror which had passed over his face? Even his accustomed control could not hide it. What did it mean? That he believed her to be too old to bear children? That he found her repulsive? He was evasive, as he ever was. He spoke with quiet, yet firm tenderness: “In view of the ordeal through which you have passed, it would be advisable for you to have a long rest …”

Rest! All he could say was: “Rest!”

She must still delude herself, for a woman could not face, all at once, too much that was so tragic.

Mistress Clarencius, that privileged person, came to her. She shook her head sadly, for when they were alone there was little ceremony between them.

“Your Majesty gives way too quickly. Your hopes have been disappointed, but you are still a bride.”

Mary put her arms about her old nurse and wept quietly.

“It was a bitter disappointment,” soothed Mistress Clarencius. “But there will be another time, dearest lady.”

“My dear, dear Clarencius, will there be? Can there be?”

“Of course there can be. And the King is coming to see you. You must look beautiful, because that is how he will want you to look, is it not, dearest Majesty?”

It was good to be petted, to let oneself believe that one could be made beautiful, to sit while one’s hair was dressed and a glittering coif set upon it, to have one’s black velvet gown with its dazzling ornaments arranged to perfection, and to await the coming of Philip.

He came unattended, and as soon as he arrived Mary dismissed Mistress Clarencius. Philip kissed Mary’s hand.

“I rejoice to see you so improved in health.” He hurried on: “Oh, there is need for great care yet. You must rest and not excite yourself. We must take great care of you.”

“It was good of you to come and see me, Philip,” she said meekly.

“I have had an urgent letter from my father.”

Before he spoke she knew what he would say, and she sent up a silent prayer to the saints for fortitude to help her bear it. “He says it is imperative for him to see me.”

“Where is he now?”

“Only in Brussels.”

“And you will go?”

“I fear I must.”

She wanted to shout at him: You fear! You are filled with pleasure at the thought of going. You long to leave me because I am old and unattractive and the strain of pretense is too much for even you to bear.

“There is no help for it,” he went on with an apologetic half-smile. “He is going to renounce his crown, and I must be there to take it.”

She looked at him with pride and longing. He was so slight, frail almost, and she thought how beautiful he was with his fair skin and hair that seemed almost silver in the sunlight. He was her beloved husband who would soon be the most powerful monarch in the world.

“You will not stay long?” she implored.

“Nay. A month perhaps.”

Four weeks! To her they would seem as long as years; to him they would be so short. But they both knew that once he escaped he would not be back in a month.

“Oh, Philip … must you go?” He recognized the hysteria in her voice. He was poised for flight; he was ready to call her attendants so that he might not be alone with her and suffer her protestations of affection, her cloying embraces.

“I fear so,” he said briskly. “But the sooner I leave the sooner it is over. Now … I have my dispatches to answer.”

“Philip …”

“I will send your women to you.”

“Nay, Philip. Just a moment. I will send for them when I need them.”

“I see I must take charge of you. You do not take enough care. We cannot have you running risks.” He was edging away from her. He was now at the door. He opened it and the men-at-arms saluted. “Send for the Queen’s ladies at once!” he commanded.

And they came in great haste, thinking she had been taken ill again. But they found her with her husband, yearning and wretched, knowing that his solicitous care for her was really a means of escape.

It was August when the royal party left Hampton Court and came by water to Westminster, where they disembarked and went by road to Greenwich, riding through the lines of sight-seers. Mary was too weak to ride on horseback and was carried in a litter.

Her subjects cheered her, for, they said, she looked like a corpse dug up from the grave. There were no jokes about the imaginary baby on that day.

All about Philip was an armed guard, for he rode at the head of the procession with Cardinal Pole beside him, and his friends would not allow him to go undefended through the city of London.

Philip was smiling in a manner which would have pleased his father. In three days’ time, if there was a good wind, he would step aboard and sail away from England and Mary. It was little more than a year that he had spent in England—yet, to him, it seemed a lifetime.

Three days had to be lived through, and in Greenwich Palace it was necessary to spend most of the time with Mary; but at length came that day, so happy for Philip, so wretched for Mary.

She could not contain her grief, and wept bitterly when the farewells were said. Philip returned her fervent embrace. He hoped it was the last he would have to suffer for a long time.

“Good-bye, my dearest husband.”

“Good-bye, dear wife.”

“You will be back in a month?” she begged.

“In a month,” he promised, “unless … something happens to prevent my coming.”

“You will come back? You must. I shall be counting the days. It will be the longest month in my life.”

“I also shall count the days.”

He was looking at the barge and thanking God for it. He could wait no longer. One last embrace; one last farewell, and the barge was slipping away from the shore while, with his attendants about him, he waved to the desolate Queen who stood watching until he was out of sight.

What had happened to this son of his? wondered Charles. What had the English done to him? Was the change for the worse or the better? There were two Philips now—warring one with the other. Tales had reached the Emperor of the Prince’s conduct. At last, it seemed, Philip was indulging in those adventures which others before him had enjoyed in the days of their youth. He had run wild since he left England; he had had many light love affairs. He had roamed the streets in the disguise of a nobleman, accompanied by the merriest of his followers.

Lines appeared about the pale eyes; there was a hint of sensuality which had not been apparent before. Yet the well-known Philip was never far away; he was always ready to emerge unexpectedly—calm, aloof, and controlled.

The Emperor was amused to think that he should ever contemplate remonstrating with Philip concerning his wildness. To think that he might warn Philip to take heed, to choose his companions with more care, to lead a less dissolute life! Charles could not help breaking into loud laughter at the very thought.

But he decided that it was not for him to change his son. Let this madness work out of him. It was the result of several months’ matrimony with Mary Tudor—nothing more; and Philip would come to reason of his own accord. Charles reminded himself that he was about to transfer his imperial dignity to Philip, who was no longer a boy to be admonished. If he wished to wander the streets in disguise, if he wished to share the beds of loose women, that was for him to decide; and there was no one who could say it was not a kingly habit!

Charles was feeling his years sorely. His hands shook with palsy and his gout was painful. His fever had increased, and he told Philip that he longed to pass on his responsibilities at the earliest possible moment.

“Was it very unpleasant in England?” he asked.

Philip’s face hardened as he answered: “I drained the cup of my sacrifice to the very dregs.”

“My son, I know you suffered. Well, it is over; and you wrote of her as though you pitied her.”

“Aye,” said Philip. “I pitied her, for she is pitiable.”

“And pity is said to be a sister of love, eh?”

Philip laughed with bitterness. “A poor sister … a poor relation. And do we not always feel uncomfortable in the presence of our poor relations?”

Charles laid his hand on his son’s shoulder. “You suffered the lot of princes,” he said. “But it is clear the Queen of England is past child-bearing. I would they had crowned you King of England, but you will have kingdoms enough when you have taken them over from me. I rejoice in you and all that you are; and there are not many fathers who can say that.”

Philip took the palsied hand and kissed it.

“We shall have much to talk of during the next weeks,” went on the Emperor. “But there is one matter, a little outside statecraft, which has been giving me some thought lately. It concerns your brother. Ah! You wonder to whom I refer. When we were in Augsburg I had a son by a burgher’s daughter. She was a good girl, and this child of hers is a good child. He is strong and healthy; and I am having him brought up far from any of my courts. He lives simply and has no idea who his father is. When he is older I wish you to send for him. He will make a good general for your armies. His name is Juan. I think of him as Don Juan of Austria. How sounds that? He will serve you well, and be more use to you than young Carlos ever will. Look after him, Philip. Give him opportunities. Remember he is your brother, though illegitimate. You’ll thank God for him one day, as I doubt not you will for Isabel Osorio’s boys. It is good to have the members of your family about you … even though some of them were not born in wedlock.”

“I will remember. Where shall I look for this Don Juan?”

“In the household of my steward, Luis Quixada. For some years I let him run wild, barefoot, playing with boys in the village and being taught scraps of learning by a priest. Luis’s wife continually bemoaned the fact that she had no children, so I said: ‘Take this boy and bring him up as though he is your own.’ Poor woman, she seized that offer with delight, and now he is to her as her own son.”

“And where are they now?”

The Emperor gave a half-embarrassed smile. “I must have my steward in my household; I must have him with me at the monastery—for which I shall leave when the ceremonies are over. And could I separate a husband from his wife? Nay, I could not. So Doña Magdalena Quixada will remove to a small village close to the monastery of Yuste that she may be near her husband.”

“You will see this boy, then?”

“Oh, I shall seclude myself. That is my wish. I shall not see many people.”

But of course he would see the boy. Philip realized that he doted on him.

“I will do as you wish,” said Philip.

“My blessing on you. It is a good thing for a man to have bred a son like you.”

Philip knew that the Emperor was pleased with his two sons—the legitimate one who would shoulder his responsibilities, and the illegitimate one whose charm and intelligence would lighten the days of his seclusion.

The ceremony which surprised the world took place on an October day in the great hall of the Palace of Brussels.

Here were assembled the vassals of the Emperor. Coats of arms decorated the walls; there were banners displaying the heraldic devices of all the countries and provinces under the Imperial sway.

The hall was crowded with members of the nobility—statesmen and heads of states, magnificent in their rich uniforms.

A dais, hung with rich arras and decorated with griffins, eagles, and unicorns in all the colors of the various provinces, had been set up at one end of the hall; and with a flourish of trumpets the Emperor came forward, leaning heavily on the arm of William of Orange. Behind these two came Philip with his cousin Maximilian and his aunt, Mary of Hungary, whom Charles had made Governess of the Netherlands.

The Emperor looked very ill. He could scarcely hobble to the dais, and William of Orange had to help him mount it and take his seat on the royal chair.

Philip took the chair on the Emperor’s right hand. He could not help resenting the intimacy which seemed to exist between his father and Orange. He had heard rumors of this clever young William of Orange, the Count of Nassau; he was reputed to be a secret supporter of the heretics. Was the Emperor in his dotage that he must favor a man because he was young and handsome?

Orange seemed a little arrogant as he caught Philip’s eyes upon him. Doubtless he bore in mind that he had all the Flemings behind him. But neither Orange nor Flanders must forget that they were vassals of Spain; and Orange was a fool to show arrogance to one who was about to step so publicly into his father’s shoes.

The church bells all over Brussels began to chime, and the President of the Council rose and announced to the gathering that their great Emperor Charles the Fifth had decided, because of his age and infirmity, to pass over to his son his possessions in the Netherlands.

There was a deep silence while the Emperor rose slowly to his feet. He explained to them that he was a tired old man. They would love his son even as they had loved him, for they would find Philip the best of rulers.

Charles was overcome with emotion; tears came to his eyes. They would be loyal to his son, he knew. They would show him that devotion, that friendship which they had always given to himself.

Philip, from the dais, looked down on these foreigners, these Flemings; he stood on one side of his father, and it seemed a pity that William of Nassau, the Prince of Orange, should be standing on the other. The people were accepting Philip now; but their eyes were turned—was it with hope?—toward William of Orange.

Philip felt the full weight of his responsibilities. He was King of Spain—Castile, Aragon, and Granada; he was King of Naples and Sicily; he was the Duke of Milan; he was Lord of the French Compté and of the Low Countries. He was the titular King of England. Unfortunately, the crude islanders had made this seem but an empty title so far. The Cape Verde Islands of Africa and the Canaries belonged to him. Tunis and Oran were his, as were the Philippines and the Spice Islands of Asia. He had possessions in the West Indies; Mexico and Peru were part of his Empire. He was the most important and powerful monarch in the world—a young man under thirty, morose by nature, although he had recently shown that he could enjoy isolated adventures in sensuality; he was conscientious, determined to do his duty, eager to serve God first, then his immense Imperial responsibilities. His great wish was to bring the whole world together under Spanish domination and to set up the Inquisition in every country. All this he would do, not for the glory of Philip, but for the glory of God.

In the meantime he wished to keep away from his wife for as long as possible. He could do this now with an easy conscience because he was certain that she could never bear a child.

So Charles made his slow journey to the monastery of Yuste, and Philip became titular ruler of half the world.

He had excuses to spare for not returning to Mary, since war had broken out. This was war against the Pope himself. Spain was devoutly Catholic, but Spaniards believed that the heart of Catholicism was in Spain, not in Rome; and Charles had, over the years, gradually taken many of the rights so dearly cherished by pontiffs of the past and kept them to himself. This meant that Charles had been using some of the Church revenue to serve his political ends. Spaniards had encroached on Italian territory, which disturbing fact many of the Popes had accepted with as good a grace as possible; but the present Pope was a fiery Neapolitan, and the French King had persuaded him to join France against Spain.

So, on his accession to power, Philip, who hated war, found himself in the midst of it.

Though it might be difficult to get English troops to fight the Pope, they would not be reluctant to attack the French, who were their perennial enemies; therefore, it was decided that the English must be persuaded to take up arms against the French; and who could better persuade the Queen to this than her beloved husband?

The unpleasant duty faced Philip again. He must return to England; he must once more endure the devotion of his wife, for Spain must have the help of England.

Mary could neither sleep nor eat. He was coming again. Many times during the last year he had promised to return, but he had not kept his promises. He had said he would be away for a month. It was August of the year 1555 when he had gone away; it was now March 1557. And he had said one month!

But no matter; the waiting was unimportant now since he was to come at last. She had aged during his absence. She had spent many nights in weeping. That did not improve a woman’s appearance. She had a return of her ailments and her skin was more sallow than ever; she was very thin, apart from her dropsical swellings.

Last autumn had brought much rain and the Thames had overflowed. Westminster Hall had been flooded, so that wherries had been able to pass through it. The resultant damp had brought epidemics with it. Mary herself had developed a fever at that time and there seemed to be nothing to cure it.

So lonely, so dreary her life had become. Gardiner had died, and on him she had relied more than on any, with the exception of Philip and Cardinal Pole.

Her sister Elizabeth, she believed, was plotting against her once more. She had entertained soothsayers at Woodstock and it was said that she had wished to be told how much longer the Queen would live. Some gentlemen of her household had plotted to put her on the throne, and they confessed on the rack to her complicity in their schemes. Why should Elizabeth be allowed to live? When she went into the streets the people applauded her more loudly than they had ever done. She was young and pleasing to look at. She did not suffer from complaints which made her a grotesque object of pity.

Philip had written urgently from Europe that she must be lenient with Elizabeth. He said he was convinced of her innocence. He pointed out that if Mary harmed the Princess the whole of England would be against her.

Why was he so concerned for Elizabeth? Sometimes Mary would be amazed at her own passion. She would stand before his picture and demand to know of that concern.

“Do you hope that I shall die and you may begin to woo another Queen of England?”

If he had been there to answer, he would have reminded her coldly: “I wish to preserve her that the throne of England may not go to Mary Queen of Scots.”

That might be true, but did it not mean that he had her death in mind?

“I have never really lived,” she murmured. “That’s the pity of it.”

But now he was coming to her again. As she stitched at the tapestry which her mother had started and which when finished would hang in the state apartments of the Tower, she thought that waiting for him was like waiting for the child. The child had not come. Would he?

Then her hopes would rise again. Was she so old that she could not have a child? She did not believe she was.

And at length on a sparkling March day when the sun was shining on the river and the marsh marigolds made a golden pattern on the banks, Philip came.

He took horse at Gravesend, and she was almost fainting with joy when he arrived at Greenwich. She could not tolerate ceremony at such a time. Surely now and then in the lifetime of a Queen she could dispense with it?

“Philip!” she cried, as she threw herself at him. He was smiling as all would expect a husband to smile who was returning to his wife after so long an absence.

He returned her embrace. She noticed that in appearance he had changed little; she was sadly aware that she was a little more lined, a little less attractive than when he went away. But she would not face the truth. Her loved one was back, and she must believe that he had come back for love of her, and not to win her assistance in his war with France.

How she schemed to keep him at her side! As for Philip, he had returned to the old relationship and he was once more sacrificing himself on the altar of Spain’s needs. He schooled himself to be the pleasant and charming husband, and that in itself seemed a folly because the better he played the part, the more enamoured she became.

From Mary came occasional outbursts of jealousy, and these often concerned the Princess Elizabeth. Philip was once more urging the marriage of the Princess with Emmanuel Philibert of Savoy.

Mary turned to him crying in a passion of jealousy: “Why should you wish for this marriage? Do not answer me with soft words. Do you not think I know? You would have her the wife of a vassal that she may be near you. Is that the answer? Tell me. I demand to know.”

“I think,” said Philip, “that you have lost your senses.”

She laughed shrilly and hysterically. He thought how ugly she was at such times, even uglier than in those pitiable moods when she would cajole him to indulge her passion.

“She would be near you, would she not? She would be in Flanders, and you would find it necessary to visit her household often. Do you think I do not know why you continually press for this marriage?”

“It would seem that you need to be alone for a while, to calm yourself, to bring yourself back to reason.”

“You suggest that so that you may escape from me.”

“Why should I wish to escape?”

“You ask me that: Do you not always wish to escape? Are you not thinking all the time, ‘How can I get away from this old woman who, by great bad fortune, is my wife?’ Why were you so long in coming to see me? Were you really so involved in matters of state? Do you think I am blind?”

She fell into a passion of weeping, and once again his pity chained him to her side. “Mary,” he lied, “it is not true. You distress yourself without reason.”

So sad she was and eager to be reassured. “Is it truly so, Philip, my dearest, my beloved?”

He forced himself to kiss her.

“I am so jealous, Philip; and jealousy such as mine is worse than death.”

These scenes became more frequent, and after four months of such strain he could bear no more. He must escape. He had succeeded in making her declare war on France, so there was no longer need for him to remain.

She was again obsessed with the idea that she was to have a child. No one but herself believed this possible; but she clung to hope.

All over England men and women were perishing in the flames. Cranmer, Ridley, Latimer, and Hooper, with other such great men, suffered the dreadful death. Mary was conscious of her people’s dislike, even as she was of Philip’s. She must therefore cling to the hope of a child, even if that hope was delusive.

In her litter she accompanied Philip once more to Gravesend. Again she suffered that poignant parting; she stood watching him until she could see him no more; then she returned, sorrowing, to her loneliness.

Philip was to receive one of the greatest of all military defeats at St. Quentin, although the great Montmorency and Coligny fell prisoners to his soldiers and the road to Paris was open.

Never had the Emperor had such an opportunity of subduing the French for ever. Never did a soldier fail at the peak of success as Philip failed then. And yet, being Philip, what else could he have done?

St. Quentin would haunt him for the rest of his life, not because that great victory was turned to defeat through his personal indecision, but because Philip would never forget the sights which greeted him when he made his triumphant entry into the captured city.

Philip hated war. He was no soldier and he knew it. The prospect of war never failed to fill him with dread. He had given orders, when the besieged city was surrounded, that there were to be no reprisals. But he did not understand the nature of the men serving under his banners. The English and the Spanish in his armies had worked themselves into a fury against each other; the German mercenaries looked upon the spoils of a defeated town as the natural rewards of conquest.

Philip’s orders were ignored, and when he saw the terrible carnage in St. Quentin—murdered citizens lying about the streets horribly mutilated, burning houses, the nauseating treatment which had been meted out, not only to women and children, but to monks and nuns—he was horrified. To him it seemed a disaster as shameful as the Sack of Rome.

He came to the Church of St. Laurence; he saw the blood of human beings befouling the altar, the burning pews, the slaughtered bodies of monks on the floor of the church, and in horror he swore that he would never forget this foul crime as long as he lived, nor that it had been done in his name. He fell to his knees and vowed that he would dedicate his life to building a monastery in Spain to the glory of St. Laurence.

His young cousin, Emmanuel Philibert, warned him that they must take the advantage such a victory had given them. The road to Paris was now open and it would be possible to defeat the French for all time; but Philip, having looked on those terrible sights, wanted to put an end to the war. In vain did Emmanuel Philibert plead. Philip was adamant.

“The risk is too great,” he equivocated. “Our men are weary. I am weary … weary of death and destruction. Here Catholic fights Catholic; Catholic churches are destroyed. There is only one war I wish to fight: God’s holy war; the war against the heretic.”

So at St. Quentin he stayed, and his men were idle and disgruntled, so that they did as mercenaries were accustomed to do at such times; they deserted. Meanwhile, the Duke of Guise, who had been fighting in Italy, made a hasty peace on that front and came with all speed to the defense of his country.

Paris was soon bristling with defenses. The great moment was lost; and Guise, with that intuition which had made him the greatest soldier of his day, made a surprise attack on Calais and took it.

He knew that there could be nothing more likely to cause strife between Spain and her English allies than the loss of that town which the latter looked upon as a foothold which would one day lead to the conquest of France.

In the monastery of Yuste, which was not far from the town of Placentia and was surrounded by thick woods and mountains which kept off the cold north winds, the Emperor was enjoying his days of retirement.

The climate was good for his gout and he had employed architects to make a lodging worthy of him; he had installed great fireplaces in every room; he had brought some of his treasured pictures with him. His favorite, Gloria, painted by the great Venetian, Titian, and which depicted himself and his late wife surrounded by angels, he had had set up in his bedroom. Beautiful gardens had been laid out for him, and in these orange and citron trees grew; he himself attended to the weeding and pruning when the gout permitted. He had also brought numbers of clocks and watches with him, and one of his great pleasures was to take these to pieces and examine their works; the winding of the clocks was a ceremony which, whenever possible, he supervised in person.

He attended religious services regularly, and the window of his bedchamber looked onto the chapel, so that if he were not well enough to get up he could hear Mass in bed, and from where he lay see the elevation of the Host. His rich baritone voice often mingled with the chanting of the monks in the chapel.

He felt content with the monastic life and would stand at his windows looking out across the jagged sierra at the stunted orange trees and the rushing torrents that tumbled down the mountainsides. But his great delight was still in his food. In vain did his physicians implore moderation. Abstinence might be a virtue, but not even for the sake of his soul could Charles deny his stomach.

He would sit at a meal with his favorite servants about him. There were his major-domo, Quixada, and the Fleming, Van Mole, his gentleman of the chamber, to beguile him with their conversation. There was another whom he greatly favored—a boy of handsome looks and bright intelligence, young Juan, who did not know that besides being the Emperor’s page he was the Emperor’s son.

When Charles was melancholy, Juan was sent to charm him; and this he never failed to do. Charles treated him as though he were much older than his age; he would show him charts and maps and discuss with him the progress of the war which Spain was now fighting against the French.

Juan was with Charles when the news was brought of Philip’s action at St. Quentin and his subsequent hesitation.

The Emperor’s face grew purple and the veins showed in angry knots at his temple.

“Holy Mother of God!” he exploded. “Why … why … in the name of Christ, why? The greatest opportunity a general ever had … and lost … lost! Philip is useless. Is he as mad as his grandmother? Had I but been there …”

He paced the apartment and all feared that he would injure himself. But suddenly he stopped and looked at the boy.

“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.