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

“In the streets they speak of it. They call me Bloody Mary. I know it. There are things which cannot be kept from me. They are all going to Hatfield now. They will shout for her. She is young and fair enough … though not so fair as she thinks she is. She will have many suitors for her hand, and Philip … Philip …”

“Rest, your Majesty, rest.”

She closed her eyes and the tears rolled slowly down her cheeks. She smiled suddenly and said: “What matters it, my friends? This is the end.”

She asked for extreme unction and that afterward Mass should be celebrated in her chamber; and at the elevation of the Host she lifted her eyes and she bowed her head at the benediction.

Then she seemed contented and at peace. She seemed to have forgotten the martyrs who had perished in her reign, that the people had called her Bloody Mary, and that she had lost Calais.

Her smile almost beautified her face in those last moments, and those about her bed thought that she could only have smiled thus if she had believed that Philip was with her.

ELISABETH

DE VALOIS

ONE

Carlos had changed. He had grown quieter; he had assumed more dignity; he no longer referred to himself as little one. He was Don Carlos, heir to the throne, and he did not forget it.

The reason was that he was to have a bride.

He had seen her picture and as soon as he had seen it this change had come upon him, for never had he seen anything so beautiful as the face in the locket which he carried about with him. She had a small, oval face, great dark eyes, and masses of black hair; she was half French, half Italian, and she was the daughter of Henri, King of France, and the Italian Catherine de Medici.

He had heard some time ago that he was to have this bride, but he had taken little heed at the time because, as Prince of Spain, many brides had been suggested for him. It was not long after his father had left for England on the first occasion that his father and the French King had decided Carlos should marry the young Princess when the Peace of Vaucelles had been signed. That seemed to have been forgotten, as so many plans were; but now there was a new treaty with France, the portrait had arrived, and, having seen it, Carlos could think of little else but the Princess of France.

At first he had thought it would be amusing to have a bride, to be the master, to force her to do all that he desired; but when he looked at the picture, those feelings left him. There was nothing within him now but a tenderness and an apprehension, for what would she, this beautiful Princess, think of him—stunted, crippled, and so ugly when the fits of anger came upon him?

Once he had loved his Aunt Juana, but she was strange now. She prayed constantly, and she thought of nothing beyond saving her soul for the future life; and she went about with her face half covered, withdrawn, remote from the world. People said she was strange; but it was not the strangeness of himself and his great- grandmother; there was no wild laughter, no impulse to do extraordinary things. Juana’s strangeness was a religious fervency which resulted in deep melancholy. She was, Carlos reflected, very certain of her place in Heaven, but that did not make her such a good companion here on Earth.

But to whom else could he talk? There was so much he wanted to know. He wished that he had not neglected his studies. He did not understand French; nor did he know Latin. He knew very little of the history of his own country, let alone others. If only he had worked harder! But how could he have known that they were going to give him a beautiful and learned Princess like this one for his wife? And how could he have known he would want to shine so much in her eyes?

“Juana,” he asked, “Aunt Juana, what is it like at the court of France?”

She drew her hood closer over her face, and he saw her lips tighten. “The French are godless,” she said. “Although they have improved under the present King’s reign. In the time of his father, theirs was the most immoral court in the world, and still is, I doubt not, for the French are wicked by nature.”

“That was her grandfather—this wicked King,” said Carlos with satisfaction. His brain was more alert; he was determined it should be. He was not going to be ignorant any more. He was going to learn and be clever for the sake of Elisabeth de Valois. “What did they do at her grandfather’s court?” he asked.

“There were masques and balls all the time. They read books. They feted those who wrote them. They were not good books. King Francois was your grandfather’s greatest enemy … the most lecherous man in the world … the most pleasure-loving and the most wicked.”

“You speak of him as though he were a heretic.”

“Nay. He was not as wicked as that.”

“My grandfather took him prisoner,” said Carlos, eager to show that he remembered that bit of history. “Her father was my grandfather’s prisoner too when he was a little boy. And now she is coming here. We shall have much to speak of, Juana. When do you think my father will let her come?”

“We do not know. Everything depends on her father and your father. They are at peace now, but if there should be another war …” Juana lifted her shoulders.

“Do you mean that they might have a war?” His face puckered; his lips began to twitch. “If my father goes to war with the French King now, I … I … will … kill him.”

“Hush, Carlos! The bad mood is coming on you again. You know what I told you to do when that happens. Get down on your knees and pray.”

“I don’t want to pray. I don’t want to. I want to kill … kill …”

“Carlos, you promised to be better. What will she think of you if she sees these bad moods?”