He watched her in the dance, flushed, excited, lifting her eyes to her partners—flirtatious and yet so regal. He whispered to Mary: “I would speak with the Princess. Summon her here. Philibert must have his answer.”
Mary was nothing loth. She would like to see Elizabeth banished from the country, but there was one thing she would not do, even for Philip, and that was acknowledge her sister’s legitimacy. To do so would cast a slur on her own birth, for how could Elizabeth’s mother, Anne Boleyn, have been the true wife of Henry VIII, while he had another wife living, and that wife Mary’s own mother, Katharine of Aragon? No; at all costs she must stand out against Elizabeth’s legitimacy.
Elizabeth came and took the seat indicated by Philip. She glanced at him in a manner which made him uncomfortable. Was she suggesting that he found her so fascinating that he must have her beside him?
He said coldly: “I trust your Grace has considered the proposals of Emmanuel Philibert?”
Her eyes clouded. “Alas! Sire, it is so difficult for a young girl to know her mind.”
“Oh, come. You have had plenty of time.”
“But marriage is such an important matter, your Highness.”
“His Grace of Savoy has paid a visit to England for the express purpose of wooing you.”
“And of beseeching your Majesty to restore to him his estates,” she said quickly.
She knew too much. How did she learn these things? At one moment she was a frivolous girl; at the next a statesman.
“He has forgotten the latter in his desire to achieve the former,” said Philip.
“Does your Majesty think so, then?” She laughed—the frivolous girl again. “Would it be improper of me to ask how your Highness could have imagined it could be so?”
“You are so young and … fair.” He was playing the game she wished him to play. She threw him a glance from under those fluttering sandy lashes.
“Your Highness honors me. I shall always remember that the King said I was young and fair.”
He felt vexed. He said coldly: “It would please us if you gave him your answer before he leaves.”
She pouted slightly. “And I thought your Majesty liked to see me at court!”
“I do indeed …”
“Then I am twice honored. I am a fair young lady whom your Highness likes to see at his court.”
“I would like to see you married.”
Her eyes were reproachful. Then she smiled brightly. It was as though she were telling him she understood his meaning; he wished her to marry because her presence at court disturbed such a respectable married man as himself. What a pity, her eyes went on to suggest, that the younger prettier sister had not been the Queen whom it was expedient for him to marry. Then there would have been a different tale to tell!
How could she say so much with her eyes? The answer was: Because besides being the vainest woman in the world she was one of the cleverest. She angered, exasperated, and attracted him.
“The match is a good one,” he said swiftly.
“An excellent one for a bastard Princess,” she said, and her looks belied her humble words. “Ah, your Majesty,” she went on,
“I should have thought you would have been glad to leave these rains … these fogs …”
“Your Majesty has not been here when the first primroses are seen in the hedgerows and the blossom bursts on the trees.”
“Well,” he answered, “I doubt not that Savoy could offer you primroses and blossoms.”
“Not English primroses,” she said passionately. “Not English blossoms.”
Now she was speaking loudly that those about them could hear her. She is one of us, they would say. She loves us and our land; and she is the one for us!
Philip looked at her sternly and wondered whether she should be forced to the match. He sensed that she was the most dangerous person in the country. Now she was trying to lure him to what?… To flirtation! To some indiscretion?
As he would have turned again she laid her hand on his arm with a gesture of charming timidity.
“It is so comforting to a young lady to know,” she said with the utmost simplicity, “that the King has her welfare at heart.”
She was not sorry to be cosseted, to be left alone with her dream of the child.
As he made his way to his apartments, he felt dissatisfied. What did he want? To play that old game of kings? To disguise himself, to stroll out into the streets and join merry bands, to find strange women and make love to them; in any case he wished to escape from the restraint he had put upon himself.
Passing along a corridor, he saw, from where he was, a lighted window. He looked at it idly, and as he did so he saw a woman on the other side of it. She had taken off her coif and was shaking out her beautiful long hair. He recognized her as the beautiful Magdalen Dacre. It was not often that he acted on impulse, but this was one of the occasions when he did.
His heart beating fast, his need for excitement urging him on, he went to the door of Magdalen’s room and silently opened it.
Magdalen had taken off her gown. She stood in her petticoats, her long hair, cloak-like, covering her bare
