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

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 Zuniga 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 Cleves—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