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

Leonor took the baby in her arms, exulting, while Isabella lay back exhausted, yet contented. She had done her duty. She had given a boy to Spain.

The bells rang out. The people crowded into the streets. In the churches praises and thanks were chanted. All Spain was rejoicing in the birth of a male heir. They were bringing bulls into the town, for there must be bulls when any event was celebrated. On the way to the bullring, many would be trampled to death in the narrow alleys—relics of the Moorish occupation. Already bulls were struggling in the artificial lake, the water of which was tinged with the stain of blood, for men in boats and others swimming were prodding the bulls with daggers, goading them to fury; this was a new kind of bull-fight, a prelude to the great occasion. Girls with flowers in their hair were dancing the old dances, kicking up their tattered skirts, exposing their shapely yet dirty limbs. There would be much lovemaking under the stars tonight; beside the Puerta they would lie—in the Plaza itself—fighting for a flask of wine or a gypsy girl. Knives flashed; voices were raised. There was laughter; there were screams of anger; and all in honor of the new Prince.

Into the center of this revelry the rider came. He was stained and weary from a long journey; only his desire to be first with the news had given him the spirit and courage to ride so far and so fast in so short a time. Through the gates of the city he had ridden, right into the market square. He was making for the Palace, but the people had stopped him.

“What news? What news?”

“I seek the Emperor. If you detain me, it is at your peril.”

But these were the lawless ones, the robbers from the sierras, the beggars, the gypsies; they cared little for the Emperor’s wrath. They drew their knives and demanded news as they would have demanded a man’s purse when they faced him in a narrow mountain pass.

And when the news was told, they fell back; they crossed themselves—even the wildest of them—and they turned their eyes to the sky for a sign of vengeance. Silence had fallen over the alleys and courtyards.

“Holy Mother of God!” murmured the revellers. “What now? What an omen is this! God will be revenged. Holy Virgin, have mercy on us.”

Here was calamity, for shortly before the royal Prince was making his way into the world, Imperial soldiers had been sacking the City of Rome.

Surely the saints, surely the Holy Mother, surely God Himself would never forgive the outrage.

The Emperor Charles heard the news with horror. Hastily he crossed himself. He threatened to sentence the messenger to death in a cauldron of cold water slowly brought to the boil over a wood fire if the news should prove false. The messenger could only bow his head, tear his hair, and protest his innocence of any mischievous intent.

“I speak the truth, Imperial Highness. I have witnessed such sights with mine own eyes.”

“At such a time!” groaned the Emperor. “At such a time!”

He was accustomed to misfortune; but had there ever been such misfortune as this? The Holy City sacked, the holy virgin nuns dragged into the squares of Rome and publicly raped; and all the drink-crazed soldiers had been starving until they scaled the walls of the city under the command of that fool the Connetable de Bourbon. And Bourbon, who had rebelled against his sovereign lord, the King of France, was an ally of the King of Spain. Hence it would be said that these soldiers, who were guilty of surely one of the worst times in history, were Imperial troops.

“At such a time!” repeated the Emperor. “My son just born … my country celebrating his birth … and now, instead of banners of scarlet and gold, we must plunge our city into sack-cloth and ashes. Let this not be made known. We must keep this secret.”

But already he had heard the sound of wailing in the streets. He strode to the window and saw the people standing about, looking up at the sky, waiting for a sign from Heaven that the wrath of God was about to fall upon the land.

Charles dismissed the bearer of the dire news. He would be alone.

And when he was alone, he smiled slyly. The Pope had escaped to Castle Angelo and so saved his life. He was a prisoner there. There let him remain … the Emperor’s prisoner. In the greatest disaster—any soldier knew—there was often brightness to be found. The Holy City had been desecrated by Imperial troops and the displeasure of Heaven would be directed against Spain just when that land had thought itself blessed by the birth of a prince. Alas! that was a great misfortune. But it must be remembered that the Pope was virtually a prisoner of the Emperor, and that was not such a bad thing. The wily Medici Pope had given Charles much anxiety; well now it would be the turn of Master Clement to feel anxiety on account of Charles. Henry of England was urging Pope Clement to grant him a divorce from Catharine of Aragon; and Catharine of Aragon was Charles’s aunt. He believed that Clement would have granted the divorce in order to placate Henry; but now he would be obliged to reflect deeply. He must ask himself how he dared humiliate the aunt of a man whose captive he was.

Charles laughed his loud Hapsburg laugh. But he was sober almost at once. Melancholy was never far off these days; in the midst of pleasure and triumph it would overtake him.

Wily Clement was his prisoner, but the Holy City was desecrated, and many would mention his name—although he had had no part in it—when the Sack of Rome was recalled.

“Holy Mother of God,” he prayed as fervently as any in the streets below, “let this not prove an evil omen to my son.”

When the Queen heard, she had the child brought to her and held him fast in her arms.

Leonor, watching her with frightened eyes, made the sign of the cross. Her lips moved. “Holy Virgin, intercede for us. Let not the wrath of God fall on this newborn child. Strike not through him, Holy Virgin, Holy Mother of God.”

She rocked to and fro on her stool, weeping for this evil thing, which had fallen on Rome.

Queen Isabella touched the baby’s fair head and prayed. The baby cried for his milk. He was small and delicate, and everyone was now looking at him with trepidation. Any day the wrath of God would strike, and how could God strike more effectively than through the Prince?

But the weeks passed and the baby began to thrive; and now it was said in the streets of Valladolid that God did not intend after all to avenge the Sack of Rome on little Philip of Spain.