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

“Is that not what we are doing?” Mary was fond of Gardiner. If he was the cruellest and most vindictive of men where heretics were concerned, he was a great statesman and a loyal supporter of the Catholic Queen.

“No!” said Philip. “The people are unready as yet.”

“But what are these ceremonies compared with the great work the Inquisition is doing in Spain?” demanded Mary.

“The Spanish people support the Inquisition.”

“And do my people then support the heretics?”

He was irritated when she said my people in that way, and he retorted: “No. I agree our people do not.”

She gave him her tremulous smile then. “Oh, Philip, our people, of course. That is how I would have it. You and I … together always …” She held out her hand, but he pretended not to see it.

This was so difficult to endure, this wavering between the arrogant Queen who was Queen in her own right, reminding him that the English people would allow him to be nothing more than Consort, and the hysterical woman come late to passion and therefore determined to drain the loving cup to the dregs.

“But the people are not ready,” he said firmly. “Later we will install the Inquisition here. We will have an auto-da-fe in Smithfield Square. But that time is not yet. Your people are irreligious by nature. They prefer laughter to prayers, to forget the sins of their neighbors if they may laugh with them. But we will remedy that in time. Now they are sullen. They like not the fires. They blame my countrymen. They blame me. Their insults are more mephitic than ever.”

“We’ll stop it!” cried Mary shrilly. “Any who insults your countrymen shall himself be burned at the stake.”

“Nay; that is not the way to deal with subjects. I have tried to speak to Gardiner on this matter, but it seems he fancies himself the ruler of this realm. He is thirsty for blood. He has longed for this day and is like an excited child!”

“He is a true servant of God!” said Mary vehemently.

“Yes; but do not upset yourself, my dear. I shall command my friar, Alphonso di Castro, to preach a sermon urging leniency toward heretics, suggesting that they should be given time in which to repent.”

“I see you are angry with me,” said Mary. “You are cold. When I give you my hand, you look the other way.”

“I am deeply concerned for you. You must remember the precious burden you carry. You must be calm … live quietly.”

“What would you have me do, Philip, my love? There is nothing I would not do for you. Command me, I beg of you. Shall I send for Gardiner?”

“There is no need. I would have you rest. It is better that the sermon should be preached by my friar. The people will then see that I am not the monster they believe me to be, for they will know that a servant of mine would not dare preach such a sermon without my consent.”

“The people do not know you, Philip,” she said passionately. “They say ugly things of you which are … untrue … so untrue.”

He looked at her anxiously. How many rumors had she heard? He had endured her cloying devotion; must he yet suffer from her bitter jealousy?

In the Palace at Valladolid Juana told Carlos of the news from England.

“You are to have a brother, Carlos. He will be half English.”

Carlos did not care whether or not he had a brother; he was angry with the English because they had not killed his father, as people had believed they might.

“He will come home,” said Juana. “As soon as the baby is born he will come back to Spain.”

“That will be a long time yet,” said Carlos.

He enjoyed those days. He was a little less wild, although he gave way to bouts of frenzy when any suggested he should learn his lessons. Always he would fly to Juana for protection, calling on her to save him from the monsters.

He continued to call himself Little One; nor would he allow even Juana to try weaning him from the habit.

His tutor, Luis de Vives, felt that, as it was almost impossible to teach Carlos anything, there was no point in forcing matters. To force the boy meant kicking, unpleasant scenes, and injuries to his health, which in their turn meant no lessons. There was hardly anyone who could be persuaded to whip the boy, for none could forget that he was destined to be the King of Spain, and they were sure Carlos was one to remember past injuries.

Only his father and grandfather would dare punish him, and they were both absent.

Often Carlos talked to Juana of her namesake; he remembered vividly that night when he had crept into Mad Juana’s room and talked to her. He told his aunt that she had said that he and she were the only sane ones in a mad world. “But she did not know you, dear Aunt. You are sane too,” he told Juana.

One day during that spring there came news from the Alcazar at Tordesillas. A messenger arrived at the Palace of Valladolid and asked audience of the Queen Regent.

Juana put on her cloak and hood to receive him, fastening the hood about her head so that she was just able to peep out of it. It had been a habit of hers to hide her face as much as possible since she had become a widow. It was remembered that that other Juana had adopted the habit after the death of Philip the Handsome when she had kept with her the coffin containing his body.

“Bad news, Highness,” said the messenger. “Queen Juana is ill and we fear for her life. Her illness started three weeks ago. She demanded to take a hot bath. She was wandering in her mind and she said that the King, her husband, would visit her that night and, as it was years since she had taken a bath, he would find her dirty. The water was brought, and she would have it almost boiling, your Highness.”