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

the news of the Emperor’s death came the messenger from England with news of Mary’s sickness.

Philip would not believe that she was dying.

“How can I go to England now?” he demanded. “My father is dead. My duties increase. Moreover, the Queen has been ill before.”

She had had a false pregnancy, he was remembering. Might not this also be a false alarm?

He decided to send Feria with a message and a ring.

“If the Queen is dying,” he said, “we must at all costs secure the accession of Elizabeth. She is suspected of heresy, and that is deplorable; but if she does not succeed to the throne, the King of France will have the crown for Mary of Scotland. That we must prevent. If France succeeds, all our work will have failed. We shall lose our footing in England; and before long we shall have the English and French banded together against us.”

“There is the match between Elisabeth of Valois and Don Carlos,” said Feria.

“These matches! They sometimes come to naught. We will not rely upon it. The English law says that the reigning monarch must name his successor. Mary must name Elizabeth.”

“I will make known your Majesty’s wishes to her.”

“And, Feria, give her loving greetings from me. Explain that I cannot come. Speak of my duties here … my father’s death … Surely there are excuses enough; and even she must see that I must be here.”

“I will endeavor to make her see reason, your Highness.”

When Feria had gone, Philip stared ahead, seeing that bed-chamber which he felt would be engraved upon his mind for ever. Could it be true that his wife was dying? If so, it would mean the loss of Spanish power in England, but oh, what glorious freedom for the King of Spain!

Mary was tossing on her bed. There were few ladies to attend to her wants, and she knew why. They had deserted her—so many of them—and were on their way to Hatfield.

There, her red-haired sister would have put on new dignity. That haughtiness which ever lurked behind her blue eyes, would emerge. Elizabeth … Queen of England.

She, so young, would be so powerful. She would choose her own husband. Perhaps Philip would sue for her hand. No, not that! She must not imagine such things. She must try to be calm.

The fever was with her again. It had been decided that the Palace of Richmond was too damp and had aggravated her fever. Her dear friend Reginald Pole suffered from the same fever. He was not expected to outlive her.

Will Philip come? she wondered. Surely none could refuse the request of a dying woman?

This time she wished him just to touch her hand and to smile, to pretend to the last that he loved her. Was that asking too much of him?

Ah, but he had hated her. Her people hated her. They would say after she was dead: She brought strangers into the land; she restarted the fires of Smithfield; she lost Calais.

How bright had seemed her future on that day five years ago when she had ridden into London to the Tower to be crowned. Queen of England! And all England was with her then, all shouting: “Death to the false Jane Grey!”

But now it was a different tale. Now they would shout: “Death to Mary. Long live Elizabeth!”

One of her ladies came to tell her that the Count of Feria was without and craving audience.

The Count of Feria! But it should have been Philip.

Yet why should Philip come? There was nothing he wanted of her now.

She greeted the Count with her melancholy smile. There was one who would be more glad to see Feria than Philip. Might he prove a good husband to Jane Dormer, better than the husband the Queen had had!

But she would entertain no evil thoughts against Philip. He was good and noble. Was it his fault that he could not love her? He had tried. How he had tried!

The Count knelt by her bed and, kissing her burning hand, gave her the loving message and the ring; then he told her the real reason for his coming. “His Highness declares it is imperative that you name the Lady Elizabeth as your successor.”

She smiled wanly. Ah, yes, of course. She must ensure English friendship with Spain. She must remember Spain’s enemies, the French. She nodded feebly.

“If Elizabeth will pay my debts and swear to keep our religion as she found it, then I agree.”

When Feria had left her, she lay half-conscious, thinking that Philip was beside her. Then she became disturbed. She cried out that she could hear the screams of men and women in agony. Were they burning now outside the Palace? Did they not know that Smithfield Square was the appropriate place?

Mistress Clarencius soothed her. “Nay, your Majesty. All is well.”

“But I smell the fires.”

“It is the one here in your chamber, your Majesty.”

“I hear the crackle of wood. What of Cranmer?”

“It is not for your Majesty to concern yourself with heretics at this time. Rest is what you need.”

She said: “He held out his right hand that it might burn first. My father was fond of Cranmer. He gave him much honor. Oh, Clarencius, less than three hundred were burned under my rule; and in my husband’s land there have been three hundred at one auto-da-fe.”

“Do not speak of it, dearest Majesty.”