Jean Plaidy - For a Queen's Love: The Stories of the Royal Wives of Philip II

It was Clermont who brought the news to her—excitable Clermont who looked for drama and romance in everyday life. Drama had certainly been found among the papers of Monsieur Dimanche and, Clermont assured the Queen, in the few words he had let slip in his semi-conscious state.

Clermont begged to be alone with the Queen and, when she was absolutely sure that they would not be overheard, divulged what she had discovered.

“Dearest Highness, I do not know how to tell you. Dimanche is in the service of Spain.”

“A Frenchman … in the service of Spain!”

“What I have found out, Highness, is horrible. And I do not know what to do. I remember them so well … as you do … the Queen and her little son. That brightest of boys …”

“Clermont, Clermont, what do you mean? Of whom are you speaking?”

“The Queen of Navarre and her son young Henry. There is a conspiracy—and this Dimanche is one of those who will carry it out—to ride to Pau in Navarre, where the Queen is at this time with her son, to kidnap them and bring them here to Spain … to … the Inquisition.”

Isabella could not speak. The memories were too vivid. She was back in that hideous square; she was watching the shambling figures in their yellow robes. Their faces had been indistinct; perhaps she had not had the courage to look at their faces; perhaps she did not want those to haunt her all the days of her life. But now there would be faces … the faces of the Queen of Navarre—dear Aunt Jeanne—and little Henry, the rough young Béarnais of whom, in spite of his crudeness, they had all been so fond.

A plot had been discovered through this accident to one of the conspirators, a plot to take honest, noble Jeanne and torture her and burn her alive—and perhaps her little son with her. And Fate had brought this to the knowledge of the Queen of Spain.

“Highness,” cried Clermont, “what shall we do? What can we do?”

Isabella did not speak. She could only hear the chanting voices, taking the terrible Oath; she saw the man beside her—the man she had married—his eyes aflame, his sword in his hand, swearing to serve the Inquisition, to torture and murder—yes, murder—Jeanne of Navarre because she was a heretic.

At length her voice sounded in her ears, firm and ringing, so that she did not recognize it. “It must not be.”

“No!” cried Clermont excitedly. “No, your Highness. It must not be. But what can we do?”

What could she do—she the little Queen, the petted darling? Could she go to Philip and beg him not to do this thing? It would be useless, for she would not be pleading with the indulgent husband; it was that man with the eyes of flame and the sword in his hand who had decided the fate of Jeanne of Navarre.

It would be so easy to weep, to shudder, to try to forget. She had been her mother’s creature, now she was Philip’s.

But she would not be. She was herself—Isabella, kinswoman of the noble Jeanne; for noble she was, heretic though she might be.

So she said again: “It must not be.” And then: “It shall not be.”

She was going to fight this evil. She was going to pit her wits against Philip, against the Inquisition. She did not care what happened to her. She was going to do everything in her power to save Jeanne.

How?

It was not impossible. The chief conspirator was for the time being a victim of his accident. It would, she gathered, be some days before he could set about his diabolical work.

She said: “We have a few days’ start of him.”

“Yes, Highness. But what shall we do?”

“It is simple. We must see that she is warned.”

“How?”

“By sending a messenger into Navarre.”

“Dearest lady, this is dangerous. Can you send such a messenger?”

“I have my servants.”

“They are the servants of his Majesty.”

Isabella was silent, and Clermont, her face suddenly very grave, went on: “If you do this, you are working against the King your husband.”

Isabella answered: “I know it.” Her young face hardened suddenly with resolution. “And I will do it,” she said.

She was no one’s creature now. She was indeed herself; and so should it be to the end of her days.

But who could help her? Whom could she trust?

There was one who would do all in his power to please her, one who would keep her secret from Philip.

She had begun to realize how loyal all these people of the court were to their King. There was only one of them who would go against him.

Don Juan, Alexander, Garcia, the young Austrian Princes, Ruy, and all the courtiers and statesmen could not be trusted. She knew that if she told them of her need they might agree to help her or not, but they would all consider it their duty to lay their knowledge before the King.

If she asked one of her grooms to take a message to Navarre, how could she be sure that he would obey her in what must surely be done in disobedience to the King? Surely, they would reason, if she wished to send a message to her kinswoman she should not have to do it in secret unless it was against the wishes of the King.

There was one alternative, and however unwise it might be she must take it. She must warn Jeanne.

Carlos had lately been collecting horses. She knew that he had been making wild plans to escape from Spain to France or Austria, taking with him one or two of his attendants, whom he believed he could trust. He was constantly sending away horses from his stables and bringing in new ones. There were a few men who would be faithful to the Prince, for even if they did not love and respect him, they believed that he would one day come to the throne.

Yes, Carlos had it in his power to help her now; and there was no one else whom she could trust.

She sought him out and told him that she wished to speak to him privately; she asked if he would take a walk with her in the gardens.

When they were safe from eavesdroppers, she said: “Carlos, I want your help. I need it badly.”

Carlos was delighted.

“I will do anything,” he assured her. “You have but to ask me.”

“I must have horses and riders. Perhaps two horses and two trusty men. You will not betray me, Carlos?”

“Dearest Isabella, they could torture me on the chevalet and I would never betray you.”

“I knew it, Carlos. God bless you. You are my friend.”

“You never had a truer friend, Isabella.”

“Then promise you will be calm, for we need calmness.”

“I will be calm. Look at me, Isabella. See how calm I am.”

“Yes, Carlos, I see. I should not burden you with this, but I can trust no one else. The King must not know.”

Now Carlos was eager. He had a secret with Isabella, and Philip was shut out. This was one of his happiest dreams come true.

“I have to get a message to my aunt, the Queen of Navarre. She must be warned to leave Navarre at once and ride to Paris, and she must take her son with her, for there is a plan to capture her and hand her to the Inquisition.”

Carlos’s eyes gleamed. “My father plans that,” he said. “He is angry because the French do not fight the Huguenots as he would have them do. Isabella, shall we fight with the Huguenots? Are we heretics, then?”

“Nay, Carlos. It is not that. We are good Catholics. But she is my dear kinswoman and I cannot bear to think of them torturing her. It makes me so unhappy. Perhaps I am a bad Catholic, but when I see strangers hurt I become desperately unhappy, and I would rather die myself than see my aunt taken. I would risk God’s displeasure if need be.”

“We will defy them all, Isabella.”

“Carlos, you have the horses. Will you help me to get a message to her?”

“At once. Oh, Isabella, thank you … thank you for making me so happy. We will send two riders and each shall take a different route. I would I could go myself … Then you would see what I would do for you.”

“I see it now, Carlos.”

“I can send riders whom none will miss. I … I … You see …” He began to laugh suddenly and wildly.

“Carlos,” she begged, “do not laugh like that. You will spoil everything. Be calm and clever as you have been.”

He was silent at once. “I will be calm and clever. And I will be happy because in this we are together … you and I, Isabella … against Philip.”

She shivered, and, gripping her arms, he looked up into her face and cried: “I am happy … happy … happy, Isabella. I am happy tonight.”

He looked sane now, and almost handsome. She wanted to weep, not only for his madness, but for that other madness which made men delight in torturing each other.

FOUR

T he memory of the part she played in saving Jeanne from the Inquisition never left Isabella. It was one of the most momentous things she had ever done, and marked a turning point in her life.

Philip never discovered the part she had played in foiling his plans. He knew that Jeanne had been warned of his intentions in time to enable her to escape, with her son, out of Navarre into the heart of France and safety. Isabella often wondered what his reactions would have been to her deception. There were times when she felt a little remorse, but she only had to recall the cruelty of the auto-da-fé to justify her actions; and she never doubted for a moment that if she were presented with a similar situation she would meet it in the same way.

Her feelings toward Philip had necessarily changed. How could she love a man who had been ready to send a noble woman like Jeanne—or any person, man or woman for that matter—to the flames? It was merely because Jeanne, a woman whom she had known and loved, was involved that this had been brought home to her. Even in his tenderest moments she would think: If I became a heretic, he would condemn me to the flames.

If that was piety she preferred human frailty.

He cares more for his soul than anything on Earth— his soul. He thinks he is doing his duty in a manner which will please God and win him eternal bliss. Is that noble? Is that selfless? Is it according to Christ?

She wished she could be young and frivolous again. She wished—more than ever since she had betrayed him—that she could give him a son. It seemed that was not to be. There had been another pregnancy which had ended in failure.

She sought to please him as much as she could. She would not spare herself. She made the long and arduous journey to Bayonne, as his deputy, with the Duke of Alba, that she might meet her mother and her brother Charles, who was now King of France, for a conference on the borders of France and Spain.

What joy it was to see young Charles again, yet how sadly he reminded her of Carlos, with his hysteria and his moods of strangeness. He was still devoted to her and so happy in their reunion.

When she met her mother, she knew how she had grown up, for Catherine no longer had the power to disturb her. Truly she had escaped from Catherine; one day she would escape from Philip.

Catherine showed her awareness of that escape, saying: “You have become a Spaniard!” There was bitter disappointment in her words; she knew well enough that her eldest daughter was no longer her thrall.

I am no more Spaniard than French, thought the young Queen: I am myself.

However, she followed Philip’s instructions in trying to persuade her mother to adopt a more Catholic policy in France; but she knew that Philip meant her inclusion in the mission to be merely a sign of his love for her, and to give her the pleasure of seeing her family. It was Alba and Catherine who paced the long galleries in endless converse, and discussed the future policies of France and Spain.