by Jean Plaidy
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 hus
band. 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.
