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

her home; she could often come and see them all. What comfort that was! But Elisabeth knew that once she had crossed the borders to that gloomy land of Spain and entered the household of her gloomy husband, she would never return.

“Holy Virgin,” she prayed, “let something happen … anything … but let me stay with Mary, Francois, Charles, little Hercule, Margot, Papa, and Diane and … and my mother …”

Suddenly she knew that she was not alone in the room. Hastily she lowered her hands. Her mother had entered quietly, and was standing very still, leaning against the tapestry on the wall, watching her.

Elisabeth rose hastily. “Madame, I … I did not hear you enter.”

“Stay where you are, my child.”

The flat features betrayed nothing; only the dark eyes seemed alive in that heavy face.

“So,” went on Catherine de Medici, “you have been weeping and wailing and getting your sister-in-law to commiserate with you because you are to be the most important Queen in the world. That is so, is it not?”

How did she know such things? She knows everything, thought Elisabeth in a panic; she has some secret power which Rene or the Ruggieri brothers have given her.

“Mother …” she began. “Madame …”

“Yes, my child, you are sad because you must leave your home. My dear daughter, it is the fate of us all. I was no older than you when I left my home in Italy and came to France.”

“Yes, but …”

“But what?”

“That was to marry Papa.”

Catherine gave that loud burst of laughter which was familiar to them all. “He was a stranger to me.”

Elisabeth looked at her plump mother and thought how she would willingly change places with her, endure all the humiliations which any other woman would suffer—Catherine gave no signs of suffering them—from the dazzling Diane, who, although so much older than the King and the Queen, had had the King’s devotion ever since he was a boy.

Elisabeth would willingly change places with anybody who had not to go to Spain to marry Philip.

“Yes, but …” faltered Elisabeth.

“I was as alarmed as you are. But you see, I became the Queen of France and the mother of you all, and one day, my daughter, you will laugh at your fears even as I do now at mine.” Catherine came close to Elisabeth. “You will have much to occupy you in your new life. I shall write to you often and my letters will bring you something of myself. When you read them it will be as though I am speaking to you. You will remember that?”

Elisabeth tried to conquer the fear she had of her mother. She knew all the children had it—except young Henri, whom Catherine petted and adored. Even Margot, brazen and bold, trembled in the presence of her mother.

“You will be our little ambassadress at the court of King Philip, dearest child. You will not forget us all … your father and mother, your brothers and sisters.”

“I shall never forget you,” cried Elisabeth. “I shall long to be home with you.”

“Bah! When you are Queen, you will be content with your lot. You are young and very pretty, and I doubt not that your husband will wish to please you. That will depend on you. It is for you to make him wish to please you.”

Elisabeth wished her mother would not smile in that way. It frightened her even more than when her face was quite expressionless. The smile suggested distasteful things—caresses, love-making with a husband whom Elisabeth could only be happy in forgetting.

“There is a stepson, Elisabeth—Don Carlos, he who was to have been the bridegroom.” Catherine laughed again. “Never mind. You have the better one. A king on the throne is worth many an heir to the same throne. For we know what is, but how do any of us know what may be? Now, child, this will be your first mission at your husband’s court. You will arrange a match between your sister Margot and Don Carlos. That is what I wish you to do; and if you achieve it I shall be very proud of you. It will be almost as though I am there … so you will not be lonely.” She laughed again. “I shall write to you often. I shall give you the benefit of my advice and comfort. Dearest daughter, although you will be gone, we shall not really be parted. You believe that, do you not?”

“Yes, Madame.”

Catherine put her cold lips against her daughter’s forehead. Then she went silently from the room.

Elisabeth closed her eyes and began to pray for a miracle, something that could happen to prevent or even delay her journey to Spain.

She saw her father later. It was easier to talk to him although he was the King. It had always been thus. When he had come to the nursery, the little ones, unaware of his rank, had clambered over him, pulling his beard.

Now that beard was silver although he was only forty. He was a man slow of speech, a little taciturn in the company of adults, but at ease with children. He was Father first, King second, to his family.

She told him how she dreaded the ceremony, how she was afraid of the solemn Duke of Alba, who had come from Flanders to act as proxy for his master, since the Kings of Spain did not leave their country to bring home their brides; their brides came to them.

He was kind; he understood.

“It makes me sad to lose you,” he said, “although I shall be proud of my little Queen of Spain.”

“But to leave you all, Papa … all my brothers and sisters and you … dearest Papa … you most of all.”

He stroked her hair. “It is the fate of such as we are, dearest child,” he said. “We all have to face it. Princes and princesses all have their marriages made for them.”