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

“And this bath … it was too much for her?”

“Her legs have been swollen to more than twice their usual size, your Highness. The water was so hot that the skin burst and it has not yet healed. The Queen was carried to a bed, and there she has been since. She will allow no one to touch her. She lies … without attention … and it has been thus for three weeks.”

“Have you not had doctors brought to her?”

“She will have no one, your Highness. She screams if any approach. Her legs, your Highness, are in such a state of corruption that she screams in agony the whole day and night.”

“Something must be done,” said Juana. “I will visit her myself and take my brother’s physicians with me.”

So Juana set out immediately for Tordesillas, taking with her Philip’s physicians, but when they arrived at the Alcazar the old Queen refused to see anyone but Juana.

Young Juana caught her breath in disgust at the condition of the bedchamber. The legs were exposed in all their horror, for the old Queen screamed in agony when they were touched by even the lightest covering.

The Queen called out: “Who are you then … come to torment me? You are Mosen Ferrer, are you … you torturer? See what you have done to me with your tortures!”

Juana fell to her knees and put her hands over her face to shut out the hideous sight. She began to sob hysterically.

“What ails you?” asked the Queen.

“It grieves me to see you thus … and you … a Queen.”

“To see me thus … old, crippled, covered in sores … dying … ah, dying! But why be surprised? This is a fitting end for me.”

“Oh, Grandmother, no … no! The doctors can help you.”

“No one can, but I do not care. Soon I shall be past my pains. I shall be with him.”

“Grandmother, your soul is in God’s keeping?”

“I shall be with my Philip. What happens up there, eh? What happens in Heaven? Shall I find him there with his women about him?”

“Grandmother, hush … hush. I must call Father Borgia. You will see the doctors? You must see them.”

“Father Borgia! He is Mosen Ferrer in disguise, I believe.”

“No … no.”

“He poisoned Philip. Comes he now to poison me? Then let him. For soon I shall be with my Philip. Oh, to be with him again! We shall fight … It matters not. Better to fight with him than to live, weary and lonely, without him.”

“Here is Father Borgia, Grandmother. I sent for him. I implore you, listen to him before it is too late.”

“I’ll not see him.”

“You must, Grandmother. I beg of you, do not depart this life with all your sins upon you.”

She began to whimper: “I am tired. Let me go in peace.”

Young Juana beckoned to Father Borgia, who had come close to the bed. “Pray for her,” she whispered.

So he prayed. “Repent,” he urged. “Ask for forgiveness of your sins.”

She nodded—whether or not in answer to him, none of those who had come to the apartment could be sure.

A messenger came to say that learned priests, having heard of the Queen’s condition, had come from Salamanca to do for her what must surely need to be done.

They crowded about the bed, and one held a crucifix before the dying Queen.

“Your soul is in jeopardy,” he cried. “Speak and ask forgiveness. Say after me, ‘Christ crucified, aid me.’ ”

She lifted her eyes to his and the death rattle was in her throat. She murmured: “I feel no pain now.”

“Beg for mercy. Say after me, ‘Christ crucified, aid me.’ ”

Her lips moved. “Christ … crucified … aid me.”

The priest held the crucifix close to her face. Her breathing was very faint and suddenly she smiled.

Juana, watching her, saw her lips form the name: “Philip!” as she slipped away from the world.

It was April. A fitting time for the heir of England to be born. All the trees were in bud; the birds seemed riotously gay as though to welcome the baby Prince. Even the Spaniards seemed reconciled to England in the spring, perhaps because they knew they would soon be leaving it.

In Hampton Court there was a bustling and a hurrying to and fro and many an excited whisper. Any moment now, it was said; and all England and Spain were on tiptoe for the news. The French were hoping for a hitch, for the birth of a Prince would be the death-knell to the hopes of Henri II of securing England’s crown for his son through Mary Queen of Scots.

A peal of bells was rung at St. Stephen’s in Walbrook, and in less than ten minutes bells were ringing all over the city of London. This was taken as the signal.

“The child is born!” cried the populace.

“And is it a boy?”