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

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?

Courtenay had deceived her; he had pretended to love her, and all the time he was plotting to marry her younger and more attractive sister Elizabeth, and take the throne from her. Courtenay and Elizabeth had both deceived her; they treated her with great respect because she wore the crown, but they were awaiting their opportunities to destroy her.

Gardiner and Renard, the Spanish Ambassador, had tried to persuade her to have Elizabeth executed. Why did she not? Would it have been so difficult to prove her guilty of treachery? Had not her name been mentioned in connection with the Wyatt rebellion? But she could not forget Elizabeth … Elizabeth as a little girl of three, so desolate, so alone, when her mother fell from favor. Although their mothers had been so different, they had the same father—there was no doubt of that. They were sisters.

What a bitter childhood Mary’s had been! The grand marriages which had been prepared for her had all come to nothing, for the King had sworn that her mother was no true wife to him, and Mary who had been the beloved daughter, became a bastard. How many times had her life been in danger, not only from sickness, but from the axe?

And now she was thirty-eight—old for any woman, but for one who had passed through such desperate hazards desperately old; and now a young man had come from across the seas to marry her.

She smiled, thinking of him. He was beautiful with his trim figure, his golden hair and beard, his pale skin. When she had touched him she had thrilled with pleasure … more than pleasure—excitement. She was a virgin; she had never dared think of carnal love before this; if in her youth the sight of a handsome man had aroused such thoughts, they had been instantly suppressed; she had stifled her feelings then by kneeling before her altar, until she was cramped with pain, and must think of that rather than the strong arms of a lover.

But carnal love had become legitimate love. Love between herself and Philip must be more than pleasure; it must be duty. Without it, how could they produce the heir for which England and Spain were waiting?

So now … there need be no suppression. Now thoughts could run riot like mischievous children in hitherto forbidden gardens.

“Philip,” she murmured; and all through the night she dreamed of him.

They were married in the beautiful Cathedral of Winchester. Gardiner, with the help of three bishops, performed the ceremony; and not since the days of the Queen’s great father had such pomp been seen.

The greatest nobles of Spain and England were assembled in the Cathedral. Many of the English—chief of whom was Bishop Gardiner—were in a state of exultation, for they saw in the marriage that for which they had long prayed since King Henry broke with the Pope: the return of England to Rome.

After the ceremony had been performed, Philip and Mary, surrounded by the noblemen of both countries, went to the Bishop’s Palace, where a great feast was awaiting them.

Here dishes were served with the utmost ceremony, as though the food itself were royal. The minstrels played gay music while the guests ate; but all the Spanish guests were furious because Philip ate from a silver plate while Mary had a gold one. They realized that these people meant to show them that Mary was Queen of England, Philip but the Consort; and that England would be ruled by the English.

It was a matter over which hot-headed Spaniards would have drawn the sword had they not been warned against this by Philip himself. They must content themselves with smiling at the Queen’s loving expression when her eyes fell on Philip. Soon she would be his slave; then her parliament and her courtiers would follow.

Nor were the Spaniards allowed to serve Philip at table.

“Nay,” said the hearty English: “he is our guest. He has married our Queen and we demand the privilege of serving him.”

And what could be done? Nothing. The Spaniards could only marvel at these people, at their crudeness, their huge appetites, and their ability to sweep aside etiquette and make the rules which best suited themselves. Spanish discipline was needed here, thought the guests. Let them wait until Philip’s son was born! Let them wait until the Holy Inquisition was set up in this land!

The Queen gave the toast of her guests, and this she drank from a golden cup. Then she drank the health of her husband, whose titles were proclaimed by a handsome herald. “King of England, Naples, and Jerusalem, Prince of Spain, and Count of Flanders.”

And every eye of every Spaniard gleamed with loving devotion.

To Philip it seemed that the celebrations would never end, yet he dreaded their climax. Mary was growing fonder of him with every passing moment. What tenderness had she known in her life? Very little. And when this young man—one day to be the greatest monarch in the world—showed her kindness, it was almost more than she could bear. All her feelings, so carefully suppressed, were about to burst forth like a river in flood; she was longing for the consummation of her marriage. This Philip had everything to offer her; youth, quiet dignity—which penetrated his new aspect of bonhomie—tenderness, kindliness, and understanding. Mary was happier at her wedding feast than she had ever before been in the whole of her life. There was one thing she regretted besides her lost youth—that her mother could not see her now. How happy Katharine of Aragon would have been to see her daughter, Queen of England, married to her kinsman, that together they might rule the world while they led it to the only true faith.

After the banquets the great ball began. To the Spaniards and the English this was a further cause for dissension. For could Spaniards dance the crude English dances? It seemed to them that the English had no notion of grace; they pranced, leaped, and laughed as they danced, as though a dance were an expression of joy rather than of grace. They laughingly declared—in their barbaric tongue, which only a few of their guests could understand—that if the Spanish dances were danced they would all die of laughing, for such laughter as they would be unable to suppress would result in death after such a surfeit of beef, mutton, and roast peacock. As for the grandees, the hidalgos, and the stately dons, how could they so fling their arms about? How could they leap into the air, guffawing as they did so?

Only the King and the Queen seemed to find the contrast between Spanish and English customs amusing. Philip, charming and courtly, discovered that the English knew the German style of dancing, which was not quite so