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

movement made by the King.

She was clearly relieved when the joust was over and the King emerged victorious. Elisabeth wondered afresh at her mother’s love for her father. Not all the humiliation he inflicted on her could stifle that quiet, tense emotion. The King was the kindest person Elisabeth had ever known, yet she could not understand her mother’s devotion; for although he was always courteous to his wife, he so clearly did not love her, and that was apparent in the very tone of his voice when he spoke to her. Perhaps he believed, as so many people did, that she had poisoned his elder brother, so that he might be King and she the Queen. Moreover, he loved Diane so much that nothing could prevent his showing it. Diane to him was his Queen. In spite of that, Catherine loved him.

Now the King was declaring that he wished to tilt again, and Catherine had half risen in her seat. She wanted, Elisabeth knew, to beg him not to. Too much exercise was bad for him. He had had an unpleasant attack of giddiness after a game of tennis only yesterday; and now he had jousted enough.

But the King was like a boy, as proudly he bore his mistress’s colors. He declared that he was as fresh as when he had started; he would break one more lance before he retired from the field.

A young Franco-Scot came forward at his command—Montgomerie, the Sieur de L’Orge.

Catherine seemed to have communicated some of her uneasiness to this young man, for he begged the King to excuse him; but the King insisted.

It was all over in a few minutes. Had Catherine risen to protest before it happened? Elisabeth did not know.

Montgomerie’s lance, striking the King on the gorget, had splintered, and one of the splinters had entered the King’s eye. Henri fell to the ground, his face covered with blood.

Elisabeth was vaguely aware that her mother had risen and that on her face was an expression of dreadful understanding.

Elisabeth pressed her hands against her madly beating heart. She feared the worst of all tragedies had overtaken her. And so she had her wish. The journey was delayed. She was heartbroken during those last weeks in France.

The King must lie in state; he must be buried with the utmost ceremony.

Philip was impatient to receive his bride. The new King Francois and his lovely wife, Mary Stuart, were completely under the control of Mary’s uncles, the Guises, which was a comforting thought for Philip; he had heard rumors that the character of the Dowager Queen Catherine was not quite what people had believed during her husband’s lifetime. It was as though she was awakening, said his spies, and that her previous meekness had disguised her sinister character. There were some who had nicknamed her “Madame le Serpent,” and the name seemed to fit. Philip realized that his young wife would be much under the influence of such a mother, and his demands that she should be sent to Spain became more and more insistent.

Catherine de Medici had many excuses ready. The trousseau of the Queen of Spain was not yet prepared, and she was sure the King of Spain would not wish his bride to arrive like a little commoner. There were innumerable negotiations; there was an enormous quantity of baggage which had to be transported over the Pyrenees; and the Dowager Queen thought it only right that Elisabeth should remain behind to attend the coronation of her young brother, Francois.

Philip was growing uneasy. He was a husband, yet no husband. The French were defying him; it seemed to him that the Flemings were defying him also.

At the assembly of the States-General in Ghent which he had recently attended, there had been many bold speeches. The Flemings resented the Spanish soldiers Philip had brought to their shores, and they said so. One man had said that it would now be the simplest matter to set up the Inquisition in the Netherlands, and as the Netherlands was a free country, it would have no hospitality to offer a foreign institution.

Philip had grown pale with anger at the mention of the Inquisition. “That is not merely a revolt against me,” he said. “That is a revolt against God.”

He did not trust Orange. He knew the Prince was negotiating a marriage with a daughter of one of the Protestant princes.

The Flemings were turning against him; he was on bad terms with his Uncle Ferdinand; and his young wife was held from him and was doubtless being instructed by that artful Italian woman how to act as a spy in his court.

Clearly something must be done. He would put down revolt in the Netherlands; he would return to Spain in order to discuss this with his ministers, and at the same time to receive his bride there.

The Prince of Orange himself was at Flushing to bid Philip farewell before he embarked. Philip looked coldly at the young man and said: “I am well aware that you are responsible for your countrymen’s opposition to my wishes.”

Orange replied: “The opposition to your wishes, Sire, can only reflect the feelings and the views of the people.”

Philip turned impatiently away, muttering: “No, Orange; you cannot deceive me. You are to blame … with your heresy. You … and you alone.”

Orange realized that Philip’s utterance was tantamount to a declaration of war, and he was exultant. He determined in that moment to rescue the Netherlands from the yoke of Spain and all the cruelties of the Inquisition.

From the surrounding country, people were crowding into Valladolid; far beyond its walls the sound of tolling bells could be heard. This was no ordinary fiesta. It was a saint’s day, one of the holidays of Holy Church; best clothes were worn, expressions of sobriety were worn like masks to hide excitement. Water-carriers, who sold cool drinks to thirsty travelers, did good business along the dusty road that day; all those who had stood aside to watch the royal procession enter the town were now eagerly pressing forward, anxious to secure a place well to the fore in the Plaza Mayor.

There was about to take place the greatest auto-da-fe any had ever witnessed. The King would be present; the Prince Don Carlos with his Aunt Juana would sit in the state gallery; and more men and women would be burned alive—and many of them members of the nobility and the court itself—than had ever been burned on one occasion.

Who could resist such a spectacle? All those who witnessed it would talk of it for the rest of their lives. It would be more diverting even than the torturing of bulls. No wonder people were crowding into the town; no