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

The fires of fanaticism had burned in Gardiner’s eyes. That fire would light other fires.

On that day it seemed to the people of London that they could already smell the smoke over Smithfield.

To Philip those were not unhappy days. He felt that his journey had not been in vain. He knew that throughout Spain there would be rejoicing. God and the Emperor would be pleased. But there was one thing the Emperor wished to hear more than anything. It was four months since Philip had left Spain, and still there was no news of a child. Charles had written several impatient dispatches. Philip could only reply that no one longed for the child’s conception more than he did.

But … these were the happy days, for during one of them an excited Mary came to him as he sat in his privy chamber at Hampton Court turning over the dispatches from his father. He wondered at her interruption, for she, knowing that he wished to be alone when working, had given strict instructions that no one was to approach him at such times. And she herself came in.

“Philip,” she said, and she looked almost like a young girl as she spoke, “I could wait no longer. I had to see you. I have wonderful news.”

He took her hand and kissed it.

“It has happened,” she went on. “I bring you the tidings we most want to hear. I am with child.” She threw back her head and laughed. He kissed her cheek.

“I am so happy,” he said.

“Happy!” She had turned away. Her joy was almost uncontrollable. She, who had led such a miserable life, was now the happiest woman on earth. She began to walk up and down the room, making no effort to hold back her tears. This was the happiest moment in her life … so far, because when the child was in her arms and she knew him for a boy, that would be the supreme moment.

She loved Philip, but that love was a torment. How could she help knowing that she was old, plain, and worn out with illness? How could she believe in his protestations of affection? She was aware that she must be grateful for his kindness rather than his love.

She faced him suddenly and said: “This I have desired all my life. A child of my own! In a few months I shall be brought to bed, and soon I shall hold him in my arms. I thank God for letting me live until this moment.”

Philip was moved; he went to her and laid an arm about her shoulder. “I share your joy, Mary,” he said.

“Nay, Philip. You have not lived as I have. But everything I have ever suffered is of no account now. ‘My soul doth magnify the Lord and my spirit doth rejoice in God my Savior, for He that is mighty hath magnified me …” Magnified me, Philip; and made me the happiest Queen … the happiest woman who ever lived.”

He watched her. Surely he was almost as happy. I have done my duty, he told himself. Now I shall be free. I may escape. I may leave her and return to all I love.

The news quickly spread, and in the streets the people talked of the Queen’s condition. The bells rang out. In a few months’ time it was expected that the heir of Spain and England would be born.

It was now not so difficult to make a show of gaiety. He would say to Mary at night: “My dearest wife, you must rest. Remember the child you carry.”

She would smile, for her thoughts of the child absorbed her; she would collect her women about her and they would discuss children for hours; and all the time she would sit among them, that rapt expression on her face, while now and then she would smooth the folds of her dress over her swelling figure.

As for Philip, he could not understand himself. Perhaps a man had to rebel. What happened when a man deliberately assumed a character he did not possess? Did he become something of the character he aped? Was he become cruder, more lusty?

He had watched Magdalen Dacre for some weeks, and each time he saw her she seemed to be more beautiful. She reminded him a little of Isabel, a little of Catherine.

During the dance he would seek to partner her; she would accept the honor graciously. Why did she appeal to him? Because she was tall and well formed, and Mary was small and thin? Because she was vital and young, and Mary was old and tired?

There were times when he was conscious of a strong desire for Magdalen Dacre; yet frequently other matters obsessed him. There was a Princess whom he had not yet seen because she was exiled from the court and living in seclusion at Woodstock.

He had heard a good deal of this Princess, for many scandals were attached to her name. Many said she had born the Admiral Thomas Seymour a child; and he knew that she had come near to losing her head at the time of Seymour’s execution because she was suspected of complicity in his schemes. That was not the only time she had been in trouble. Whenever there was a rising, Elizabeth was suspect.

She was a gay jilt, he had heard; she was coquettish, wanton, but so like her father and so full of vitality, so very much one of these barbarians, that the people loved her and shouted for her every time she was seen. That was one of the reasons why Mary liked to keep her hidden away either at Hatfield or Woodstock.

Moreover, said some who were less kind, Mary was jealous. Here was a young girl of twenty-two, with startlingly red hair and bright blue eyes—not exactly a beauty, but fair enough, and with youth on her side.

Philip was eager to meet this Princess.

He broached the subject while Mary was pretending to take an interest in the arrangements for the Christmas revels. She was, of course, not interested. Mary had no interest beyond the infant she hoped soon to bear.

“Your sister should be welcomed back to court,” he said.

Mary looked at him. Now he became aware of that obstinacy of his wife’s; he could see in her face the ugly temper which she had never before shown him, though he had heard of it.

“You do not know what she has done,” said Mary.

“Has aught been proved against her?”

“Plenty could have been proved.”

“But has not?”