The Complete Tudors: Nine Historical Novels

by Jean Plaidy

  She told him how she dreaded the ceremony, how she was afraid of the solemn Duke of Alba, who had come from Flanders to act as proxy for his master, since the Kings of Spain did not leave their country to bring home their brides; their brides came to them.

  He was kind; he understood.

  “It makes me sad to lose you,” he said, “although I shall be proud of my little Queen of Spain.”

  “But to leave you all, Papa…all my brothers and sisters and you…dearest Papa…you most of all.”

  He stroked her hair. “It is the fate of such as we are, dearest child,” he said. “We all have to face it. Princes and princesses all have their marriages made for them.”

  “But, Papa, I cannot bear it. I cannot.”

  “Dearest, you will. We all do. In a little while you will be happy there, and Spain will be your home instead of France.”

  “But Spain is not France, and it is France I love.”

  “It is your home you love, Elisabeth; and Spain will be your home, for your home will be where your husband is. You must not cry. You must not have red eyes for the ceremony or the King your husband will hear of it and feel slighted. He might even cancel the arrangements!”

  “Papa, do you think he would?”

  “Elisabeth, if it were not this marriage it would be another.”

  “I have prayed, Papa, that something will happen so that I need not go.”

  “I said earnest prayers at the time of my own marriage.”

  “But you found happiness later.”

  “Great happiness, dearest child.”

  Then Diane came in and, smiling at the father and daughter, she lifted the hair from Elisabeth’s hot face and kissed her; for Diane behaved as a mother to the royal children, and that was how they thought of their father’s mistress.

  She said: “The child is exhausted, and there are all the ceremonies before her! Come, Elisabeth, my dear one, you must go to bed and I will have a soothing draught made for you. I will bring it to you myself and sit with you until you are sleepy. When you are rested you will feel better. Will she not?”

  “She will indeed,” said Henri; and as he looked from his daughter to his mistress, it was as though he were telling Elisabeth that even when life seemed very cruel to princes and princesses, it sometimes was very kind to them in unexpected ways.

  The dreaded day came nearer and nothing happened to prevent the marriage. Emmanuel Philibert, the Duke of Savoy, was also in Paris, for he had come to marry Elisabeth’s Aunt Marguerite. With the two marriages the alliance between France and Spain would be very firm indeed, and England would be completely isolated, Elizabeth of England losing her two suitors by the marriages which were to take place in Paris that summer.

  Little Elisabeth de Valois was formally betrothed to Philip by proxy in the great hall of the Louvre, and as she stood beside the Duke of Alba, with whom was the young Prince of Orange, who had accompanied Alba from the Netherlands, she felt that even Philip could not be more forbidding than his proxy. There was some small comfort in that.

  The next day the actual ceremony was solemnized in Notre Dame to the delight of all except the bride, for the pomp and magnificence was equal to that which had enchanted Paris at the marriage of Mary Stuart and the Dauphin of France the year before.

  Elisabeth clung to her father’s hand as he led her from the Bishop’s Palace to Notre Dame. Her dress was covered with beautiful pearls, her mantle was of blue velvet, and about her neck was hung a locket containing Philip’s portrait; there was also the huge pear-shaped pearl—the most valuable of all Spain’s crown jewels—a present from the bridegroom to the bride. She looked very small beside her glittering father, who whispered words of comfort to her as he acknowledged the applause of the onlookers. Behind her came her sister Claude to carry her train, with Mary Stuart, the Dauphine. This, thought Elisabeth, was one of the last occasions when she would be surrounded by the members of her beloved family. The Imperial crown which she must carry on her head weighed her down more by its significance than by the weight of gold and jewels.

  Now she must stand beside the Duke of Alba, who was dressed in glittering cloth of gold, while the Cardinal of Bourbon proclaimed her the wife of the King of Spain.

  The French, unlike the English, could outdo the Spaniards in courtesy and brilliance; and this they proceeded to do to the best of their ability. There was an inevitable undercurrent of uneasiness at such a time; the wedding had not increased the amity between the rival factions of France. The Catholic party, at the head of which were the Guises, was delighted, for the match was very much to their liking; the Protestant party, at the head of which were the Bourbons, was made uneasy by the new and close tie with Catholic Spain.

  But, at the brilliant ceremonies that followed, the Guisards and the Bourbons veiled their antagonisms; and when, shortly afterward, the King’s sister was married to the Duke of Savoy, the wedding celebrations in recognition of the double wedding must, all had declared, be doubly magnificent.

  As each day passed, the little bride’s uneasiness grew. Nightly she prayed for a miracle. She begged for a few more months, a few more days in France.

  There were many interviews with her mother, when she was given instructions as to how she might bind Philip to her; she was continually told that she must remember that first she was a princess of France, and it was the interests of France and her family that she must further.

  Ceremonies seemed endless. There were many jousts and tourneys, and always she, with the elder members of her family, must be present in a pavilion of honor to see Frenchmen tilt against Spaniards.

  At length there came that day which she would never forget as long as she lived. How could such a day begin so ordinarily! There was nothing in the brilliant June sky to warn them all that this day would be different from any others spent in rejoicing. The crowds were as numerous as ever; the pavilion and dresses of men and women as glittering as was to be expected of the most brilliant court in the world.

  The jousting was held close to the Bastille near the gate of St. Antoine. Elisabeth sat with her mother, her sister Claude, and that other bride, her aunt Marguerite. Above their heads the silken canopies kept off the rays of the sun. The crowd was expectant, for the King was to joust today.

  Elisabeth was aware that her mother was uneasy. There was an affinity between them, and Elisabeth sometimes thought that she knew more about her mother than the others.

  Catherine de Medici was known to be different from other women; no one could have borne as she did the constant humiliation of watching Diane take all the homage which was Catherine’s by right; she had special powers which were given to her by her magicians; she was quiet, and only her children feared her. For, thought Elisabeth, we are the only ones who know the Queen of France.

  When the King rode into the arena he was wearing, as he always did, the black-and-white colors of his mistress Diane. It was not this habitual slight which made Catherine uneasy; but there she sat, tense, not missing a single movement made by the King.

  She was clearly relieved when the joust was over and the King emerged victorious. Elisabeth wondered afresh at her mother’s love for her father. Not all the humiliation he inflicted on her could stifle that quiet, tense emotion. The King was the kindest person Elisabeth had ever known, yet she could not understand her mother’s devotion; for although he was always courteous to his wife, he so clearly did not love her, and that was apparent in the very tone of his voice when he spoke to her. Perhaps he believed, as so many people did, that she had poisoned his elder brother, so that he might be King and she the Queen. Moreover, he loved Diane so much that nothing could prevent his showing it. Diane to him was his Queen. In spite of that, Catherine loved him.

  Now the King was declaring that he wished to tilt again, and Catherine had half risen in her seat. She wanted, Elisabeth knew, to beg him not to. Too much exercise was bad for him. He had had an unpleasant attack of giddiness after a game of tennis only yesterday;
and now he had jousted enough.

  But the King was like a boy, as proudly he bore his mistress’s colors. He declared that he was as fresh as when he had started; he would break one more lance before he retired from the field.

  A young Franco-Scot came forward at his command—Montgomerie, the Sieur de L’Orge.

  Catherine seemed to have communicated some of her uneasiness to this young man, for he begged the King to excuse him; but the King insisted.

  It was all over in a few minutes. Had Catherine risen to protest before it happened? Elisabeth did not know.

  Montgomerie’s lance, striking the King on the gorget, had splintered, and one of the splinters had entered the King’s eye. Henri fell to the ground, his face covered with blood.

  Elisabeth was vaguely aware that her mother had risen and that on her face was an expression of dreadful understanding.

  Elisabeth pressed her hands against her madly beating heart. She feared the worst of all tragedies had overtaken her. And so she had her wish. The journey was delayed. She was heartbroken during those last weeks in France.

  The King must lie in state; he must be buried with the utmost ceremony.

  Philip was impatient to receive his bride. The new King François and his lovely wife, Mary Stuart, were completely under the control of Mary’s uncles, the Guises, which was a comforting thought for Philip; he had heard rumors that the character of the Dowager Queen Catherine was not quite what people had believed during her husband’s lifetime. It was as though she was awakening, said his spies, and that her previous meekness had disguised her sinister character. There were some who had nicknamed her “Madame le Serpent,” and the name seemed to fit. Philip realized that his young wife would be much under the influence of such a mother, and his demands that she should be sent to Spain became more and more insistent.

  Catherine de Medici had many excuses ready. The trousseau of the Queen of Spain was not yet prepared, and she was sure the King of Spain would not wish his bride to arrive like a little commoner. There were innumerable negotiations; there was an enormous quantity of baggage which had to be transported over the Pyrenees; and the Dowager Queen thought it only right that Elisabeth should remain behind to attend the coronation of her young brother, François.

  Philip was growing uneasy. He was a husband, yet no husband. The French were defying him; it seemed to him that the Flemings were defying him also.

  At the assembly of the States-General in Ghent which he had recently attended, there had been many bold speeches. The Flemings resented the Spanish soldiers Philip had brought to their shores, and they said so. One man had said that it would now be the simplest matter to set up the Inquisition in the Netherlands, and as the Netherlands was a free country, it would have no hospitality to offer a foreign institution.

  Philip had grown pale with anger at the mention of the Inquisition. “That is not merely a revolt against me,” he said. “That is a revolt against God.”

  He did not trust Orange. He knew the Prince was negotiating a marriage with a daughter of one of the Protestant princes.

  The Flemings were turning against him; he was on bad terms with his Uncle Ferdinand; and his young wife was held from him and was doubtless being instructed by that artful Italian woman how to act as a spy in his court.

  Clearly something must be done. He would put down revolt in the Netherlands; he would return to Spain in order to discuss this with his ministers, and at the same time to receive his bride there.

  The Prince of Orange himself was at Flushing to bid Philip farewell before he embarked. Philip looked coldly at the young man and said: “I am well aware that you are responsible for your countrymen’s opposition to my wishes.”

  Orange replied: “The opposition to your wishes, Sire, can only reflect the feelings and the views of the people.”

  Philip turned impatiently away, muttering: “No, Orange; you cannot deceive me. You are to blame…with your heresy. You…and you alone.”

  Orange realized that Philip’s utterance was tantamount to a declaration of war, and he was exultant. He determined in that moment to rescue the Netherlands from the yoke of Spain and all the cruelties of the Inquisition.

  From the surrounding country, people were crowding into Valladolid; far beyond its walls the sound of tolling bells could be heard. This was no ordinary fiesta. It was a saint’s day, one of the holidays of Holy Church; best clothes were worn, expressions of sobriety were worn like masks to hide excitement. Water-carriers, who sold cool drinks to thirsty travelers, did good business along the dusty road that day; all those who had stood aside to watch the royal procession enter the town were now eagerly pressing forward, anxious to secure a place well to the fore in the Plaza Mayor.

  There was about to take place the greatest auto-da-fé any had ever witnessed. The King would be present; the Prince Don Carlos with his Aunt Juana would sit in the state gallery; and more men and women would be burned alive—and many of them members of the nobility and the court itself—than had ever been burned on one occasion.

  Who could resist such a spectacle? All those who witnessed it would talk of it for the rest of their lives. It would be more diverting even than the torturing of bulls. No wonder people were crowding into the town; no wonder men and women were trampled underfoot in their efforts to be first in the Plaza Mayor.

  The terrible scene was set in the great square before the Church of St. Francis, and the Inquisitors were already seated on the sumptuously carpeted platform; and in the gallery were the members of the royal family with their attendants. Juana was heavily veiled, as she always was in public; Philip, his eyes aflame with fanaticism, presented a less cool facade to his subjects than usual; and Don Carlos, white-faced, magnificently dressed as he loved to be, was more deeply conscious of his father than of anyone else in the whole assembly.

  Beside Philip sat his friends, Ruy Gomez da Silva, Gomez Suarez de Figeuroa, and the Count of Feria. Ruy glanced covertly at Philip. What was he thinking? wondered Ruy. But he, who had lived so near to Philip for so many years, could guess. Philip was thinking of God’s pleasure in the drama which was about to be enacted; he was thinking of the delight of God in maimed and tortured bodies, in the cries of agony.

  Ruy shivered and turned his gaze upon the young Prince. Carlos was brooding. He was not thinking so much of the sights he was about to see; he was thinking of his father and the wife who would soon be coming to him.

  As Secretary of State and chief adviser to the King, Ruy was fully conscious of the uneasy days which lay ahead. He would like to speak his mind to Philip concerning Carlos; he would like to explain to the King the thoughts which he could not suppress. He was deeply conscious of the Grand Inquisitor, Fernando Valdés, Cardinal-Archbishop of Seville, who was in charge of today’s spectacle. There was not one person in the crowd who could look at that man unmoved, and Ruy was no exception. The reputation of the Cardinal-Archbishop was second only to that of Torquemada. Since he had been in command of the dread Inquisition, he had determined to increase its power, and this he had done with marked success. He had enlisted new spies; they were everywhere, listening to unwary conversations, tempting the careless to betray themselves. Under Valdés, new instruments of torture had been devised. He was the man whom Philip had appointed to stamp out heresy in Spain; for, said Philip—and Valdés echoed his words—how could they hope to free the rest of the world from the Devil unless Spain herself was beyond reproach?

  There was now a deep silence over the square; then it seemed as though all the church bells in the town were tolling.

  The doors of the great prison would now be opening. Ruy knew this, because he had witnessed similar ceremonies. Out of the gates of the prison a wretched procession would now be filing and at any moment it would be possible to see their vanguard.

  He watched a black-eyed gypsy girl cross herself as she touched her rosary; his eyes strayed to the water-carrier in tattered rags. In the slant of the man’s eyes Ruy recognized his Moorish an
cestry. And beside that man was another, whose lips were moving in prayer; his features suggested Jewish blood. Had their ancestors taken part in such a spectacle—a more active part than these two would take? Perhaps they had been rich lords, rich merchants. Who could tell what one’s descendants would come to when the Holy Inquisition’s greedy claw seized a man and his property?

  These were dangerous thoughts. As the King’s closest friend, holding a high position in the country, he should not be thinking them.

  Here came the troops, resplendent in their uniforms. Ruy fixed his eyes upon them because he did not wish to look beyond them. He was weak today, weak and fanciful. He was unnerved, not only by the sights he knew from experience he would have to witness, but by the mad hatred which he sensed in Carlos. He knew now that he was a lover of peace. He hated cruelty in any form. There was not a man or woman present who would not condemn such thoughts, coming at this time. He should confess those thoughts. Dare he? Certainly not. Whom could one trust? One’s confessor today might be a familiar of the Inquisition tomorrow. Ruy might at times be a sentimental man, but he was a wise one. God alone should know his thoughts. God would punish him, if he deserved punishment. He was appalled suddenly to realize that for such thoughts he could be sentenced to join that group of men whom he did not wish to look upon. Another thought, swift as lightning, followed. The man beside him, the King and his friend, would not hesitate to destroy him if he knew what was passing through his mind.

  What a fearful sight they presented!

  “They are heretics. They are heretics!” Ruy repeated to himself. “Think of that. Heretics! Their sufferings may bring them salvation if they repent in time.”

  But he found no real peace in those words. He must therefore delude himself. He must catch the exultation which he sensed about him. The sun was hot, but the royal gallery was shaded by the hangings which shut out the burning heat. Ruy could smell death and decay in the air. The wounds of some of these men and women who stumbled behind the soldiers were turning gangrenous.