by Jean Plaidy
Nor were the Spaniards allowed to serve Philip at table.
“Nay,” said the hearty English: “he is our guest. He has married our Queen and we demand the privilege of serving him.”
And what could be done? Nothing. The Spaniards could only marvel at these people, at their crudeness, their huge appetites, and their ability to sweep aside etiquette and make the rules which best suited themselves. Spanish discipline was needed here, thought the guests. Let them wait until Philip’s son was born! Let them wait until the Holy Inquisition was set up in this land!
The Queen gave the toast of her guests, and this she drank from a golden cup. Then she drank the health of her husband, whose titles were proclaimed by a handsome herald. “King of England, Naples, and Jerusalem, Prince of Spain, and Count of Flanders.”
And every eye of every Spaniard gleamed with loving devotion.
To Philip it seemed that the celebrations would never end, yet he dreaded their climax. Mary was growing fonder of him with every passing moment. What tenderness had she known in her life? Very little. And when this young man—one day to be the greatest monarch in the world—showed her kindness, it was almost more than she could bear. All her feelings, so carefully suppressed, were about to burst forth like a river in flood; she was longing for the consummation of her marriage. This Philip had everything to offer her; youth, quiet dignity—which penetrated his new aspect of bonhomie—tenderness, kindliness, and understanding. Mary was happier at her wedding feast than she had ever before been in the whole of her life. There was one thing she regretted besides her lost youth—that her mother could not see her now. How happy Katharine of Aragon would have been to see her daughter, Queen of England, married to her kinsman, that together they might rule the world while they led it to the only true faith.
After the banquets the great ball began. To the Spaniards and the English this was a further cause for dissension. For could Spaniards dance the crude English dances? It seemed to them that the English had no notion of grace; they pranced, leaped, and laughed as they danced, as though a dance were an expression of joy rather than of grace. They laughingly declared—in their barbaric tongue, which only a few of their guests could understand—that if the Spanish dances were danced they would all die of laughing, for such laughter as they would be unable to suppress would result in death after such a surfeit of beef, mutton, and roast peacock. As for the grandees, the hidalgos, and the stately dons, how could they so fling their arms about? How could they leap into the air, guffawing as they did so?
Only the King and the Queen seemed to find the contrast between Spanish and English customs amusing. Philip, charming and courtly, discovered that the English knew the German style of dancing, which was not quite so crude as the English and was known to the Spaniards. So, in German fashion, they danced, led by the short, trim Philip in his dazzling wedding garments, hand-in-hand with the Queen, who was made almost handsome by the glitter of jewels and the shine of happiness.
Had that been all that was demanded of him, Philip would have felt great relief. But now the night was upon them. He and his Queen had been disrobed; their attendants had retired, and all but a few candles doused.
She was waiting for him—her eyes ardent, her thin arms eager. She was frightened yet desirous, seeing in him the embodiment of a dream. He was the belated lover; he was the savior who would help her to lead her country back to Holy Church.
And he? He was smiling; she did not notice that the smile was fixed on his lips to make of him an eager lover, as a crown, set on Mary’s head, had made her a Queen. He was seeking to sharpen his pity for her into some semblance of desire.
She, so thin, so tense, so trembling, shocked him. How could he make love to her? He thought of Maria Manoela, the bride of his youth; he thought of Isabel, Catherine, and his Flemish mistress. He longed for them—any of them—anyone but Mary Tudor.
Fervently he beseeched the saints, and the saints, it seemed to him, came to his aid. He thought of his father’s words; of the cheers of the people which had never failed to greet him; momentarily he thought of the misshapen body of Don Carlos. With his life Philip wished to serve Spain and the Holy Inquisition. He felt single-minded in his devotion to them. He was ready to serve Spain and the Holy Inquisition in the arms of Mary Tudor.
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.”
