For a Queen's Love: The Stories of the Royal Wives of Philip II (7 page)

“Stand back!” cried Leonor. “The devils within him might leap out … and into you. That is what these evil-wishers would like. Stand back, I say.”

“But he will injure himself. Look, Leonor. How can we help him?”

“We can do nothing but pray … pray the saints to help us fight this evil. I have seen him thus before. It passes. The evil spirits tire within him … and they let him rest. But each time he grows weaker. Go! I beg of you, go … lest they leave him and enter you … which is what they are trying to do.”

Philip, obedient as ever, went to his own apartments.

Ruy was there, and Philip was glad of that. He sank on to a stool and told Ruy what he had seen.

“There are people here who wish me ill, who wish my family ill. Some witch has cast a spell upon my brother.”

Ruy said nothing for a while. He was thinking that they would soon begin to look for the ill-wisher. Their eyes would fall upon some person … someone whom they wished to accuse. That person would be taken before the Inquisition, his body—or hers—broken in the torture chambers until a confession was extorted. But the explanation was simple. Ruy knew it. Not far away in the Alcázar of Tordesillas was a mad woman; and could madness be passed on just as the color of the eyes and the hair was passed on? Philip had his father’s yellow hair and blue eyes. Why should not Philip’s brother have inherited his grandmother’s madness?

“What are you thinking, Ruy?”

Ruy spoke boldly. “It might be that someone has not put a spell upon him. He might have been born with this weakness.”

It was impossible to know what was behind the mild blue eyes, but the Prince was waiting for his friend to continue.

“He is not strong,” went on Ruy. “There are sicknesses of the mind as well as of the body. Sometimes the body wastes away, sometimes the mind. It might have nothing to do with witchcraft.”

“Why should my brother be born with weakness? My father is strong, is he not? My mother also is strong.”

“Yes, but …”

Philip knew. He had heard gossip about his grandmother. He knew now that she was not dead. He knew that there was a secret about her that was kept from him. He would not admit to Ruy that he did not know the nature of that secret.

He tried a shot in the dark. “You think of my grandmother?”

The shot hit its mark. Ruy bowed his head.

Philip tried to curb his curiosity. It would not become a prince to ask questions, concerning his own family, of a subject. But now he felt the shadow of his grandmother closer to him.

And when, a few weeks later, his brother died, it seemed closer than ever before.

P
hilip was twelve years old when his father
, recently returned to Spain, broached the subject of marriage.

“You are twelve, my son. A fair age for a prince. We must get you a wife.”

Philip murmured his thanks. None would have guessed his apprehension. The duties of a prince were numerous. Now the burden of possessing a wife was to be added to them.

“I have a fine match for you,” said the Emperor.

Philip waited. There had been other matches that had come to nothing. That was how it was with the suggested matches of princes. Everything depended on politics, on war and peace. Events might throw him a lovely young girl or a woman three times his age; whichever came, he must accept her. That was part of his duty.

So he waited in trepidation for his father’s next words.

It was typical of the Emperor that he should produce a map of their country. Thus were brides chosen for such as Philip.

“Now here is our country. Here is Navarre, which we conquered and added to our realm. You see how it borders on Old Castile. Now here are the Pyrenees Mountains, and on the other side of them is a continuation of Navarre, which is at the moment a dependency of France. How much more satisfactory it would be if the entire territory of Navarre belonged to Spain! But the conquest was not completed. There is a King of Navarre, as you know, living on the other side of the
mountains—a vassal of King Francis. Now, this King Henry of Navarre has a daughter who will one day inherit his kingdom, for he has no sons, and is unlikely to have them.”

“She is to be my wife, Father?”

“That is so. You do not seem pleased.”

“I was rather surprised, Father. A daughter of such a small state to mate with Spain?”

The Emperor laid a hand on his son’s shoulder. “You do well to wonder, my son. I will explain. Navarre is a small kingdom. It is not worth very much … in itself. But, Philip, it is the key to France. Give me a foothold in my enemy’s territory and I verily believe that before long we may add the kingdom of France to our Empire.”

“I see, Father.” He was longing to ask about the girl. He tried to remember all he had ever heard of Jeanne d’Albret. He must show no eagerness, no desire to investigate the human side of this marriage. That was unimportant to Spain; therefore it must be unimportant to him.

The Emperor said: “You are indeed fortunate. Your bride might have been an old woman. She might have been a widow. She might have been four times your age. But no! She is a young girl of twelve … your own age. She is a high-spirited, handsome creature, Francis’s own niece, the daughter of his beloved sister and that sly old fox Henry of Navarre. I’ll tell you something, Philip. Francis is against the match. Of course he is against the match. He may be fond of dallying with his poets and his painters and his women in their mirrored baths, but he’s no fool. He does not want me to have one foot on what he considers to be his land. He would like to get back our Spanish Navarre, I doubt not. You can depend upon it, that is a dream of his. I’ll tell you something else: I am in secret negotiations with Henry of Navarre for his daughter. Yes; but at the moment Francis keeps her a close prisoner at Plessis-les-Tours. Yet her father longs for the marriage with Spain. And who would not? Why, my son, you are the greatest catch in the world. There is not a father who would not rejoice to unite his daughter with us. Nor a mother … except, of course, Henry’s wife, Marguerite, who thinks only of her brother’s wishes. They are like lovers, Francis and
Marguerite, and some say that the bond between them is actually closer than that of brother and sister. Nor would I be unwilling to believe aught of the King of France.”

“And the girl … Jeanne,” said Philip, “what does she think of the match?”

“She is eager. You can be sure of that. She, a humble daughter of Navarre, to be the Queen of Spain!”

“I would I could see a picture of her.”

“You shall. I’ll ask her father for it.”

“And the marriage … when would it take place?”

“As soon as the arrangements can be made. You are a man. You are twelve years old. Why should you wait, eh?” The Emperor looked down into the grave face of the boy. “Now that I am home, you and I will meet every day. We will talk of state matters. You must learn something of the difficulties of governing an empire. You must learn how to choose your counselors; how to use them so as to prevent their using you. They will try all sorts of means. They will flatter you. They will try to tempt you through women. There is much I shall have to say to you, my son.”

Philip nodded gravely. He was thinking: I am a man now. I am to have a wife.

He thought of
her continually. He believed he was rather childish when he was alone. He talked to her sometimes, but not aloud. He would have felt deeply ashamed if any had heard him.

“Jeanne,” he said, “little Jeanne.” For, in his thoughts she was little; she was smaller than he was. It was a sore point that so many of his age were bigger. “Little Jeanne, you must not be afraid of the ceremonies and the grandees and the importance of all this. I know that you are but heiress to a small kingdom, and now you are a princess of Spain—to be its Queen one day—but do not be afraid, Jeanne. I will look after you.”

She would be dark, he thought, in contrast with his own fairness. Her skin would be soft, and she would be gentle and loving, so that when they were alone together they could say anything to each other. He could love her as frankly as, when he was a baby, he had loved Leonor.

Rides through the palace grounds or in the surrounding country
had a new interest. He imagined Jeanne beside him. He seemed to grow taller; he was bolder. Don Zuñiga was pleased with him; he scored victories in the tiltyard, and he sat his horse with more grace and firmness than he ever had before. It was true that his thoughts wandered during lessons, but as Dr. Siliceo had decided that the Prince could do no wrong, that was unimportant.

Jeanne! Little Jeanne! He was impatient for her. He thought of protecting her by day and loving her by night.

In the quiet of his bed, he said to her: “If I should seem cold, do not believe that I am. I am by nature cold, it is true … but that is for others, not for you. Sometimes I do not think I am really cold. It is just that there is so much for a prince to endure, and he must not show his feelings. With you, you see, I am loving and warm.”

For strange, exalted weeks, Philip was in love with little Jeanne of Navarre whom he had never seen.

Then one day the dream was shattered.

The Emperor was in a fury. He was storming about the palace, and anyone who had good sense kept out of his way. The Emperor’s rages were terrible. He sent for his son. The boy stood fearful before him, but carefully hiding his fear.

“That rogue!” cried Charles. “That cheat Francis! Do you know what he has done? He has taken your bride from you. He has married the girl to Guillaume de la Marck. He is laughing at us … snapping his fingers at us. He has cheated her father. He has lured the Duke of Clèves—this Guillaume de la Marck—from his allegiance to me by a bride who is a bribe from Navarre?”

“But, Father,” cried Philip, for once forgetting his calm, for love was something which he had not yet learned to control, and even if he had been in love with a phantom Jeanne, he had been in love, “we cannot let this happen. We must lead an army to Paris. We must carry her off.”

“But, my son, she is already married. The girl was forced against her will. Ah, she had spirit, that Jeanne. She would have been a good Queen of Spain. She protested … defying her uncle … defying her mother. She was beaten to within an inch of her life, I hear. But Francis
had his way. He has married her to that scoundrel of Clèves. Master Guillaume shall rue the day, for I’ll not rest till I have him on his knees.”

“They … they beat her!” cried Philip.

“Until they were afraid they would kill her with their whips. And what good would a corpse be to Francis or to Clèves? The girl had not a chance against them. But they’ll regret it. They
shall
regret it. Holy Mother! I’ll set out at once. I’ll take up arms against this upstart prince. He shall wish he had never been born to snap his fingers at me and side with my enemy.”

So the Emperor left Spain on a campaign of vengeance while Philip mourned the loved one whom he had never seen.

He dreamed of his Jeanne, beautiful and weak without her Philip to protect her. He wept in the quietness of his room as he seemed to feel the whips on his own soft body.

Jeanne! Poor little Jeanne! How brave she was. She had written her protests and taken them to the Cathedral, where she had read them to the bishops. She had defied her uncle, the King of France, until they had beaten her almost to death.

This sorrow was something he could not hide. But Ruy, his confidant and friend, seemed to understand. Ruy had some comfort to offer; he introduced Philip to women.

Could nothing happen
singly? Must he lose not only the girl who was to have been his wife, but his mother also?

Queen Isabella was lying in her bed, and all the ceremonies which accompanied the dying of a Queen were now being performed. Leonor sat in the death-chamber, rocking to and fro in her misery. Philip must stand by the bedside impassively hiding his grief, as became the heir of Spain.

Isabella was not sorry to go. She looked at her son and felt proud of him. She had nothing with which to reproach herself. As a beautiful princess, she had come from Portugal thirteen years before—with a dowry as attractive as her person—to marry her cousin, the Emperor Charles. The marriage had not only brought riches to Spain, but friendship between Portugal and that country. They had been happy—she
and Charles—and if the Emperor had been guilty of certain infidelities, that was natural enough, since he was forced to spend so much time away from her. He had always behaved with the utmost dignity and decorum when in his own court; and she must rejoice when she contemplated the fate of those two French Queens, wives of Francis, who had allowed their court to be ruled by his two chief mistresses, first Madame de Chateaubriand, then Madame d’Etampes; and even more so would she rejoice when she recalled the fate which had befallen Queen Anne Boleyn of England.

So she felt hers to have been a happy life because she had done her duty. This pale boy with the serious face was her gift to her husband; she had two sprightly daughters also. It was true that two other boys she had borne had not lived; but Charles had his heir in Philip.

She had been popular in Spain; she had made many pilgrimages throughout the country; she had led a life of piety and usefulness; she had given alms to the poor and supported the Holy Inquisition; she had worked diligently at the beautiful tapestry that would proclaim her patience and her industry to the world long after she was dead.

She would be happy to leave this life, and she knew that her time for departure was fast approaching.

Now her attention was caught by the slight figure kneeling at her bedside. There were no tears on his face, yet she knew that he was grieving. Was he thinking of the days when, as a small boy, he had played with the jeweled crucifix that had hung about her neck? She remembered that she had been jealous of his fondness for Leonor; but now she could be glad of Leonor’s devotion. Leonor would be a mother to him, and, in spite of his dignity, he was still a boy. She wanted to protect him, to stay alive a little longer. She wanted to talk to her husband about Philip. Perhaps she was being foolish, perhaps her mind was wandering a little, but she wanted to say something like this: “Do not burden him too soon. Do not make a king of him before he has been a young man.” When he had been a boy they had tried to make a man of him; when he had been a baby they had made of him a boy. He was like a delicate hot-house flower, forced, always forced to be older, wiser than his years allowed.