Jean Plaidy - For a Queens Love: The Stories of the Royal Wives of Philip II Страница 28

“Do not speak of it, dearest Majesty.”

“In the streets they speak of it. They call me Bloody Mary. I know it. There are things which cannot be kept from me. They are all going to Hatfield now. They will shout for her. She is young and fair enough … though not so fair as she thinks she is. She will have many suitors for her hand, and Philip … Philip …”

“Rest, your Majesty, rest.”

She closed her eyes and the tears rolled slowly down her cheeks. She smiled suddenly and said: “What matters it, my friends? This is the end.”

She asked for extreme unction and that afterward Mass should be celebrated in her chamber; and at the elevation of the Host she lifted her eyes and she bowed her head at the benediction.

Then she seemed contented and at peace. She seemed to have forgotten the martyrs who had perished in her reign, that the people had called her Bloody Mary, and that she had lost Calais.

Her smile almost beautified her face in those last moments, and those about her bed thought that she could only have smiled thus if she had believed that Philip was with her.

ELISABETH

DE VALOIS

ONE

Carlos had changed. He had grown quieter; he had assumed more dignity; he no longer referred to himself as little one. He was Don Carlos, heir to the throne, and he did not forget it.

The reason was that he was to have a bride.

He had seen her picture and as soon as he had seen it this change had come upon him, for never had he seen anything so beautiful as the face in the locket which he carried about with him. She had a small, oval face, great dark eyes, and masses of black hair; she was half French, half Italian, and she was the daughter of Henri, King of France, and the Italian Catherine de Medici.

He had heard some time ago that he was to have this bride, but he had taken little heed at the time because, as Prince of Spain, many brides had been suggested for him. It was not long after his father had left for England on the first occasion that his father and the French King had decided Carlos should marry the young Princess when the Peace of Vaucelles had been signed. That seemed to have been forgotten, as so many plans were; but now there was a new treaty with France, the portrait had arrived, and, having seen it, Carlos could think of little else but the Princess of France.

At first he had thought it would be amusing to have a bride, to be the master, to force her to do all that he desired; but when he looked at the picture, those feelings left him. There was nothing within him now but a tenderness and an apprehension, for what would she, this beautiful Princess, think of him—stunted, crippled, and so ugly when the fits of anger came upon him?

Once he had loved his Aunt Juana, but she was strange now. She prayed constantly, and she thought of nothing beyond saving her soul for the future life; and she went about with her face half covered, withdrawn, remote from the world. People said she was strange; but it was not the strangeness of himself and his great-grandmother; there was no wild laughter, no impulse to do extraordinary things. Juana’s strangeness was a religious fervency which resulted in deep melancholy. She was, Carlos reflected, very certain of her place in Heaven, but that did not make her such a good companion here on Earth.

But to whom else could he talk? There was so much he wanted to know. He wished that he had not neglected his studies. He did not understand French; nor did he know Latin. He knew very little of the history of his own country, let alone others. If only he had worked harder! But how could he have known that they were going to give him a beautiful and learned Princess like this one for his wife? And how could he have known he would want to shine so much in her eyes?

“Juana,” he asked, “Aunt Juana, what is it like at the court of France?”

She drew her hood closer over her face, and he saw her lips tighten. “The French are godless,” she said. “Although they have improved under the present King’s reign. In the time of his father, theirs was the most immoral court in the world, and still is, I doubt not, for the French are wicked by nature.”

“That was her grandfather—this wicked King,” said Carlos with satisfaction. His brain was more alert; he was determined it should be. He was not going to be ignorant any more. He was going to learn and be clever for the sake of Elisabeth de Valois. “What did they do at her grandfather’s court?” he asked.

“There were masques and balls all the time. They read books. They fêted those who wrote them. They were not good books. King François was your grandfather’s greatest enemy … the most lecherous man in the world … the most pleasure-loving and the most wicked.”

“You speak of him as though he were a heretic.”

“Nay. He was not as wicked as that.”

“My grandfather took him prisoner,” said Carlos, eager to show that he remembered that bit of history. “Her father was my grandfather’s prisoner too when he was a little boy. And now she is coming here. We shall have much to speak of, Juana. When do you think my father will let her come?”

“We do not know. Everything depends on her father and your father. They are at peace now, but if there should be another war …” Juana lifted her shoulders.

“Do you mean that they might have a war?” His face puckered; his lips began to twitch. “If my father goes to war with the French King now, I … I … will … kill him.”

“Hush, Carlos! The bad mood is coming on you again. You know what I told you to do when that happens. Get down on your knees and pray.”

“I don’t want to pray. I don’t want to. I want to kill … kill …”

“Carlos, you promised to be better. What will she think of you if she sees these bad moods?”

His face puckered again. “But there will be a war … They will keep her from me.”

“There is no war, and as arrangements stand she will come to you in good time.”

“My father will never let her. He hates me. He hates me to be happy. It has always been so.”

“It is the bad mood that makes you think that. Your father will be glad of the link with France. Your father tries to make peace. That is why he arranged this marriage. Look at her picture again. There! You are right, Carlos. She is beautiful. And your own age too. That is charming.”

He was sobbing as he took the locket in his hands, and his tears fell on to it; but the sight of it calmed him, as it always did.

“I fear my father will not let me have this happiness.”

“Of a surety he will. He wants to see you happy, Carlos. He is pleased because we can truthfully tell him how much you try to be worthy of your bride.”

“I am learning now. I am trying to be clever.”

“And you are praying, Carlos?”

“Each day, each night. I pray that her coming will not be long delayed. Do you think the saints will intercede for me?”

“If it is good for you, they will.”

He stamped his foot. “Will they? Will they? It is good. I know it is good. She makes me good … because I learn my lessons. I am calm because I want her to love me.”

“Only they know if it is good for you, Carlos.”

“I know. I know!” cried Carlos.

“You must learn, dearest nephew. Something which is bad may happen, but that may be for our good. Those on high know best what is good for us.”

“If they do not let her come, I … I …” She flashed a glance of horror at him, for blasphemy terrified her. But he went on: “I shall hate all who keep her from me. Hate … hate …”

She had crossed herself and fallen to her knees, lifting her hands toward the ceiling. Her hood fell open, showing a face so strange that for a moment Carlos was silent.

He watched her moving lips; he listened to her words. She was praying for him; and something in the expression of her face filled him with sudden fear. He looked over his shoulder furtively. There were times when his Aunt Juana made him feel that, although the room was empty, they were not alone.

He began to whimper: “I pray every night, Juana. I only want to have her here … to love her …”

Juana rose from her knees. “If God wishes it, it will come to pass,” she said.

With trembling hands, he took the locket and looked at the picture. “Elisabeth,” he said. “I love your name, but it is hard to say it. It is French, is it not? Here we say Isabella. I shall call you Isabella. Isabella … little Isabella … are you praying that you will soon come to Spain?”

In the Old Palace of Brussels, the royal widower sat alone in deep concentration.

He had felt nothing but relief during the last few weeks. He knew that he could not continue in that state, for there was great work to be done, and his position as monarch was not made easier by the death of his wife; it was only the husband who had escaped from a particularly irksome situation.

On the table before him documents were neatly arranged; he could not endure untidiness, as all his secretaries knew. He was dressed this day in the plainest of black velvet garments; he might have been mistaken for one of his own secretaries but for his quiet dignity and that excessive cleanliness—so rare, even among Spaniards—which was accentuated by the pallor of his skin.

He had furnished this room in accordance with his own tastes, and they did not please the people of Brussels; he knew this, but he did not care. These people were going to need a firm hand. Already they were turning against him. He was appalled by the increasing number of heretics, and was planning harsh action against them; as soon as possible he would consult Alba, that fiery Catholic, and doubtless he would set him up as Governor of this land, with the Holy Inquisition to work with him.

Philip looked at the silver crucifix on the wall. There had been too little devotion to God in his father’s day. Charles’s bonhomie and his love of fleshy delights had pleased the people. But Philip believed that a ruler’s first duty was toward God, and if he jeopardized a hundred crowns in God’s service then must he count himself blessed to lose them all, if that was God’s will.

Philip remembered with shame that outburst of sensuality which had followed his departure from England. He remembered also the terrible sight of St. Quentin.

He had already found the site for his monastery. It was to be built on the unfertile Guadarrama steppes; there he would build his Palace of the Escorial, a home for a hermit king, a monastery where he could live a life of prayer and devotion while he ruled the world and brought it, through the blood and fire of the Inquisition, to the truth.

His cold eyes were suddenly like hot blue flames when he thought of the future; and as he sat there at the table, immersed in the relief of his escape from Mary Tudor, he vowed that he would wipe heresy from the world, that he would rule it in his own way, not that of his father, and he would dedicate himself in the future, not to ambition, not to love of power, but to the service of God. He saw himself as God’s vicar on Earth, the junior commander in the battle against the Devil.

Meanwhile, he must turn his attention to affairs of the world, and with the death of Mary and the accession of Elizabeth, England gave him much to think of.

He took up the dispatch Feria had sent from the English court. Feria was the most suitable ambassador at this time, for Feria was one of the handsomest of men, and the new Queen was very fond of handsome men; Feria was well versed in the art of flattery, and the new Queen was the vainest woman on Earth; moreover, Feria spoke fluent English and was affianced to Jane Dormer, so that he possessed many qualities which would enable him to fill the post satisfactorily.

But Feria was made uneasy by the new Queen.

Although she still heard Mass, and the religion of the country appeared to be the same as in her sister’s day, there had been an immediate cessation of the persecutions. The woman was at times a ridiculous coquette, and then suddenly it would be as though a shrewd statesman looked out from behind her fan. It was impossible to get a straight answer from her on any subject of importance; she would prevaricate, giving neither “Yes” nor “No,” holding out promises one day, repudiating them the next.

Her response to her sister’s stipulations had been typical of her. Mary, in bestowing upon her the succession, had said she did so on these conditions: That she would not change her privy council; that she would make no alteration in religion; and that she would discharge Mary’s debts. Elizabeth’s reply was that the debts should certainly be paid; but as regards the council it was Elizabeth’s opinion that one Queen had as much right to choose her councillors as another. “As for religion,” she said, “I promise this much: I will not change it, provided only that it can be proved by the word of God, which shall be the only foundation and rule of my religion.”

“You see, your Highness,” wrote Feria, “the kind of woman with which we have to deal. There is a sharpness beneath the soft answer. She says ‘Yes’ in such a way as to mean ‘No.’ She said: ‘There is no reason why I should thank Mary for bequeathing the crown to me, for she has not the power of bestowing it upon me. Nor can I lawfully be deprived of it, since it is my hereditary right.’ Your Highness will see that this is a direct rebuff to yourself, as the new Queen has been assured of your efforts with Mary on her behalf.

“There is one other matter which gives me concern. I sought to extract from her a statement concerning her religious policy, and I tackled her while she was in the midst of her courtiers and statesmen, as I felt that if she publicly stated her intention to uphold the true religion, she would perforce be obliged to carry out that intention. I said that your Majesty had ordered me to beg her to be very careful about religious matters as they were what first and principally concerned you, implying that if she did not continue in the established religion your Majesty would become her enemy. Her answer came in a tone of mild reproach: ‘It would indeed be bad of me to forget God, who has been so good to me.’ Your Majesty will see how, with such an answer, she can say nothing or everything.

“There are, of course, many suitors for her hand … and crown. This makes her very coquettish indeed; she plays the part of desirable woman with such verve that in her presence it is difficult to believe that it is her crown and not her person which is so attractive. There is Prince Eric of Sweden, who, at time, she feigns to favor. There are your Majesty’s own cousins, the two sons of the Emperor Ferdinand. And, of course, Savoy.

“There is another who is considered a possible suitor. This is an Englishman, Lord Robert Dudley. This young man is very handsome and the Queen favors him, keeping him beside her and at times treating him as though he is her acknowledged lover. His wife has recently died in mysterious circumstances and there are unsavory rumors about this matter among the people; but the Queen is so set on the young man, and she being as she is, it is thought that she may make up her mind to marriage with him.