Philip stood in the center of the massive doorway, the mask of affability with which he had thought to greet the English assembly frozen on his face. There in front of him was a woman in a black velvet gown cut in the French style; he was certain that must be an oversight! One of the purposes of this marriage was to discomfit the French; to dress in the French style when making the acquaintance of the Spanish for the first time could easily be interpreted as an insult.
There was no mistaking that this was the queen; he had been provided with a portrait of her, but it was obvious that the artist had flattered her. She was diminutive, which was in itself a good thing, being quite short himself; but she was painfully thin, all angles and sharp edges, as it were. Maria Elena was all soft, voluptuous curves. And the queen’s skin was very pale, in fact, exceedingly so; he was used to the olive and sun-kissed complexions of Spanish women. And he knew from the time he had spent in the Low Countries that these northern complexions were not as durable as those darker ones in the southern climes. The queen’s skin seemed not to fit her; it sagged and her face was netted with wrinkles. He knew that she had had a very hard life, and in that instant he pitied her. All the years of stress, all the ill health she had been known to suffer, showed plainly in her ravaged face. So much for the physical; but there was also no indefinable elegance about her, as there was about the Spanish ladies to whom he was accustomed.
The room was silent on that knife edge of time as the royal spouses locked eyes and sized each other up. Mary stood very still, but her eyes moved up and down, taking in the whole of him. His portrait had not lied; he was exceedingly handsome with his gray eyes and yellow hair and beard. He was much shorter than her Philip, in fact not much taller than herself; she recalled the few times that she had lain her head against Philip of Bavaria’s chest, and how she had had to crane her neck to look up at him. No, he was not her Philip, but he was wonderful…and he was alive, he was here, and he was hers. It was time she laid the other Philip’s ghost to rest. She would devote herself to her husband, to her country and to her goal of returning England to God and to Rome. But the very first order of business…she had to stifle a girlish giggle at the thought…would be the very pleasant one of getting a Catholic heir for England with this impossibly handsome man. The spontaneous, triumphant laugh had been successfully stifled, but she was unable to control the slow, crimson blush that colored her extreme pallor. It crept up from her vitals, invaded her stomach, proceeded up her bodice and overran her face from her chin to the very top of her hairline. Philip said nothing…indeed, it was for her, as queen, to speak first…but something moved behind his eyes as he observed her flushed face. She felt certain in that moment that he knew exactly what she had been thinking to bring it on and she returned his stare boldly. The silence was becoming deafening; she must speak.
“My Lord,” she said with a queenly nod, holding forth her hand to be kissed, in the Spanish style.
Both she and Philip had been rehearsed as to the proper protocol for this meeting; it was for Philip to take her hand, pull her to him, and kiss her on the lips, which was the English style.
Philip hesitated just a moment too long before doing so, but otherwise performed the duty admirably. But in the instant when she had spoken, in her deep, manly voice, his reticence rapidly became distaste, and between the motion and the act of kissing her, flowered into a full-blown revulsion. In that terrible moment, all he could think was what a good thing it was that he was under orders from the emperor…orders which he knew the queen would not dispute, even if she abhorred them…to depart for the Netherlands as soon as possible after the wedding, which was set for the morrow. The same thought that had just brought a girlish blush to the queen’s face evoked in him a feeling similar to the onset of the dry heaves that he had experienced during the storm.
Lost for speech, Philip’s eyes searched the room for the Duke of Estrana. He and Raul had been friends since boyhood and could communicate without words. Help me, his eyes said. And Raul was prepared.
French was the only language that most of the people in the room shared; few spoke both Spanish and English. And so in his beautifully accented French, Raul said, “I have an announcement to make.” All eyes turned to him; even Philip eyed him quizzically.
With a flourishing bow, Raul said, “The emperor desires me to say, that as a wedding gift to their royal highnesses, he has ceded the Kingdom of Naples to Prince Philip, that he may marry our gracious lady of England,” and with this he swept another elegant bow to Mary, “as a king instead of a mere prince.”
Mary was already at the peak of excitement; she grasped Philip’s hand and cried, “Long live the king!” Everyone in the room echoed her cry, and suddenly everyone was talking at once.
The only person in the room who was silent was Philip. Raul had not prepared him for this, most likely at his father’s express orders. Raul was a good royal servant and would do as he was told. Philip was a good son to his father and a good friend to Raul, and Spanish etiquette would have demanded that Raul keep his word to the emperor. Philip understood. But while everyone else was exclaiming what a wonderful gift, how clever of the emperor, all Philip could think of was, why? Now in addition to adding England to his burden of rule, he had Naples to contend with! He was to become king of England on the morrow; he had no need to be King of Naples when he did so! It was all part of his father’s plan to gradually cede his responsibilities so that he could retire to a monastery and pray for his last few years. This was no gift.
The queen was still clasping his hand in hers and chattering away in French. She led him to a window seat where everyone left them to converse in private. She seemed to need no response other than an occasional nod from him. As his wife talked on in her excited manner, in her animation he caught just a glimpse of the beautiful child she must have been, whom his father remembered so fondly from his visit to England so many years before. But the queen was no longer that beautiful child, and as she continued on, telling him of the plans for the wedding on the morrow, he thought ahead to the night that would follow the day and sent a silent prayer up to heaven that somehow, some way, God would find it in his mercy to give him the strength he would need to drink from this bitter cup. For perform his duty he must, because only by getting this pathetic woman with child could he truly escape his bonds with England. Would he be able to perform at the crucial moment? Perhaps he could just close his eyes and pretend that she was Maria Elena… No, that was the coward’s way out, and would dishonor not only both women, but himself. All he could do as the queen prattled on was to keep praying, God help me, God, help me…
Southwark, August 1554
The day was exceedingly fine, and Mary’s mare tossed her head excitedly in the sunshine and the warm breeze. This was a far cry from the past two weeks, during which the rain had poured without ceasing. It had even rained on her wedding day, which disappointed her, because the rain had stopped the night before and she expected that the following day would be fine. But no matter; in all of the most important things, she had enjoyed much good fortune, and it was evident that she was high in God’s favor. Consider everything that He had done for her, all the miracles He had bestowed upon her! After years of persecution, for God did sometimes chastise those whom he loved, she had come into the metaphorical sunshine of the defeat of her enemies, not once, but twice, and thereby she had gained her throne; she was well on her way to restoring England to Rome and to the salvation of the souls of countless of her countrymen in consequence; and God had given her Philip, the tool by which she would provide England with the Catholic heir that would defeat her final enemy, the heretic.
And she was in love. That was the most incredible miracle of all. She had thought never to marry, never to love again. But suddenly here in her life was this man, so perfect in every way. For the first time since she was ten, when her father had first seen Anne Boleyn and conceived his great passion for her, she was truly happy. The restoral of England to the Catholic
Church, the birth of an heir to follow her and assure England’s salvation, these things would come. How could they not? All the parts were there; all the auguries were good.
Ever since Philip’s arrival Mary had found herself often having to stifle spontaneous, triumphant laughter…it was a feeling that she had never before experienced. She was exceedingly self-satisfied, and was enjoying to the fullest the mood of elation that occasioned this state of emotion. At this very moment, as she rode along at a comfortable pace on her mare, Philip rode beside her; she stole a glance at him. And to think that she had vowed that she would never marry a man whom she had not seen! How glad she was that she had trusted her cousin the emperor and relaxed that rule. Just see what a prize she had won as a result! She spared a thought at that moment for her father, who had rolled the same dice and been dreadfully disappointed. Mary loved Anne of Cleves with all her heart, but she understood what it was about her that had so disgusted Henry VIII. Had she been a man, she would likely have felt the same. But she was not a man, and as a stepmother, Anne was a jewel. How odd that the role one played could make such a difference as to how one was perceived by others! To her, Anne was charm itself, and lovable; to her father, she had been a gross, foreign woman with nothing save her pedigree and her dignity to recommend her as a Queen of England and a king’s wife; but…should one think such things? …nothing at all to recommend her as a bed partner.
And now here she was, laboring to stifle yet another triumphant guffaw. For now she finally knew what it was that Frances had seen in the Duke of Suffolk; what all the people at court seemed to know except her. Just the thought of her nights with Philip made her stomach do a pleasant little flip-flop. Every night he came to her, and there, alone in their soft, luxurious bed, did she experience that magic elixir that was the very stuff of life. And all with the blessing of a loving God, who had made such a thing possible, that a woman might have a child and perpetuate the human race. It was such an awesome thing that she sometimes could not get her mind to own it.
Philip was the model of a dutiful husband; he always did the correct thing, said the right thing. Even now he was riding beside her. She reached out her hand and smiled at him. He smiled back; he reached out his hand and gave hers a reassuring squeeze. Had it not been unseemly and unbecoming a queen, she would have ridden before him on his saddle, so she could be close to him, feel his warm body next to her own, as she did at night. But she had her royal dignity to maintain, and Philip, being Spanish, had even more formality about him than did she.
But it was all right. Soon they would arrive at Suffolk Place and break their journey for the night. She wondered what the bed there would be like…
Hampton Court Palace, London, August 1554
The rain pelted the windows and every now and then a flash of lightning lit the room with a dead white light. A particularly brilliant flash was followed less than a second later by a peal of thunder so loud that it shook the very walls of the palace. The wind lashed the windows in mighty gusts that sent droplets into the room where the panes did not quite fit the sash. A little puddle had formed beneath the window nearest the fire.
Philip bit his fist; he had always loathed thunderstorms. His heart thumped so hard that it was fair fit to burst out of his chest. Only before his friend would he have shown such weakness; he and Raul were alone in the room.
“Raul.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” he replied.
“I cannot bear it any longer.”
“The storm will soon pass, Your Grace.” Raul arose and poured Philip a cup of wine from a silver flagon and handed it to him wordlessly.
Philip sipped the wine, set the cup aside and rubbed his beard. “I did not mean the storm.”
“Ah.”
Philip buried his face in his hands. “I do not know how much longer I will be able to endure this state of affairs. It is time to go. We Spanish are not wanted here. So much is evident.”
Raul leaned back in his chair and swung one leg over its arm. “The state entry into London went tolerably well. The people cheered.”
Philip snorted. “The English will cheer anyone who gives them free drink and gold coins. Besides, their response was lukewarm at best. But it is not only the tepid response of the English commons that annoys me. Just look at this!” He waved an expansive hand indicating the entire room.
Raul nodded, conceding the point. It was one they had discussed frequently over the past weeks as they made their slow way up from the Southwest to London. Wherever they lodged, the queen was always given the superior accommodation; in any palace or castle in which they abided, Philip was always relegated to the traditional Queen Consort’s apartments, whereas the queen occupied the king’s rooms. Even at meals the difference in their treatment was evident; whilst the queen ate off of golden dishes, Philip was served on silver.
“I am shamed by the queen herself,” cried Philip. “Shamed, in front of the entire court! Have you heard what the English are calling me, as they laugh up their sleeves? They call me Queen Philip!” Philip looked quickly away lest his friend see that his eyes swam with tears. “It is too much to be borne.”
Raul wondered how Philip had come to hear this cruel jibe. He did his best to shield his friend from such things.
Philip arose and began to pace the room. “It is time for me to go, Raul. It is almost a month to the day since the wedding. I have done my best. I have done all that was expected of me, and more.” He stopped; he shuddered. “I have sat with her and listened to her love-talk, endured her fawning and her cloying affection until I think that I shall go mad!” Philip resumed his pacing. “I realize, Raul, that there are political considerations, family ties, interests in common between us, but this I vow; I cannot love her. I cannot but pity her.”
Raul nodded his head in agreement. “Certainly, Your Grace has conducted yourself impeccably. None could fault your behavior in any way.”
Philip snorted. “And well do I know it! I have smiled; I have attended the queen constantly. I have spent my nights in her bed. I tell you, Raul, I have done my duty, and hard duty it has been, I do assure you! It is time to go.”
Raul nodded. “I will be almost as glad to see England disappear behind me as will Your Grace.”
Philip laughed. Raul’s humor was subtle; he appreciated it. There was no way that Raul’s glee to depart England could match his own unless he, too, had been called upon to share the queen’s bed. Another shudder wracked him. He retrieved his wine cup from the table and threw back its contents.
“Make the arrangements,” he said.
At the prospect of departure from England, Raul’s natural lethargy left him. He jumped up from his chair and strode to the door. “I will do so, Your Grace, and right gladly,” he replied. “The fleet stays in Dover. We shall ride within the next two days and take ship from there.” He yanked open the door to find Renard on the other side of it, fist raised to knock.
Raul’s recoil could not have been any more obvious had a live snake slithered at his feet. He and Renard had conceived from the first moment of their acquaintance an inexplicable loathing of each other, although both men went to great pains to leave the issue unspoken. Philip knew how Raul felt about his father’s envoy, and shared those feelings completely. Both men found the Imperial ambassador to be as slippery as an eel and believed him to be untrustworthy.
The emperor’s dominions were wide; Renard was a Burgundian and his native tongue was French. Regardless of the fact that his own grandfather had been Duke of Burgundy, Philip was a Spaniard before all else and had an innate distrust of anyone not born on the Iberian Peninsula. He knew that Renard returned this distrust; and that the ambassador resented the fact that whereas he, Renard, had been Mary’s closest advisor as Charles V’s trusted envoy, that Philip had now usurped that role with the queen.
Renard regarded Raul with a bland countenance, and gave his head the slightest nod possible to acknowledge his presence. His opinion of the duke was very low; the m
an was nothing better than a hanger-on, despite his pedigree. About King Philip he could not afford to make his loathing and resentment known, but it was there all the same. Well, it was all over now! He had informed his master that King Philip had become so indispensable to the queen, his cousin, that he, Renard was surely no longer needed at the English court. Might he leave the queen in her husband’s capable hands, and (at last!) be allowed to return home to Brussels? The emperor had found favor with this plan and Renard could not wait to inform the king of it.
Philip nodded to the Imperial ambassador and waved him into the room; to Raul he said, “Please, see to the matter that we were discussing.” No need for both of them to endure a meeting with the loathsome ambassador!
Raul bowed to the king from the doorway and said, “It would be my honor, Your Grace. I shall return to inform Your Grace of the progress of this matter as soon as possible.” With a wolfish grin that made Renard’s skin crawl, Raul left the room with a flourish and closed the door behind him.
Renard turned his attention to the king and said, “I am pleased to inform Your Gracious Majesty that the diplomatic pouch from Brussels has arrived. It contained a letter for Your Grace from your lord father, the emperor.” He retrieved the letter from under his arm and handed it to Philip with a flourish. While Renard waited for Philip to read his letter, he recalled his own missive from the emperor. Home…at long last, he was finally going home! His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the Imperial seal cracking as Philip opened his letter.
The Baker's Daughter Volume 2 Page 52
