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

Then her hopes would rise again. Was she so old that she could not have a child? She did not believe she was.

And at length on a sparkling March day when the sun was shining on the river and the marsh marigolds made a golden pattern on the banks, Philip came.

He took horse at Gravesend, and she was almost fainting with joy when he arrived at Greenwich. She could not tolerate ceremony at such a time. Surely now and then in the lifetime of a Queen she could dispense with it?

“Philip!” she cried, as she threw herself at him. He was smiling as all would expect a husband to smile who was returning to his wife after so long an absence.

He returned her embrace. She noticed that in appearance he had changed little; she was sadly aware that she was a little more lined, a little less attractive than when he went away. But she would not face the truth. Her loved one was back, and she must believe that he had come back for love of her, and not to win her assistance in his war with France.

How she schemed to keep him at her side! As for Philip, he had returned to the old relationship and he was once more sacrificing himself on the altar of Spain’s needs. He schooled himself to be the pleasant and charming husband, and that in itself seemed a folly because the better he played the part, the more enamoured she became.

From Mary came occasional outbursts of jealousy, and these often concerned the Princess Elizabeth. Philip was once more urging the marriage of the Princess with Emmanuel Philibert of Savoy.

Mary turned to him crying in a passion of jealousy: “Why should you wish for this marriage? Do not answer me with soft words. Do you not think I know? You would have her the wife of a vassal that she may be near you. Is that the answer? Tell me. I demand to know.”

“I think,” said Philip, “that you have lost your senses.”

She laughed shrilly and hysterically. He thought how ugly she was at such times, even uglier than in those pitiable moods when she would cajole him to indulge her passion.

“She would be near you, would she not? She would be in Flanders, and you would find it necessary to visit her household often. Do you think I do not know why you continually press for this marriage?”

“It would seem that you need to be alone for a while, to calm yourself, to bring yourself back to reason.”

“You suggest that so that you may escape from me.”

“Why should I wish to escape?”

“You ask me that: Do you not always wish to escape? Are you not thinking all the time, ‘How can I get away from this old woman who, by great bad fortune, is my wife?’ Why were you so long in coming to see me? Were you really so involved in matters of state? Do you think I am blind?”

She fell into a passion of weeping, and once again his pity chained him to her side. “Mary,” he lied, “it is not true. You distress yourself without reason.”

So sad she was and eager to be reassured. “Is it truly so, Philip, my dearest, my beloved?”

He forced himself to kiss her.

“I am so jealous, Philip; and jealousy such as mine is worse than death.”

These scenes became more frequent, and after four months of such strain he could bear no more. He must escape. He had succeeded in making her declare war on France, so there was no longer need for him to remain.

She was again obsessed with the idea that she was to have a child. No one but herself believed this possible; but she clung to hope.

All over England men and women were perishing in the flames. Cranmer, Ridley, Latimer, and Hooper, with other such great men, suffered the dreadful death. Mary was conscious of her people’s dislike, even as she was of Philip’s. She must therefore cling to the hope of a child, even if that hope was delusive.

In her litter she accompanied Philip once more to Gravesend. Again she suffered that poignant parting; she stood watching him until she could see him no more; then she returned, sorrowing, to her loneliness.

Philip was to receive one of the greatest of all military defeats at St. Quentin, although the great Montmorency and Coligny fell prisoners to his soldiers and the road to Paris was open.

Never had the Emperor had such an opportunity of subduing the French for ever. Never did a soldier fail at the peak of success as Philip failed then. And yet, being Philip, what else could he have done?

St. Quentin would haunt him for the rest of his life, not because that great victory was turned to defeat through his personal indecision, but because Philip would never forget the sights which greeted him when he made his triumphant entry into the captured city.

Philip hated war. He was no soldier and he knew it. The prospect of war never failed to fill him with dread. He had given orders, when the besieged city was surrounded, that there were to be no reprisals. But he did not understand the nature of the men serving under his banners. The English and the Spanish in his armies had worked themselves into a fury against each other; the German mercenaries looked upon the spoils of a defeated town as the natural rewards of conquest.

Philip’s orders were ignored, and when he saw the terrible carnage in St. Quentin—murdered citizens lying about the streets horribly mutilated, burning houses, the nauseating treatment which had been meted out, not only to women and children, but to monks and nuns—he was horrified. To him it seemed a disaster as shameful as the Sack of Rome.

He came to the Church of St. Laurence; he saw the blood of human beings befouling the altar, the burning pews, the slaughtered bodies of monks on the floor of the church, and in horror he swore that he would never forget this foul crime as long as he lived, nor that it had been done in his name. He fell to his knees and vowed that he would dedicate his life to building a monastery in Spain to the glory of St. Laurence.

His young cousin, Emmanuel Philibert, warned him that they must take the advantage such a victory had given them. The road to Paris was now open and it would be possible to defeat the French for all time; but Philip, having looked on those terrible sights, wanted to put an end to the war. In vain did Emmanuel Philibert plead. Philip was adamant.

“The risk is too great,” he equivocated. “Our men are weary. I am weary … weary of death and destruction. Here Catholic fights Catholic; Catholic churches are destroyed. There is only one war I wish to fight: God’s holy war; the war against the heretic.”

So at St. Quentin he stayed, and his men were idle and disgruntled, so that they did as mercenaries were accustomed to do at such times; they deserted. Meanwhile, the Duke of Guise, who had been fighting in Italy, made a hasty peace on that front and came with all speed to the defense of his country.

Paris was soon bristling with defenses. The great moment was lost; and Guise, with that intuition which had made him the greatest soldier of his day, made a surprise attack on Calais and took it.

He knew that there could be nothing more likely to cause strife between Spain and her English allies than the loss of that town which the latter looked upon as a foothold which would one day lead to the conquest of France.

In the monastery of Yuste, which was not far from the town of Placentia and was surrounded by thick woods and mountains which kept off the cold north winds, the Emperor was enjoying his days of retirement.

The climate was good for his gout and he had employed architects to make a lodging worthy of him; he had installed great fireplaces in every room; he had brought some of his treasured pictures with him. His favorite, Gloria , painted by the great Venetian, Titian, and which depicted himself and his late wife surrounded by angels, he had had set up in his bedroom. Beautiful gardens had been laid out for him, and in these orange and citron trees grew; he himself attended to the weeding and pruning when the gout permitted. He had also brought numbers of clocks and watches with him, and one of his great pleasures was to take these to pieces and examine their works; the winding of the clocks was a ceremony which, whenever possible, he supervised in person.

He attended religious services regularly, and the window of his bedchamber looked onto the chapel, so that if he were not well enough to get up he could hear Mass in bed, and from where he lay see the elevation of the Host. His rich baritone voice often mingled with the chanting of the monks in the chapel.

He felt content with the monastic life and would stand at his windows looking out across the jagged sierra at the stunted orange trees and the rushing torrents that tumbled down the mountainsides. But his great delight was still in his food. In vain did his physicians implore moderation. Abstinence might be a virtue, but not even for the sake of his soul could Charles deny his stomach.

He would sit at a meal with his favorite servants about him. There were his major-domo, Quixada, and the Fleming, Van Mole, his gentleman of the chamber, to beguile him with their conversation. There was another whom he greatly favored—a boy of handsome looks and bright intelligence, young Juan, who did not know that besides being the Emperor’s page he was the Emperor’s son.

When Charles was melancholy, Juan was sent to charm him; and this he never failed to do. Charles treated him as though he were much older than his age; he would show him charts and maps and discuss with him the progress of the war which Spain was now fighting against the French.

Juan was with Charles when the news was brought of Philip’s action at St. Quentin and his subsequent hesitation.

The Emperor’s face grew purple and the veins showed in angry knots at his temple.

“Holy Mother of God!” he exploded. “Why … why … in the name of Christ, why? The greatest opportunity a general ever had … and lost … lost! Philip is useless. Is he as mad as his grandmother? Had I but been there …”

He paced the apartment and all feared that he would injure himself. But suddenly he stopped and looked at the boy.

“One day,” he said, “you may be a general leading your armies. Then … you will remember this day. But, Juan, you will learn … you will profit from the mistakes of others …”

And, contemplating the boy beside him, he grew calmer. He shrugged his shoulders. He was an old man in retreat from the world. He had but to brood on his sins and win absolution. The conduct of wars was no longer any concern of his.

He fell to wondering what he would have for dinner—a rich capon, chickens, a fat goose, peacocks roasted by the best cooks in Spain, who now resided at the monastery of Yuste?

Mary Tudor shut herself away; she lived almost completely in retirement now. She had failed. She had lost Calais, and her people were saying that in the five years of her reign she had brought disaster on England. She had burned men’s bodies—respected men such as Archbishop Cranmer; she had put England under a foreign influence. There was disaster everywhere.

And she was old and ill. She could only write passionate letters to Philip, some of which she did not send. She even offered him coronation if he would return to her. For as long as she could, she had believed in the coming of the child; but the months were passing, and it was nearly a year since Philip had gone.

Philip was still urging the marriage of Elizabeth with Emmanuel Philibert. He had made peace with the French, and his son Don Carlos was to marry the eldest daughter of the French King; but Calais was still in the hands of the French.