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

by Jean Plaidy

  Philip had faced them, calm and resigned. He had no wish to leave Spain; but if it was his father’s desire that he should, then that must be fulfilled.

  When he had left the Cortes he had gone to Isabel’s house. She was waiting for him. The baby was a fine child, growing up like his brother, and it was a great pleasure to be with them. There was peace in Isabel’s room; he could sit beside her, watching the children playing at their feet. If only he might enjoy domestic happiness! But even now, at this moment, he must break the news of his departure.

  “My father has sent for me, Isabel, and I may be away from you for a long time.”

  She turned to him and, as that control which she had taught herself broke suddenly, she laid her face against his shoulder and began to cry quietly.

  Philip was deeply moved, as he always was by a display of affection toward himself. “Isabel,” he said. “Isabel … my love.”

  She spoke fiercely against the Emperor. “But why should you go? You are needed here. Are you going to be away from us forever … as the Emperor has always been? The people will not endure that. You must not go, Philip. Oh, you must not go.”

  He stroked her hair; he dared not speak for fear of showing her his distress.

  Little Garcia came and stood before them, looking wonderingly at his mother. “What ails her, Father?” he asked.

  Philip took the boy on to his knee. The baby stopped kicking as he lay on his cushions. When he saw their tears he let out a loud wail.

  His mother went to him and picked him up; she sat with him on her knee, hiding her own grief in her effort to comfort the child.

  “Father,” insisted Garcia, “what is wrong, then?”

  His mother answered for Philip. “It is nothing to be sad about. But … your father has to go away for a time.”

  “For a long time?”

  “It will not be longer than I can help,” said Philip.

  “You will come back soon,” said the boy.

  They sat for a while in silence, the boy looking from the face of one parent to the other’s. The baby put out a fat hand and grasped at a bright ornament on his father’s doublet.

  It seemed to Philip a scene of charming domesticity, saddened only by his impending departure. Oh, how happy he might have been had he not been born the Prince of Spain!

  While the festivities which followed the wedding of Maximilian and Maria were still in progress, Philip left Valladolid on the first stage of his journey.

  His departure took some of the merrymaking out of the revels, for even to the people in the streets he was the beloved Prince. The Emperor might be a foreigner, but Philip was one of themselves; they liked his quiet dignity, his Spanish haughtiness; they had never heard of any indiscretion on his part, and even his love affair with Isabel Osorio was conducted with decorum, and it was said—and all believed this—that Philip behaved like a respectably married man in his relationship with Doña Isabel, whereas his father’s love affairs were mainly with foreign women.

  Still, if they loved their Prince, they also loved merrymaking, and what good could they do by grieving?

  On that October day, as Philip left Valladolid followed by a magnificent retinue to ride through Aragon and Catalonia, the people lined the streets and cried Godspeed and a quick return.

  One woman watched him from her window. She held up her elder son that he might see his father, for she knew, though she did not tell the boy this, that it would be a year or two before they saw Philip again.

  Was Philip aware of them as he rode past Isabel’s house? She knew that he was, and she knew that he longed to turn and take one last look at the house in which he had known great happiness. But he did not turn his head to look. Not for one instant, however great the provocation, would he forget the decorum due to his rank.

  Yet he had taken a public farewell of Carlos. He had lifted the sullen boy up that the crowds might see him, and he had solemnly kissed the unresponding lips. Carlos had enjoyed the ceremony, caring nothing for his father’s departure.

  Philip had said to him when they were alone: “I shall not see you for a long time, Carlos. I want you to promise me to be good and try to learn your lessons.”

  Carlos had said nothing; he merely gave his father that long, cunning stare.

  “You must be good, my son, for, with your grandfather and your father away from Spain, you have a special duty to your people. You must show an example to all.”

  The boy continued to scowl; he did not like this talk of being good.

  “You must make the people love you. You must, by your behavior, win the respect of your grandfather and father.”

  Then Carlos spoke. “Juana loves him. Juana loves the little one.”

  Philip rode through Catalonia to the Bay of Rosas, where Admiral Doria met him with fifty-five galleys and many sailing ships; and Doria fell on his knees before the Prince and, with tears streaming down his cheeks, cried: “Now, O Lord, let thy servant depart in peace, for his eyes have seen Thy salvation.” Philip knew that the emotion of Doria was genuine; to him the Prince was like a god; and the Admiral reflected the mood of the entire Spanish nation.

  This was gratifying indeed. His people—the Spanish—loved him; not as he craved to be loved, but as a ruler; his manners, which repelled in private, pleased in public. He had this devotion and he had the love of Isabel and their children to sustain him. Should he not be gratified?

  But whatever he had, he would never forget that first he was a Prince, and, as he listened to the compliments that were showered upon him, as he heard the cheers of the people, he could not shut out of his mind the memory of that dark, lowering face; he could hear the peevishly triumphant whine: “Juana loves him. Juana loves the little one.”

  And although he had given Spain his life to make of it what his people wished, he had also given them Don Carlos.

  He passed through Genoa to Milan and Mantua.

  The Italians did not like him. They were courteous, paying him the respect which was his due; but he, as much as any, was aware of the impression he made.

  “He is serious, this Philip,” it was said. “Has he never learned to laugh and compliment the ladies?”

  They talked of his father. There was a man! It was good to watch him at table and to mark his way with women. He was a man such as the Italians could understand.

  Through the Tyrol and Germany to Luxembourg went the magnificent procession; and always it was the same story. “How solemn he is, this Prince!” They shook their heads gravely. They would not, if they could help it, further the chances of such a one. They wished to have a ruler who was a merrymaker. The Emperor Charles had a strength of his own, and that they applauded; young Maximilian, the Emperor’s nephew and now his son-in-law, was like his uncle. But this quiet, calm Spaniard? No! They did not like him. Their cheers and homage were lukewarm.

  It was April when he made his entry into Brussels.

  A great ceremony had been prepared for him at the Emperor’s instigation. Charles was perturbed; he had seen little of his son of late, but he was not unaware of the fact that Philip’s personality would not appeal to those robust, pleasure-loving people, who cared little for ceremony. He knew the Flemings well, and he believed that they would not welcome a future ruler whose tastes and manners did not accord with their own.

  Charles was waiting for Philip at the palace in the company of his two widowed sisters—Mary of Hungary and Eleonore, who had been the second wife of Francis the First. Mary was practical and capable; Eleonore was warm and motherly. Both women were looking forward to Philip’s visit; Mary because she liked to have a say in family affairs and she saw a big storm blowing up concerning the inheritance of Philip and Maximilian; Eleonore because it was time Philip married and she had a suitable wife for him in the person of her own daughter by Manoel of Portugal, whom she, Eleonore, had married before she became the second wife of the King of France.

  But neither of these ladies was more eager to see their nephew
than Charles was to see his son.

  The Emperor stood at a window of the palace, watching the crowds in the street, listening to the triumphant music. He saw the approach of the cavalcade; and at the head of all this pomp and magnificence rode Philip, the heir of Spain and as much of Europe as his father could snatch from the eager hands of his brother and nephew.

  But this was not the way in which a future ruler should ride into a Flemish city! There, on his horse, he sat—a small man, too small for these people who liked their men to be large and lusty; too pale for a people who fancied the florid complexion; and worst of all, he did not smile; he stared sternly straight ahead. Maximilian, Charles conjectured, would have thrown kisses to the groups of pretty girls who were watching from the houses and that would have made them his slaves for the rest of their lives; he would have doffed his hat, waved his hand, bowed, smiled on everyone. But instead of that, Philip came on in stately dignity, a solemn Spaniard among the hearty men and women of Flanders.

  The Emperor embraced his son with warmth, and he thought: You and I will have much to say, my son. But before I lay my plans before you, I shall have to implore you to discard this solemnity. When a man—and that man hoping to become a ruler here—is in Flanders, he must do as the Flemings do.

  How Philip hated the life! How he longed for Spain!

  He thought with particular sadness of the house of Doña Isabel with its hangings that were neither rich nor luxurious, but seemed the more beautiful to him because of their simplicity; he remembered her delight in the Flanders carpets he had given her; he longed to stride unceremoniously through the door which opened on to the plazuela, to walk into Isabel’s apartments and pick up the baby, to speak to young Garcia.

  He noticed that Charles had aged considerably since they had last met. His florid complexion had become almost sallow, and the rich purple-red color was replaced by a crisscross of veins that showed up startlingly against the yellow pallor; he was less corpulent than he had been and the flesh of his face hung in folds; his hands were swollen with gout and he told Philip that his feet were affected in the same way. He was subject to a form of fever which attacked him now and then; his lips were cracked; his mouth was perpetually dry and there were times when he was so affected by the heat and dryness that he kept a green leaf in his mouth for the sake of its cool moisture.

  “But enough of myself!” he cried. “It is of you we must talk, my son.”

  “I am at your service, Father,” said Philip.

  “The sight of you gives me pleasure. You are a son to be proud of. But you have come from Spain, and here things are different. These people will love you no less than the Spaniards do, but whereas the Spaniards wish you to be a demigod among them, the Flemings wish you to go among them as a man. They would like to know you are loving their women; they will wish to see you riding at the jousts, winning all the trophies. That is the sort of ruler they look for.”

  “Then I fear they will not find me to their taste.”

  “We’ll make them. We’ll show them at the joust tomorrow. I have ordered a special pavilion to be set up. It will be in your honor, and the great moment will be when you ride into the arena.”

  “Is that wise? I was never a good horseman. Even Zuñiga could not make me that.”

  “You’ll do well, I know.” He laughed, bringing his face close to Philip’s so that it was possible to smell the mingling odors of garlic and green leaves. “Why, none will dare beat you at the tourneys! They know my orders.”

  “Perhaps all the people know of this,” said Philip. “Therefore it may be a waste of time to joust.”

  “Ha! You have become a cynic. No! I want the people to see you triumph over all. You must do that, Philip. You know how my brother Ferdinand plagues me; and there is Maximilian to consider. There is one thing which you must understand: No matter what arrangements I am able to make for you, it is these people who will choose their ruler.”

  “Then I do not think they will choose me.”

  “They will. We’ll make them. You were rather formal during your entry, but you will learn to smile and joke, eat, drink, and make love to the women. You should have a mistress without delay. That will be expected of you.” Charles burst into hearty laughter so that some of the green juice ran down his beard. “You look not too pleased at the prospect.”

  “Such matters should surely come about naturally.”

  “Well, ’twill not be difficult, I am sure. The women are handsome here; and how long is it since you were a husband? Oh, I know of that very sober relationship with Isabel Osorio. Very creditable. But that is in Spain. Yes; you must have a mistress without delay.”

  More than ever Philip was longing for home as he watched his father’s expression, which was one of affection mingling with approval and not a little exasperation.

  “And there is one other problem of great moment which we must discuss,” went on Charles. “You have been a widower too long. You must have a wife.”

  Philip’s Aunt Eleonore craved audience with him.

  He felt bruised and humiliated. In the tourney he had not shone. Charles had evidently not given his instructions clearly enough and Philip did not break even one lance. The people had been silent, and it was clear that they did not think very highly of their Prince.

  He was homesick and weary. He hated their rough horseplay, their practical jokes, their loud laughter, their preoccupation with eating, drinking, and amorous adventure.

  His father was undoubtedly one of them; he saw that now. And he, Philip, was a Prince of Spain, and would never be anything else.

  Eleonore had perhaps come to commiserate, for she was a kindly woman. She had been good to the little sons of Francis the First when they had been prisoners in Spain, and they had grown to love her; but that was a long time ago now. The elder of those boys was now dead; he had died, it was said, through drinking from the cup brought to him by his Italian cupbearer who was in the service of the Italian woman, now Queen of France; the second of those boys was himself King of France, with that Catherine de Medici as his Queen who, many Frenchmen believed, had been responsible for the death of the King’s elder brother.

  Eleonore had been at today’s tourney and she would have witnessed his humiliation. It was always to women that Philip turned for compassion—to Leonor, to Maria Manoela, to Isabel, and now … perhaps to Eleonore.

  She knelt before him.

  “Have I your Highness’s permission to speak frankly?”

  “You have, dear Aunt.”

  He would have liked to embrace her, but he could not bring himself to do so. He could only sit straight in his chair, bid her rise, bid her be seated; and even while he longed for her compassion he could not behave otherwise than as the Prince of Spain.

  “I wish to speak to you of my daughter.”

  “The Princess of Portugal,” said Philip; and he felt excited, for Eleonore’s daughter was the aunt of Maria Manoela.

  “She is a charming girl,” went on Eleonore, “and I am sure you would love her. She has already heard of you and talks of nothing else, so I hear. There would be a good dowry with her, and I doubt not that if you approved the match, the Emperor would also.”

  “Maria …” He spoke the name so quietly that she scarcely heard. He was living it all again, seeing her ride into Spain with her Castilian cape about her shoulders, raising her frightened eyes to his—Maria Manoela who had gone and in her place had left him Carlos.

  He rose and walked about the room, for he did not want his aunt to see his emotion. At length he stopped and looked at her.

  “Have you spoken of the marriage to the Emperor?”

  “No, your Highness; but I doubt not its possibilities have occurred to him.”

  “I will consider them,” he said; and he bowed his head in a manner which told her the interview was at an end. She accepted dismissal and left him alone with his thoughts.

  It seemed to Philip that life was ironical. He was required to have a wi
fe; and he would, of course. When had he ever failed to do what was expected of him? It was almost as though he had reverted to his youth when his father had said to him: “Jeanne of Navarre is divorced from that fool of Clèves. What think you of taking her for a wife?”

  He had thought of it. He remembered afresh his feelings for her. He recalled how she had gone to the Cathedral to present her protests to the bishops, how she had defied her mother and King Francis. At that time he had delighted in her bravery; now he saw her conduct in a different light. Such a flouter of authority was not a fit wife for him.

  His Uncle Ferdinand was impressing on the Emperor that his, Ferdinand’s, daughter would make a suitable Queen of Spain. Ferdinand would be ready to make concessions regarding this complicated matter of settling the inheritance if, now that his son had married the Emperor’s daughter, the Emperor’s son Philip married his daughter.

  Philip wanted neither Ferdinand’s daughter nor Jeanne of Navarre. Maria of Portugal roused memories, but he longed for the peace of Isabel’s home and his own children playing at his feet.

  His thoughts were uneasy. He knew that soon he must take a wife, and he wanted none of them—not Maria who might bring too poignant memories of Maria Manoela, not Jeanne of Navarre, that strong-willed young woman, nor Ferdinand’s daughter, a union with whom would make the settlement so much easier. He wanted none of these women; he wanted only Isabel, whom he thought of as his wife.

  He was melancholy, longing for home.

  But, being Philip, he did his duty. He tilted in the tourneys; he accepted the prize as victor, although he disliked doing so, knowing that his victory had been arranged. The spectators knew it too; he was aware of their cynical glances.