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

When they had retired to their rooms for the night, Philip said to Ruy: “We have been but a few days in this country, but it seems like years.”

“Your Highness will grow accustomed to it before long.”

“I rejoice that one more day is over.”

But that day was not over, for there was at that moment a knock on the door. Ruy, grasping his sword—for there was not one member of the party who trusted the English—went to the door.

A woman stood there. She said in halting Spanish: “My lord, I am Mistress of the Queen’s Robes, and I come to tell His Majesty that Her Majesty the Queen wishes him to visit her in her closet tonight. It is her wish that he should bring with him but few of his followers.”

“I fear His Highness has retired for the night,” began Ruy.

But Philip was immediately beside him, forcing a smile. The woman, seeing him, dropped a deep curtsy.

“The Queen wishes to see me!” cried Philip. “Then I am delighted, and eagerly will I go to her. But I must have a few moments in which to make myself presentable.”

The woman rose and looked at Philip with admiration. He could see by her expression that she was wondering who had circulated those ridiculous stories about Philip of Spain. Solemn! Full of ceremony! Nothing of the sort! She would go back to her mistress and report that she had seen him and that he appeared to be not only handsome, but the kindest of men.

“Then may I send the Queen’s envoy in ten minutes to conduct your Highness to her?”

“I am all impatience,” said Philip.

The door shut on her and the two men looked wearily at each other.

“There is no help for it,” said Philip. “Now … for another change of costume.”

Ruy helped him put on the French surcoat with gold and silver embossments; the doublet and trunks were made of white kid, decorated with gold embroidery.

“We must not go alone,” said Ruy. “How do we know what these people plan? I’ll summon Feria and Alba … and I think Medina Celi, Egmont, and Horn … with perhaps a few more.”

Philip did not answer. He was thinking: Now the moment has come. Now I shall be brought face to face with my bride.

In ten minutes he was ready, surrounded by those grandees who Ruy had considered should accompany them.

The messenger from the Queen led them out of the Deanery and across a small garden to the Palace of the Bishop of Winchester. They mounted a staircase, and the messenger threw open a door and announced: “His Highness King Philip.”

Philip went forward. He was in a long gallery, the walls of which were hung with tapestry. Pacing up and down in a state of acute nervousness was a little woman. With her was Gardiner, Bishop of Winchester; some other gentlemen and ladies, obviously of high rank, were also in the gallery.

She stood still as Philip entered.

For a moment he thought her a charming sight. She was magnificently dressed in black velvet, cut away at the waist to show a petticoat of silver; the coif which adorned her sandy hair was of black velvet and cloth of gold; about her waist was a girdle made of flashing stones of many colors.

Philip approached and with a qualm kissed her on the mouth in accordance with the English custom. He saw the warm color flood her transparent skin; he saw too that, although she was far from being as ugly as she had been represented, she was a woman completely lacking in physical attractiveness. On her face were lines put there by ill-health and bitterness; clearly she showed herself to be a woman who had so far gone unloved through life.

What had she heard of him? he wondered. That he was cold, moody, and hardly ever smiled? Now he was all smiles, all eagerness.

“It was good of your Highness to come,” she said in Latin, for although she understood Spanish well enough to read it, she did not speak it.

He answered in Latin: “The Queen commanded. She must be obeyed. Nor was it any hardship when she commanded me to do that for which I have been longing these many weeks.”

What is happening to me? he asked himself. How can I talk thus? Have I really become this hypocrite, this sly schemer?

But it was not only expediency which made him wish to please; she moved him—not with love nor physical desire, but with a deep pity.

She looked a little younger now, flushed, excited, clearly liking the looks and manners of the man who was to be her husband. She led him to a canopy, at one end of the gallery, beneath which had been placed two royal chairs. They sat, and one by one the Spaniards came forward to kiss the Queen’s hand.

When this was done, the party went into the next room that Philip might greet the Queen’s ladies; and this he did by kissing them all on the mouth. As the Queen watched him, it was clear to many of the Spaniards that she did not care to see Philip salute her ladies thus. They considered that significant. Was she already half in love with her Spanish bridegroom? That augured well. Soon England would be completely under the domination of Spain.

After he had saluted the ladies, the Queen led Philip back to the gallery.

“Your Majesty will have a busy time before her,” said Philip solicitously. “I will not stay to tire you.”

“Nay!” cried Mary. “I am not tired. It is so pleasant to see you. Let us stay here and talk for a while.”

There was nothing to be done but sit under the canopy. The Queen signified that ceremony was to be set aside. The Spaniards might talk as well as they could with those of her ladies and gentlemen who were in the gallery, and leave Philip to the Queen.

She looked at him almost shyly. “You are different from what I have been led to expect,” she said.

“I trust I do not disappoint you?”

“Far from it. Far … far from it. You … you please me.”

“Then I have my heart’s desire.”

“I was afraid … being so unversed in the ways of love and marriage. I thought you might be a lusty gentleman given only to carnal pleasures and …”

“Nay,” he said with a smile. “I shall be a sober husband.”

“And not too sober,” she answered. “I was told that you never smiled. I have seen you smile this night.”

“That is due to being in your Majesty’s presence.”

“Ah!” sighed the Queen. “You are gallant … you Spaniards.”

“Your Majesty is half Spanish.”

“That is true. My mother would often talk to me of Spain.” Her mouth squared, as it always did when she spoke of her mother. “I longed to visit that country and know more of my mother’s people.”

“And now one of them comes forth to wed you.”

“There was talk, at one time, that I should marry your father.”

“That was when you were a baby and he a young man.”

“He wrote to me recently and said he remembered that he was once affianced to me. He said it was ever a matter of regret with him that nothing came of it. He said he was sending me his son, who was young, handsome, and strong, while he had grown ugly, old, and tired. Why, had I married him you might be my son!”

“Impossible! Impossible! We are of an age.”

She was pleased. Did she really think that he did not know she was eleven years older than he was? That was impossible, for time had not been very gracious to her. It had engraved its marks on her face—lines of suffering, lines of bitterness, anxiety, and sickness. Poor Mary!

He said: “What must you think of me—unable to speak your language?”

“I will teach it to you … Philip.”

“I trust, Mary, that I shall be an apt pupil in all that you teach me.”

“Nay, you must be the one to teach, I the one to learn.”

Yes, he thought; that must be. I must make you see that I will govern this kingdom in accordance with the Emperor’s wishes.

He longed to leave her, but now she was growing bolder. She let her hand rest on his sleeve. He looked at it, and with an effort he took those heavily ringed fingers in his. She was smiling and he could feel her trembling as he raised her hand to his lips.

He knew that he was watched, that the English were saying: “He is winning the Queen’s heart with his chivalrous Spanish manners.” And the Spaniards were saying: “We did not know Philip. What a man he is! He can act any part for the glory of Spain, for he surely cannot be as enamored of the old lady as he pretends to be—particularly when some of the other ladies are so charming.”

At length Philip said: “I will not keep you from your sleep any longer, gracious lady. Now you shall teach me to say ‘Goodnight’ in English, and I shall say it to the ladies here and in the next room. Then I shall leave you until the morning.”

She enjoyed teaching him the words for he found them so difficult to say. “Good night. Good night …” The Queen burst into merry laughter and brought her face close to Philip’s. “No … this way. Goodnight. You see? Goodnight.”

Then Philip kissed her hand and went to the door of that room in which the ladies were, and there he cried out in Latin: “But I have forgotten. What is it? Gooda … What is it?”

Then, while the Queen smiled in almost childish pleasure, he went back to her and learned the words again; then he went to the ladies and said it in such a manner as to set them all laughing and repeating “Goodnight” with that Spanish accent which they said was so charming.

“Your Highness,” said Ruy, when they were alone, “goes from strength to strength. Why, the lady dotes on you already.”

But his words did not please Philip. He had discarded the gay mask of the wooer and become the sober young man whom his friends knew so well.

In the Queen’s bedchamber her ladies were helping her to disrobe.

Mistress Clarencius, her old nurse, whom Mary regarded as one of her true friends, was obviously in a state of high delight.

“He is a lovely little King,” she declared. “I thank God for the day he landed here to make your Majesty the good husband I know he will.”

Tall Magdalen Dacre said: “How magnificent he looked, your Majesty! And he had eyes for none but yourself!”

Mary said sadly: “But he is so much younger than I.”

“None would guess it, your Majesty.”

But Mary knew that they did not speak the truth.

Jane Dormer had said nothing, and, turning to her, the Queen inquired: “And what think you, Jane? What thought you of our visitors?”

“The Spanish gentlemen are very handsome, your Majesty. And it is a great joy to us to know that your Grace is to marry a strong adherent of the Holy Catholic Church.”

Janet was thinking of the handsome Count of Feria, whom she had found at her side in the gallery. They had talked together, for he spoke English with remarkable fluency. Jane was as excited as her mistress; if she was struck with the handsomeness of the Spanish gentlemen, Feria had been equally impressed with the beauty of at least one English girl.

Mary looked at Jane and smiled, for she had noticed her with Feria during the evening; she had felt envious of the girl’s youth and beauty. How wonderful it must be to attract by those qualities, she thought, and not because one was the daughter of a king.

They put her to bed and drew the curtains. “Your Majesty must sleep well,” they told her.

But how could she sleep? She had seen him, and he was kind and gentle; he would be loving and tender, she was sure.

But was she as foolish as a young girl to imagine he had really meant those handsome compliments which he had paid her? Did she not know the truth? Strip her of her silks and velvets, take away her jewels, and what was left but a plain, aging woman who had lost almost everything in life but her throne?