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

ONE

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

The reason was that he was to have a bride.

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

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

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

Once he had loved his Aunt Juana, but she was strange now. She prayed constantly, and she thought of nothing beyond saving her soul for the future life; and she went about with her face half covered, withdrawn, remote from the world. People said she was strange; but it was not the strangeness of himself and his great-grandmother; there was no wild laughter, no impulse to do extraordinary things. Juana’s strangeness was a religious fervency which resulted in deep melancholy. She was, Carlos reflected, very certain of her place in Heaven, but that did not make her such a good companion here on Earth.

But to whom else could he talk? There was so much he wanted to know. He wished that he had not neglected his studies. He did not understand French; nor did he know Latin. He knew very little of the history of his own country, let alone others. If only he had worked harder! But how could he have known that they were going to give him a beautiful and learned Princess like this one for his wife? And how could he have known he would want to shine so much in her eyes?

“Juana,” he asked, “Aunt Juana, what is it like at the court of France?”

She drew her hood closer over her face, and he saw her lips tighten. “The French are godless,” she said. “Although they have improved under the present King’s reign. In the time of his father, theirs was the most immoral court in the world, and still is, I doubt not, for the French are wicked by nature.”

“That was her grandfather—this wicked King,” said Carlos with satisfaction. His brain was more alert; he was determined it should be. He was not going to be ignorant any more. He was going to learn and be clever for the sake of Elisabeth de Valois. “What did they do at her grandfather’s court?” he asked.

“There were masques and balls all the time. They read books. They fêted those who wrote them. They were not good books. King François was your grandfather’s greatest enemy … the most lecherous man in the world … the most pleasure-loving and the most wicked.”

“You speak of him as though he were a heretic.”

“Nay. He was not as wicked as that.”

“My grandfather took him prisoner,” said Carlos, eager to show that he remembered that bit of history. “Her father was my grandfather’s prisoner too when he was a little boy. And now she is coming here. We shall have much to speak of, Juana. When do you think my father will let her come?”

“We do not know. Everything depends on her father and your father. They are at peace now, but if there should be another war …” Juana lifted her shoulders.

“Do you mean that they might have a war?” His face puckered; his lips began to twitch. “If my father goes to war with the French King now, I … I … will … kill him.”

“Hush, Carlos! The bad mood is coming on you again. You know what I told you to do when that happens. Get down on your knees and pray.”

“I don’t want to pray. I don’t want to. I want to kill … kill …”

“Carlos, you promised to be better. What will she think of you if she sees these bad moods?”

His face puckered again. “But there will be a war … They will keep her from me.”

“There is no war, and as arrangements stand she will come to you in good time.”

“My father will never let her. He hates me. He hates me to be happy. It has always been so.”

“It is the bad mood that makes you think that. Your father will be glad of the link with France. Your father tries to make peace. That is why he arranged this marriage. Look at her picture again. There! You are right, Carlos. She is beautiful. And your own age too. That is charming.”

He was sobbing as he took the locket in his hands, and his tears fell on to it; but the sight of it calmed him, as it always did.

“I fear my father will not let me have this happiness.”

“Of a surety he will. He wants to see you happy, Carlos. He is pleased because we can truthfully tell him how much you try to be worthy of your bride.”

“I am learning now. I am trying to be clever.”

“And you are praying, Carlos?”

“Each day, each night. I pray that her coming will not be long delayed. Do you think the saints will intercede for me?”

“If it is good for you, they will.”

He stamped his foot. “Will they? Will they? It is good. I know it is good. She makes me good … because I learn my lessons. I am calm because I want her to love me.”

“Only they know if it is good for you, Carlos.”

“I know. I know!” cried Carlos.

“You must learn, dearest nephew. Something which is bad may happen, but that may be for our good. Those on high know best what is good for us.”

“If they do not let her come, I … I …” She flashed a glance of horror at him, for blasphemy terrified her. But he went on: “I shall hate all who keep her from me. Hate … hate …”

She had crossed herself and fallen to her knees, lifting her hands toward the ceiling. Her hood fell open, showing a face so strange that for a moment Carlos was silent.

He watched her moving lips; he listened to her words. She was praying for him; and something in the expression of her face filled him with sudden fear. He looked over his shoulder furtively. There were times when his Aunt Juana made him feel that, although the room was empty, they were not alone.

He began to whimper: “I pray every night, Juana. I only want to have her here … to love her …”

Juana rose from her knees. “If God wishes it, it will come to pass,” she said.

With trembling hands, he took the locket and looked at the picture. “Elisabeth,” he said. “I love your name, but it is hard to say it. It is French, is it not? Here we say Isabella. I shall call you Isabella. Isabella … little Isabella … are you praying that you will soon come to Spain?”

In the Old Palace of Brussels, the royal widower sat alone in deep concentration.

He had felt nothing but relief during the last few weeks. He knew that he could not continue in that state, for there was great work to be done, and his position as monarch was not made easier by the death of his wife; it was only the husband who had escaped from a particularly irksome situation.

On the table before him documents were neatly arranged; he could not endure untidiness, as all his secretaries knew. He was dressed this day in the plainest of black velvet garments; he might have been mistaken for one of his own secretaries but for his quiet dignity and that excessive cleanliness—so rare, even among Spaniards—which was accentuated by the pallor of his skin.

He had furnished this room in accordance with his own tastes, and they did not please the people of Brussels; he knew this, but he did not care. These people were going to need a firm hand. Already they were turning against him. He was appalled by the increasing number of heretics, and was planning harsh action against them; as soon as possible he would consult Alba, that fiery Catholic, and doubtless he would set him up as Governor of this land, with the Holy Inquisition to work with him.

Philip looked at the silver crucifix on the wall. There had been too little devotion to God in his father’s day. Charles’s bonhomie and his love of fleshy delights had pleased the people. But Philip believed that a ruler’s first duty was toward God, and if he jeopardized a hundred crowns in God’s service then must he count himself blessed to lose them all, if that was God’s will.

Philip remembered with shame that outburst of sensuality which had followed his departure from England. He remembered also the terrible sight of St. Quentin.

He had already found the site for his monastery. It was to be built on the unfertile Guadarrama steppes; there he would build his Palace of the Escorial, a home for a hermit king, a monastery where he could live a life of prayer and devotion while he ruled the world and brought it, through the blood and fire of the Inquisition, to the truth.

His cold eyes were suddenly like hot blue flames when he thought of the future; and as he sat there at the table, immersed in the relief of his escape from Mary Tudor, he vowed that he would wipe heresy from the world, that he would rule it in his own way, not that of his father, and he would dedicate himself in the future, not to ambition, not to love of power, but to the service of God. He saw himself as God’s vicar on Earth, the junior commander in the battle against the Devil.

Meanwhile, he must turn his attention to affairs of the world, and with the death of Mary and the accession of Elizabeth, England gave him much to think of.

He took up the dispatch Feria had sent from the English court. Feria was the most suitable ambassador at this time, for Feria was one of the handsomest of men, and the new Queen was very fond of handsome men; Feria was well versed in the art of flattery, and the new Queen was the vainest woman on Earth; moreover, Feria spoke fluent English and was affianced to Jane Dormer, so that he possessed many qualities which would enable him to fill the post satisfactorily.

But Feria was made uneasy by the new Queen.

Although she still heard Mass, and the religion of the country appeared to be the same as in her sister’s day, there had been an immediate cessation of the persecutions. The woman was at times a ridiculous coquette, and then suddenly it would be as though a shrewd statesman looked out from behind her fan. It was impossible to get a straight answer from her on any subject of importance; she would prevaricate, giving neither “Yes” nor “No,” holding out promises one day, repudiating them the next.

Her response to her sister’s stipulations had been typical of her. Mary, in bestowing upon her the succession, had said she did so on these conditions: That she would not change her privy council; that she would make no alteration in religion; and that she would discharge Mary’s debts. Elizabeth’s reply was that the debts should certainly be paid; but as regards the council it was Elizabeth’s opinion that one Queen had as much right to choose her councillors as another. “As for religion,” she said, “I promise this much: I will not change it, provided only that it can be proved by the word of God, which shall be the only foundation and rule of my religion.”

“You see, your Highness,” wrote Feria, “the kind of woman with which we have to deal. There is a sharpness beneath the soft answer. She says ‘Yes’ in such a way as to mean ‘No.’ She said: ‘There is no reason why I should thank Mary for bequeathing the crown to me, for she has not the power of bestowing it upon me. Nor can I lawfully be deprived of it, since it is my hereditary right.’ Your Highness will see that this is a direct rebuff to yourself, as the new Queen has been assured of your efforts with Mary on her behalf.

“There is one other matter which gives me concern. I sought to extract from her a statement concerning her religious policy, and I tackled her while she was in the midst of her courtiers and statesmen, as I felt that if she publicly stated her intention to uphold the true religion, she would perforce be obliged to carry out that intention. I said that your Majesty had ordered me to beg her to be very careful about religious matters as they were what first and principally concerned you, implying that if she did not continue in the established religion your Majesty would become her enemy. Her answer came in a tone of mild reproach: ‘It would indeed be bad of me to forget God, who has been so good to me.’ Your Majesty will see how, with such an answer, she can say nothing or everything.

“There are, of course, many suitors for her hand … and crown. This makes her very coquettish indeed; she plays the part of desirable woman with such verve that in her presence it is difficult to believe that it is her crown and not her person which is so attractive. There is Prince Eric of Sweden, who, at time, she feigns to favor. There are your Majesty’s own cousins, the two sons of the Emperor Ferdinand. And, of course, Savoy.

“There is another who is considered a possible suitor. This is an Englishman, Lord Robert Dudley. This young man is very handsome and the Queen favors him, keeping him beside her and at times treating him as though he is her acknowledged lover. His wife has recently died in mysterious circumstances and there are unsavory rumors about this matter among the people; but the Queen is so set on the young man, and she being as she is, it is thought that she may make up her mind to marriage with him.

“I feel this matter of the Queen’s marriage is of the utmost importance to our country, and that while she is playing with the idea of making her subject Dudley her husband, she is obsessed by her vanity; and the way in which we could appeal to that would be to suggest to her the greatest match the world can offer.”

Philip laid down the documents and considered this. Himself once more the husband of a Queen of that bleak land! He shrank from the idea.

He thought of her—sly, yet demure—dropping to her knees before him, yet raising her eyes as though to say: I salute you because the world recognizes you as its greatest monarch; but to me you are just a man, and one day there will be a greater monarch—and that a woman. One day there will be a greater country than Spain, and that will be England; for I shall be Queen of England, and I will have none but the best.

She was arrogant and insolent, yet so clever that it was impossible to protest against that insolent arrogance.

He thought of her pleading with her sister, when he had seen her from behind the curtains. Then she had been afraid, and yet what pride there was in her, and how different she had seemed from poor, sickly Mary, doomed to defeat, frustration, and failure!

And to marry her! That was what Feria was suggesting. Marry that coquette, that virago, that conceited, foolish, shrewd woman!

She was not repulsive to him, but why should he concern himself with her physical attractions? It was not for him to marry for such reasons. He must think only of his religion and his country.

He looked again at the crucifix on the wall. To bring England back to Rome was worth any price that might be asked of him. And now this Queen was about to break away from Rome; he was fully aware of that. If she did so, Henri of France would have little difficulty in getting the Pope to excommunicate her; then the Pope would be ready to support the claim of Mary Queen of Scots to the English throne.

There must not be an English-French alliance.

He rose from his table and fell to his knees before the crucifix. There had come to him suddenly a vision of married life with the Queen of England. It would be an exciting life, he doubted not; quite different from that which he had shared with her half-sister. He thought of her red hair and blue eyes which veiled her secret thoughts. Desire? A little perhaps. She appealed to something in him. But he knew he could never subdue her. He knew that life with her would be one long battle. He was not a warrior; he was a man who hated war. Moreover, he felt that she, with her wiles and sly cunning, would get the better of him.

Marry Elizabeth? “No!” he murmured.

Yet such a marriage would be good for his country; it would baffle the French. He must pray; he must ask for guidance. Was it God’s will that he should marry Elizabeth of England?

Quite suddenly he knew that it was so. She was wavering toward heresy, and only marriage with the Most Catholic King might save her. He could make her abandonment of heresy a condition of the marriage; in fact he must do this.

Then the Inquisition should be set up in England. Was it not Philip’s task in life to save the world for Catholicism?

He wrote to Feria:

“I highly approve the course you have adopted in persuading the Queen not to marry a subject. As regards myself, if she were to broach the matter to you, you should treat it in such a way as neither to accept nor reject the suggestion entirely. Many obstacles present themselves. I could not be much in England, as my other dominions claim my attention. The Queen is rumored to be unsound in religion and it would not look well for me to marry her if she were not a Catholic. Such a marriage would, in view of the claims of Mary of Scotland, mean perpetual trouble with France. So there is much against the marriage; but I cannot lose sight of the fact that such a match would be of great moment to Christendom, and it is my great wish that England should not lapse into former errors.

“I have decided, therefore, to put aside all other considerations and render this service to God by offering to marry the Queen of England. There must be conditions, and the first is that the Queen must profess to be a staunch Catholic. Dispensation from the Pope will be necessary, but if she is a good Catholic that will present no great difficulty.”

When he had finished he read through the letter. To bring her and her country back to the true faith would be a great achievement and give him much credit in the eyes of God.

But was that the real reason why he wished to marry Elizabeth?

There were two others. She interested him. Her perpetual assurance of her own desirability had apparently made him feel that there must be some truth in it. Her past appeared to be far from unsullied; there had been adventures. She was young; she was all that Mary had not been.

And the last reason? As King of Spain, he must not lose the friendship of the English. Henri of France was awaiting his opportunities. If Mary Stuart ever reached the throne of England, then France, with England her close ally, would threaten to become the greatest world power.

There were so many reasons. Which was the most important of them all? Philip was not sure.

But the Queen of England was not overcome with joy by the proposal of the King of Spain. She flirted with Dudley and her Spanish suitor’s ambassador; she was absurdly coquettish, declaring that since Feria was her suitor by proxy he must not have lodgings under the same roof, for that would be most improper (yet this, Feria wrote, was she who, rumor had it, had borne Seymour a child!). First she favored one, then another; she accepted the rich present of jewels which Philip had instructed Feria to give her—jewels which he had previously given to Mary—but she had accepted them with a speculative light in her eyes which had meant: What does he want for this? Philip would never give something for nothing!

At times she snubbed Feria; at others she petted him. She could not see him; she was too busy; she was not well. Then he must sit beside her; he was her very dear friend and she would have him know that he was always welcome.

Feria wrote to his master in exasperation: “She is the daughter of the Devil, surrounded by ministers who are heretics and scoundrels.”

The “courtship” dragged on. Elizabeth was favoring one suitor after another, behaving as though the humblest of them was as interesting to her as the most powerful.

Such a state of affairs could not continue. Spain could not be slighted forever.

Philip suddenly decided on a change of policy. He was no longer going to ask for Elizabeth’s hand; and it seemed to him that God was guiding him, for just at that moment when the conduct of the English Queen was exasperating him beyond endurance, the French Ambassador brought dispatches from the King of France in which Henri declared that he was becoming alarmed by the growth of heresy in his country; and he felt it behooved the great Catholic powers to stand together against it throughout the world. It was irreligious for Catholic to fight Catholic while the enemy of their faith was growing to alarming power. Should not the Kings of France and Spain stand together, forget their differences, and isolate England, which, in spite of the prevarication of its Queen—or perhaps because of this—was daily growing more heretic?

Let the marriage between Carlos and Henri’s daughter Elisabeth take place at once, and so show the world that the two Catholic Kings were united against the heretic.

Surely this was the answer, thought Philip. It should be done.

Carlos was quietly happy.

At last she was coming to him, this beautiful girl. He had worked hard with the French language; he could speak many words now. He could say: “I shall call you Isabella, because that is a beautiful name in this country. It is Spanish, and Elisabeth is French. You are Spanish now, dear Isabella.”

He talked to her when he was alone; and he fancied the picture in the locket smiled at him.

He would show her the countryside; he would tell her about his ambitions, how he had always longed to be a great soldier, and that perhaps now that he was so much better, he could be.

“Isabella … Isabella …” he whispered. “I am so glad you are here. There is no one who loves me. Now there will be. There will be you, Isabella.”

Sometimes he pictured darker scenes when he was angry—not with Isabella though; he would never be angry with her. But he fancied that one of his black moods came upon him and he struck his servant until Isabella came to him and begged him to show mercy to the man. And for Isabella’s sake he would pardon the servant. She would be delighted. “Thank you, Carlos,” she would say. “How happy you make me!”

Isabella was gentle. He could see that by her picture. She would be sorry for helpless little animals. She would beg him not to roast hares alive as he liked to do; she would beg him not to cut their throats and let them bleed slowly to death.

“I know I am silly, Carlos,” she would say, “but it frightens me.”

Then Carlos would answer: “I will not do it, Isabella, because I wish to do what you want always … always …”

Then they would laugh together and he would tell her of the black moods. She would kiss him and say: “I will charm them away, dear Carlos.”

“Oh, Isabella … Isabella … at last you are coming! Even my father cannot keep you from me now.”

In the Brussels Palace Philip thought continually of this marriage, and how could he possibly think of the marriage without sorrowfully pondering over the prospective bridegroom?

He shuddered, remembering Carlos in a hundred ugly moods.

“Holy Mother,” he groaned, “why was I burdened with such a son?”

What could Carlos do for his father? What could he do for Spain? The reports from his tutors were alarming; there was not one of them who, having been given a high post in the household of the Prince of the Asturias, did not hint that he would be delighted to dispense with it.

Philip must face the truth. Carlos might not yet be as mad as his great-grandmother Juana, but he was not entirely sane. What trouble Juana had caused! Philip recalled the stinking apartment and the wild-eyed woman. He remembered how she had kept her daughter Katharine in seclusion in the Alcázar of Tordesillas. He remembered how she had screamed from her window, ordering the guards to kill one another.

Carlos was unfit for marriage.

Philip himself must have another son; if he did so, this marriage of Carlos with Elisabeth of Valois would be unnecessary. The important matter at issue was alliance with France, and Philip was the one who needed a wife. Why not continue with the French marriage, but with a different bridegroom!

He reached for the marriage contract. It was so simple. All he need do was substitute the name of Don Philip, King of Spain, for that of Don Carlos, Prince of the Asturias.

And what would the King and Queen of France say to such an exchange of bridegrooms? He could rely on their attitude. Instead of marrying their daughter to a weakling boy who had no power they would be offered alliance with the most powerful monarch in the world. What would any ambitious father and mother say to such a project?

And what would Elisabeth herself say to such a dazzling prospect?

But did it matter what such a child would say? She would of course obey first her parents and then her husband.

The more Philip thought of the project, the more he liked it.

It was left to Juana to tell Carlos.

She came to him, her face, as usual, half-hidden; and there was a terrible fear in her heart. She knew why he had improved so much during the last months; she knew of the picture in the locket, which was his perpetual solace.

She dreaded telling him, yet she knew he must not hear the bad news from any other. Who knew what wildness would take possession of him? He would be capable of a murderous assault on anyone who told him what had been decided.

She came to him while he was studying a book written in French.

“Carlos!” she cried. “Little One!”

He looked at her haughtily. He was not Little One now. He was grown up. He was about to be a husband.

“Carlos, there is sad news, dear one. It is hard to tell.”

“My father is coming home,” he said scowling.

“Yes, yes. I doubt not that he will be home. Carlos, he is to marry.”

“Ha! Then we shall both be bridegrooms. Who is it to be? The Queen of England? I am sorry for her … though they say she is a fury herself. Ha … ha …”

“Do not laugh like that, Carlos. It is not to be the Queen of England.”

“Juana … Juana … why do you look at me like that? Why do you look so sad and frightened?”

“Because, my darling, I have such bad news for you.”

“For me? Oh! He is going to stop my marriage. He hates me. He hates me to be happy. He will keep Isabella from me. But I will run away. I will go to her. I will go to the King, her father, and tell him how they treat me here.”

“No, Carlos, no. Your father has decided that … you are too young to marry, and …”

Carlos let out a howl which was like that of a wild animal. He ran to Juana and began beating her with his fists.

“Stop … stop!” she cried. “You have not heard, Carlos. Do you want me to tell you? I thought it better that you should hear from me.”

He glared at her, and all his misery showed in his face.

“Isabella …” he muttered. “Isabella …”

“Yes. But I cannot tell you till you lie down.”

His lips were twitching and there was foam at his mouth. But he allowed her to lead him to a couch, and there he lay while she knelt and took his hand. It was clammy and the pulse was erratic.

“Carlos, my Little One. I would give my life to spare you this. Your father … he is going to marry Isabella himself.”

He did not speak. He just lay with eyes wide open; she thought he had not understood, and she began to pray: “Holy Virgin, help me to comfort him. Holy Mother, help him, because he needs your help so much …”

Now he was speaking. The words came through his clenched teeth; but he did not pray. Juana felt her limbs go stiff with horror as she heard his words.

“Hate … hate … hate … I will kill him. This has decided it. I will kill him … with mine own hands …”

Then the tears rolled down his cheeks, and suddenly he turned on to his face and began to bite the cushions on the couch; strange noises came from his lips; his clenched fists were shaking; he twisted and turned, and as he rolled over she saw his face. There was blood on his chin, and his eyes were staring inhumanly.

He did not see her. He saw nothing but the pictures conjured up in his distorted mind. He had forgotten his love for Isabella in his hatred for his father.

Juana ran from the room. He was in one of those terrible fits which had afflicted Juana’s own small brothers. And as she ran, calling for attendants, she could not shut out of her mind those words of the young Prince concerning his father:

“I will kill … kill him … with mine own hands!”