by Jean Plaidy
“Escort Don Carlos to his apartments,” he said. “And leave me alone with the Queen and Father Borgia.”
Carlos was led out of the room, and Philip was alone with the priest and his grandmother.
“Grandmother,” said Philip, “I have heard sad stories of your state. I understand that you have once more spoken against Holy Church. Grandmother, cannot you see the folly of this?”
She shook her head, mumbling to herself: “We should not be forced to perform religious rites … We should worship as we please. I do not like these ceremonies … and if I do not like them I will not perform them … nor have them performed in my presence.”
“Grandmother, such words are in direct defiance of the Holy Inquisition itself.”
“So you have come to torture me … as I was tortured once before! I was tortured when I spoke against the Catholic Church and the Inquisition. They take people to their dungeons, they tear and burn the flesh … all in the name of God. Is He happy, think you? Does He say: ‘Look at all the blood they have shed in Spain! It is all for Me. It is all in My Name …’? Ha … ha …”
“Grandmother, I beg of you, be calm. Father Borgia tells me that you have been a little more reasonable of late, but that your conduct leaves much to be desired.”
“And who is this come to torment me, eh?”
“I am Philip, your grandson … Regent of Spain in the absence of the Emperor, but I have not come to torment you.”
“Philip … oh, speak not that name to me. You come to torture me with memories … and memories torture even as do the red-hot pincers … even as does the rack … Philip … oh, my beautiful Philip, I hate you. Yes. I do. I hate you … because you are so beautiful … and I love you …”
Philip looked helplessly at Father Borgia.
“She swept everything off the altar we set up for her, your Highness,” said the priest, “screaming out that she would not have it thus. But I beg your Highness not to despair of her soul. She grows more reasonable as her health fails.”
“What are you mumbling about, eh, priest? What are you mumbling about there in the shadows? You are a woman in disguise, I believe. I won’t have women about me. He’s not to be trusted with women, that Philip!”
“There seems nothing I can say,” said Philip.
“We might apply … a little force, your Highness.”
Philip looked at the sad figure in the chair, the filthy hair, the tattered garments, the legs swollen with dropsy. Philip hated cruelty for its own sake. He hated war because that meant much bloodshed; in his opinion, the tortures of the Inquisition were only inflicted for the purpose of guiding heretics to the truth and saving their souls, or preparing them for eternal torment. That seemed to him reasonable. But to inflict suffering when no good could come of it disgusted him. And how could they, by torturing this woman, make her see the truth? She might see it for a day, but after that she would lapse into the old ways. She was mad; they must remember that.
He would not have her hurt. They must accept her madness as an additional burden on the royal house. They must try to lead her gently to salvation.
“Nay,” he said. “Persuade her with words only. I forbid aught else.”
“Your Highness has spoken. And it is a fact that she did not resist this day when I conducted the usual rites. Though I must report to your Highness that she always closes her eyes at the elevation of the Host.”
Philip sighed. “Continue to reason with her.”
“I will, your Highness. And I think you should know that there was an occasion when she stated that the blessed tapers stank.”
“You must have done well, Father Borgia, since she is quieter now. Continue with your work. I doubt not that we shall save her soul before she leaves this Earth.”
“That is what we will strive for,” promised the priest.
They looked at Juana; she had suddenly fallen asleep, her head lolling sideways, the mouth open as she emitted loud snores.
Philip said: “There is nothing more to be done at this stage. Let us leave her now.”
He went slowly to his apartments; he would be almost glad when next day they continued the journey to Corunna and England.
Carlos could not sleep. He could not forget the old lady in the strange room. He wanted to know such a lot about her, because vaguely he believed she could tell him something which others would not.
He sat up in bed. It was very quiet and must be past midnight. His heart was beating very fast, but he was not afraid.
She would be in that room still, he knew, for he had heard that she rarely went to bed. She sat in her chair and slept at any time of the day or the night; and sometimes she lay on the floor.
If he tiptoed out of his apartment and went along the corridors he would come to that room. He knew the way, because he had noted it carefully.
Cautiously he got out of bed and tiptoed to the door. He could hear the rhythmic breathing of his attendants. They were all fast asleep.
He was in the corridor, clutching about him the cloak he had picked up as he had got out of bed. Along the corridors he went, creeping cautiously past the sleeping guards. Outside the door of his great-grandmother’s room were two men-at-arms. They were slumped on stools and both were fast asleep. Quickly Carlos slipped past them and into the room.
The candles were still burning and she was in her chair, sitting there just as he had seen her when he had entered this room with his father. He shut the door very quietly.
She moved in her chair. “Who is there?” she croaked.
“Carlos,” he whispered. “The little one.”
He limped across the room.
“You limp, little one,” she said. “Philip limped at times. It was one of the joints in his knees.” She spoke in whispers, as though she realized the need for quietness. “That did not stop his running after the women, though.”
“Did it not?” said Carlos.
“Sit at my feet.”
He sat, and she let her fingers run through his hair.
“He had thick hair,” she said. “Ripples and curls. He was the loveliest man in the world. Who are you? You’re not Philip.”
“He is Carlos, this little one. Philip is his father.”
“Carlos … Not that Carlos! Not my son. Not Caesar.”
“No … no. I am your great-grandson. The son of Philip.”
“My Carlos took him from me … He took my Philip. He said: ‘My Mother, you cannot keep a dead body with you forever. I must take him away for decent burial.’ But my Philip was not dead. I would sit by the coffin and I would have it open … and I would kiss his lips … He could not escape me then. He could not run to other women then.”
“The Emperor who took your Philip away is this little one’s grandfather. There is another Philip now. He is this little one’s father. Carlos hates that Philip. He hopes he will soon die.”
“Your Philip, Carlos? Your Philip. He is not my Philip. They said I must marry my Philip and I wept and I stormed. I could weep and storm, little Carlos. Oh … I could. And my father … Great Ferdinand … the King of Aragon … he said I was mad when it was good for me to be mad … Good for me … Who cared for me? It was good for him that I should be mad … and sometimes it was good that I should be sane … Mad … sane … mad … sane …”
“They look at Carlos as though he is mad.”
“Mad … sane … mad … sane,” she murmured.
“You hated your Philip, did you not?” asked Carlos.
“Hated because I loved … loved because I hated. I sat by the coffin. I’d take off the lid and kiss him … fondle him … I said: ‘You cannot leave me now, Philip. Where are your women now?’ Ha … ha …”
Carlos joined in her laughter, then held up his fingers to his lips to remind her of the need for quiet.
“I would let no woman come near the coffin,” she murmured.
“Why not?”
“I could not trust him. He was full of cunning. I thought he migh
t slip out … I could not keep him from women. Could death?”
“Could death?” asked Carlos.
“They have taken him from me … Carlos …”
“Not this Carlos. The other one … the father of my father. Not this Carlos. He loves you. This little one is your friend.”
“This is my friend, this little one.”
“He wants to bring his Aunt Juana here and live with you forever.”
“Carlos … you will live with me here, then?”
“Yes … yes … When Philip goes to England, Carlos will run away … he will come to you …”
“They wished to send me to England.”
“No, no … It is Philip who goes to England.”
“They said the King of England cannot marry a mad woman. I was mad then, you see, little one. Mad … sane … mad … sane … Mad! They said the King of England did not mind insanity. Insanity did not stop the bearing of children … So said the English …”
“The father of Carlos is going to England. He is to marry the Queen.”
“Henry Tudor wished to marry me. King Henry the Seventh of England. They said he was such a good man that he would make me sane again … mad … sane … mad … Sane!”
“Great-grandmother, you must not laugh so. They will hear, and send Carlos away from you.”
“They poisoned him, you know.”
“Whom did they poison, Great-grandmother?”
“My Philip. My father sent his agents to poison my Philip.”
“Then you hate your father. Carlos hates his father too.”
“It was after a banquet that he died. They said it was a fever … but I know what it was.”
“Poison!” cried Carlos.
“I stayed by his side and none could move me from him. And when they said he was dead, I had him set upon a catafalque covered in cloth of gold, the color of his hair. I wrapped him in brocade and ermine. I sat beside him … through the days and nights. They could not tear me from him. Do you know who did it?”
“Your father? And you hate him?”
“My father’s friend and counselor. What was his name? I forget it. He was an Aragonese gentleman. I know! It was Mosen Ferer. He was a wicked man. They set him in charge of me … He said I was a heretic and he tortured me.”
“Tortured you! Tell Carlos.”
“Oh … torture … torture …”Her mouth twitched and she began to cry. “They told me they must save my soul.” She was silent for a while; then she began to mutter under her breath: “Mad … sane … sane … mad. Carlos … Carlos … are you there, little one?”
“Carlos is here,” whispered Carlos.
“Never … never let people make you do what they want, little one.”
“No!” breathed Carlos. “No.”
“Love that is hate … and hate that is love … mad that is sane and sane that is mad … My Philip was the handsomest man in the world. I would have a throne made for him and I would set him on it. I would sit at his feet and he would be my prisoner. I would never have women near him. I never will, Carlos … never … never … None save my washerwoman. She is ugly. He would not care for her. Carlos … come near to me and I will tell you something.”
“Yes … yes? Carlos is near you.”
“The whole world is mad, Carlos, and only you and I are sane …”
He looked wonderingly into her face, but she had closed her eyes suddenly; he watched the tears running down her cheeks; he thought that they were like rivers pushing their way through the soil.
There was silence in the room. One of the candles had gone out. He put his head against her ill-smelling gown, but he did not mind the smell. He was excited because he and she were the only sane people in a mad world.
“Great-grandmother,” he whispered; but she did not answer; the effort of talking so much had tired her and she had fallen asleep.
He sat there for a long time. He did not want to leave her. He and she had much to say to each other; but after a while he, too, fell asleep; and he lay against her, keeping his hand in hers.
The guards looked in, as they did periodically, to see that all was well.
She awoke and immediately was aware of the boy on the stool at her feet. There was queenly dignity in her voice as she said: “Don Carlos visited me. We talked and he grew tired. Carry him back to his apartments and carry him gently. Do not wake him. He is but a child.”
And the guards, who were never surprised at what she might do or say, bowed low, and one of them picked up the sleeping boy and with him went quietly out of the room.
The next day the brilliant cavalcade set out on its journey to the coast.
Carlos, riding beside his father, hated him more than ever. Carlos did not want to ride with his father; he wished to stay with his great-grandmother in Tordesillas. But he was quieter than usual and he did not make his wishes known. He believed that his father was going among savages who—if he managed to survive the terrible sea journey—would make short work of him.
At Santiago de Compostella, the procession halted. There they must stay for several days that Philip might pay his respectful devotion at the shrine of St. James, the tutelar saint of Spain. There were always many pilgrims gathered in this city, but on this occasion their numbers were increased on account of the royal visit.
The sojourn in this town was devoted to religious ceremonies, which were a change after the tourneys and bullfights which they had had to witness at Astorga and Benavente.
Here they met the envoys from England.
When Philip received them, his friends and followers were astonished by the change in him. It was as though he had found a lifelike mask which he had put over his severe features. He smiled at these Englishmen; he greeted them with warmth; and those of his friends who were not amazed were jealous.
“See,” they said to one another, “what smiles he has for these English! When has he ever given us such smiles?”
Only Ruy seemed to understand and, when they were alone, congratulated him on a masterly performance.
When Philip had given every Englishman in the Duke of Bedford’s embassy a costly present, the party began the thirty miles’ journey to Corunna.
A wonderful sight greeted them in the harbor there. A great armada had assembled to escort Philip to England, and protect him if need be from the French King’s fleet; for that monarch would doubtless do his best to prevent Philip’s arrival in England, as he was hoping to secure the English throne for his daughter-in-law, Mary Queen of Scots.
None watched that array with more delight than Carlos. As he looked at the banners of red silk and the brilliantly colored pennons, as he admired the crimson damask and the great standard decorated with the Imperial arms, he was thinking: “Philip is going, and may it please God and the saints that he never comes back.”
Then Carlos bade a public farewell to his father, and the fleet of a hundred ships set sail for England.
Ahead lay Southampton.
Philip stood on deck and looked at the land he had come to conquer, not by war, but by marriage with its Queen, by the son he would have, and by the new man he must become for the sake of the English.
On the deck with him stood the important men who had accompanied him on this great mission. Ruy was there, ever a comfort, shrewd and calm, always to be relied upon; there was noble Alba of great experience, the handsome Count of Feria, Egmont, and the rest.
A boat was being rowed out to their vessel. In it were Lord Howard, the Queen’s Admiral, Lords Shrewsbury, Arundel, and Derby with Sir John Williams.
Philip was dressed in black velvet and cloth of silver, and his doublet was hung with chains of gold. His garments were decorated with dazzling jewels of many colors; he was a glittering and magnificent sight; and in such garments he, who had always insisted on wearing the simplest clothes except for state occasions, seemed almost a stranger to his friends.
He spoke to the English in Latin, and apologized for his ignorance of their tongue. Hi
s manner was gracious and charming; it was clear—for the English made no secret of their feelings—that these men who had come to welcome him in the name of the Queen were agreeably surprised.
Now a barge, lined with cloth of gold and manned by men in the white and green of the Tudor livery, approached the vessel. This was the royal barge which had been sent to carry Philip to English soil; and when he reached the land, the Earl of Arundel begged his leave to perform a little ceremony which, he said, he would do at the express command of the Queen. Philip was then presented with the Order of the Garter.
The company rode to lodgings which had been prepared for them, and there, to the further astonishment of the hidalgos, Philip expressed his desire to pledge his friendship to England in a draught of English beer.
This he drank as though it were Spanish wine, smacking his lips, declaring that he could wish to be drowned in such nectar.
The Englishmen were deceived. Who had said a moody, morose man was coming to wed the Queen? Someone had lied to them. This Philip of Spain was a hearty fellow—for all that he was of such low stature.
Only when he was alone with Ruy in that alien house in that alien land did Philip’s features relax into their familiar expression.
“Highness,” said Ruy, “your father would be proud of you. This night you have shown these barbarians a man they will love. You might have been one of them, Highness. It was as though you played a part with mummers.”
Philip was reflective. “There are times, Ruy,” he said, “when I wonder what manner of man I am. I am sober, am I not? And yet perhaps there is in me something of the barbarian I showed these people tonight. But the test lies before me. Oh, fortunate Ruy! You who are soon to delight in the beautiful Ana!”
Ruy lifted his shoulders and smiled. “Perhaps she has lost her beauty before I shall enjoy it. She has been fencing with a page and lost an eye.”
“She is a wild girl, Ruy, but the loveliest in Spain. The most haughty too, I’ll swear. I doubt even the loss of an eye could entirely alter that. Well, your trials will come, Ruy, with Ana. In the meantime … think of me … with Mary. Think of me and pray that I shall not flinch from my duty.”
