“In the household of my steward, Luis Quixada. For some years I let him run wild, barefoot, playing with boys in the village and being taught scraps of learning by a priest. Luis’s wife continually bemoaned the fact that she had no children, so I said: ‘Take this boy and bring him up as though he is your own.’ Poor woman, she seized that offer with delight, and now he is to her as her own son.”
“And where are they now?”
The Emperor gave a half-embarrassed smile. “I must have my steward in my household; I must have him with me at the monastery—for which I shall leave when the ceremonies are over. And could I separate a husband from his wife? Nay, I could not. So Doña Magdalena Quixada will remove to a small village close to the monastery of Yuste that she may be near her husband.”
“You will see this boy, then?”
“Oh, I shall seclude myself. That is my wish. I shall not see many people.”
But of course he would see the boy. Philip realized that he doted on him.
“I will do as you wish,” said Philip.
“My blessing on you. It is a good thing for a man to have bred a son like you.”
Philip knew that the Emperor was pleased with his two sons—the legitimate one who would shoulder his responsibilities, and the illegitimate one whose charm and intelligence would lighten the days of his seclusion.
The ceremony which surprised the world took place on an October day in the great hall of the Palace of Brussels.
Here were assembled the vassals of the Emperor. Coats of arms decorated the walls; there were banners displaying the heraldic devices of all the countries and provinces under the Imperial sway.
The hall was crowded with members of the nobility—statesmen and heads of states, magnificent in their rich uniforms.
A dais, hung with rich arras and decorated with griffins, eagles, and unicorns in all the colors of the various provinces, had been set up at one end of the hall; and with a flourish of trumpets the Emperor came forward, leaning heavily on the arm of William of Orange. Behind these two came Philip with his cousin Maximilian and his aunt, Mary of Hungary, whom Charles had made Governess of the Netherlands.
The Emperor looked very ill. He could scarcely hobble to the dais, and William of Orange had to help him mount it and take his seat on the royal chair.
Philip took the chair on the Emperor’s right hand. He could not help resenting the intimacy which seemed to exist between his father and Orange. He had heard rumors of this clever young William of Orange, the Count of Nassau; he was reputed to be a secret supporter of the heretics. Was the Emperor in his dotage that he must favor a man because he was young and handsome?
Orange seemed a little arrogant as he caught Philip’s eyes upon him. Doubtless he bore in mind that he had all the Flemings behind him. But neither Orange nor Flanders must forget that they were vassals of Spain; and Orange was a fool to show arrogance to one who was about to step so publicly into his father’s shoes.
The church bells all over Brussels began to chime, and the President of the Council rose and announced to the gathering that their great Emperor Charles the Fifth had decided, because of his age and infirmity, to pass over to his son his possessions in the Netherlands.
There was a deep silence while the Emperor rose slowly to his feet. He explained to them that he was a tired old man. They would love his son even as they had loved him, for they would find Philip the best of rulers.
Charles was overcome with emotion; tears came to his eyes. They would be loyal to his son, he knew. They would show him that devotion, that friendship which they had always given to himself.
Philip, from the dais, looked down on these foreigners, these Flemings; he stood on one side of his father, and it seemed a pity that William of Nassau, the Prince of Orange, should be standing on the other. The people were accepting Philip now; but their eyes were turned—was it with hope?—toward William of Orange.
Philip felt the full weight of his responsibilities. He was King of Spain—Castile, Aragon, and Granada; he was King of Naples and Sicily; he was the Duke of Milan; he was Lord of the French Compté and of the Low Countries. He was the titular King of England. Unfortunately, the crude islanders had made this seem but an empty title so far. The Cape Verde Islands of Africa and the Canaries belonged to him. Tunis and Oran were his, as were the Philippines and the Spice Islands of Asia. He had possessions in the West Indies; Mexico and Peru were part of his Empire. He was the most important and powerful monarch in the world—a young man under thirty, morose by nature, although he had recently shown that he could enjoy isolated adventures in sensuality; he was conscientious, determined to do his duty, eager to serve God first, then his immense Imperial responsibilities. His great wish was to bring the whole world together under Spanish domination and to set up the Inquisition in every country. All this he would do, not for the glory of Philip, but for the glory of God.
In the meantime he wished to keep away from his wife for as long as possible. He could do this now with an easy conscience because he was certain that she could never bear a child.
So Charles made his slow journey to the monastery of Yuste, and Philip became titular ruler of half the world.
He had excuses to spare for not returning to Mary, since war had broken out. This was war against the Pope himself. Spain was devoutly Catholic, but Spaniards believed that the heart of Catholicism was in Spain, not in Rome; and Charles had, over the years, gradually taken many of the rights so dearly cherished by pontiffs of the past and kept them to himself. This meant that Charles had been using some of the Church revenue to serve his political ends. Spaniards had encroached on Italian territory, which disturbing fact many of the Popes had accepted with as good a grace as possible; but the present Pope was a fiery Neapolitan, and the French King had persuaded him to join France against Spain.
So, on his accession to power, Philip, who hated war, found himself in the midst of it.
Though it might be difficult to get English troops to fight the Pope, they would not be reluctant to attack the French, who were their perennial enemies; therefore, it was decided that the English must be persuaded to take up arms against the French; and who could better persuade the Queen to this than her beloved husband?
The unpleasant duty faced Philip again. He must return to England; he must once more endure the devotion of his wife, for Spain must have the help of England.
Mary could neither sleep nor eat. He was coming again. Many times during the last year he had promised to return, but he had not kept his promises. He had said he would be away for a month. It was August of the year 1555 when he had gone away; it was now March 1557. And he had said one month!
But no matter; the waiting was unimportant now since he was to come at last. She had aged during his absence. She had spent many nights in weeping. That did not improve a woman’s appearance. She had a return of her ailments and her skin was more sallow than ever; she was very thin, apart from her dropsical swellings.
Last autumn had brought much rain and the Thames had overflowed. Westminster Hall had been flooded, so that wherries had been able to pass through it. The resultant damp had brought epidemics with it. Mary herself had developed a fever at that time and there seemed to be nothing to cure it.
So lonely, so dreary her life had become. Gardiner had died, and on him she had relied more than on any, with the exception of Philip and Cardinal Pole.
Her sister Elizabeth, she believed, was plotting against her once more. She had entertained soothsayers at Woodstock and it was said that she had wished to be told how much longer the Queen would live. Some gentlemen of her household had plotted to put her on the throne, and they confessed on the rack to her complicity in their schemes. Why should Elizabeth be allowed to live? When she went into the streets the people applauded her more loudly than they had ever done. She was young and pleasing to look at. She did not suffer from complaints which made her a grotesque object of pity.
Philip had written urgently from Europe that she must be lenient with Elizabeth. He said he was convinced of her innocence. He pointed out that if Mary harmed the Princess the whole of England would be against her.
Why was he so concerned for Elizabeth? Sometimes Mary would be amazed at her own passion. She would stand before his picture and demand to know of that concern.
“Do you hope that I shall die and you may begin to woo another Queen of England?”
If he had been there to answer, he would have reminded her coldly: “I wish to preserve her that the throne of England may not go to Mary Queen of Scots.”
That might be true, but did it not mean that he had her death in mind?
“I have never really lived,” she murmured. “That’s the pity of it.”
But now he was coming to her again. As she stitched at the tapestry which her mother had started and which when finished would hang in the state apartments of the Tower, she thought that waiting for him was like waiting for the child. The child had not come. Would he?
Then her hopes would rise again. Was she so old that she could not have a child? She did not believe she was.
And at length on a sparkling March day when the sun was shining on the river and the marsh marigolds made a golden pattern on the banks, Philip came.
He took horse at Gravesend, and she was almost fainting with joy when he arrived at Greenwich. She could not tolerate ceremony at such a time. Surely now and then in the lifetime of a Queen she could dispense with it?
“Philip!” she cried, as she threw herself at him. He was smiling as all would expect a husband to smile who was returning to his wife after so long an absence.
He returned her embrace. She noticed that in appearance he had changed little; she was sadly aware that she was a little more lined, a little less attractive than when he went away. But she would not face the truth. Her loved one was back, and she must believe that he had come back for love of her, and not to win her assistance in his war with France.
How she schemed to keep him at her side! As for Philip, he had returned to the old relationship and he was once more sacrificing himself on the altar of Spain’s needs. He schooled himself to be the pleasant and charming husband, and that in itself seemed a folly because the better he played the part, the more enamoured she became.
From Mary came occasional outbursts of jealousy, and these often concerned the Princess Elizabeth. Philip was once more urging the marriage of the Princess with Emmanuel Philibert of Savoy.
Mary turned to him crying in a passion of jealousy: “Why should you wish for this marriage? Do not answer me with soft words. Do you not think I know? You would have her the wife of a vassal that she may be near you. Is that the answer? Tell me. I demand to know.”
“I think,” said Philip, “that you have lost your senses.”
She laughed shrilly and hysterically. He thought how ugly she was at such times, even uglier than in those pitiable moods when she would cajole him to indulge her passion.
“She would be near you, would she not? She would be in Flanders, and you would find it necessary to visit her household often. Do you think I do not know why you continually press for this marriage?”
“It would seem that you need to be alone for a while, to calm yourself, to bring yourself back to reason.”
“You suggest that so that you may escape from me.”
“Why should I wish to escape?”
“You ask me that: Do you not always wish to escape? Are you not thinking all the time, ‘How can I get away from this old woman who, by great bad fortune, is my wife?’ Why were you so long in coming to see me? Were you really so involved in matters of state? Do you think I am blind?”
She fell into a passion of weeping, and once again his pity chained him to her side. “Mary,” he lied, “it is not true. You distress yourself without reason.”
So sad she was and eager to be reassured. “Is it truly so, Philip, my dearest, my beloved?”
He forced himself to kiss her.
“I am so jealous, Philip; and jealousy such as mine is worse than death.”
These scenes became more frequent, and after four months of such strain he could bear no more. He must escape. He had succeeded in making her declare war on France, so there was no longer need for him to remain.
She was again obsessed with the idea that she was to have a child. No one but herself believed this possible; but she clung to hope.
All over England men and women were perishing in the flames. Cranmer, Ridley, Latimer, and Hooper, with other such great men, suffered the dreadful death. Mary was conscious of her people’s dislike, even as she was of Philip’s. She must therefore cling to the hope of a child, even if that hope was delusive.
In her litter she accompanied Philip once more to Gravesend. Again she suffered that poignant parting; she stood watching him until she could see him no more; then she returned, sorrowing, to her loneliness.
Philip was to receive one of the greatest of all military defeats at St. Quentin, although the great Montmorency and Coligny fell prisoners to his soldiers and the road to Paris was open.
Never had the Emperor had such an opportunity of subduing the French for ever. Never did a soldier fail at the peak of success as Philip failed then. And yet, being Philip, what else could he have done?
St. Quentin would haunt him for the rest of his life, not because that great victory was turned to defeat through his personal indecision, but because Philip would never forget the sights which greeted him when he made his triumphant entry into the captured city.
Philip hated war. He was no soldier and he knew it. The prospect of war never failed to fill him with dread. He had given orders, when the besieged city was surrounded, that there were to be no reprisals. But he did not understand the nature of the men serving under his banners. The English and the Spanish in his armies had worked themselves into a fury against each other; the German mercenaries looked upon the spoils of a defeated town as the natural rewards of conquest.
Philip’s orders were ignored, and when he saw the terrible carnage in St. Quentin—murdered citizens lying about the streets horribly mutilated, burning houses, the nauseating treatment which had been meted out, not only to women and children, but to monks and nuns—he was horrified. To him it seemed a disaster as shameful as the Sack of Rome.
He came to the Church of St. Laurence; he saw the blood of human beings befouling the altar, the burning pews, the slaughtered bodies of monks on the floor of the church, and in horror he swore that he would never forget this foul crime as long as he lived, nor that it had been done in his name. He fell to his knees and vowed that he would dedicate his life to building a monastery in Spain to the glory of St. Laurence.
