by Jean Plaidy
For a moment I looked steadily at Ruy Gomez da Silva. I could not face the truth. I had to see Philip.
I said, “The French are as great a menace under Henri as they were under François.”
He nodded. That was good enough. Philip would come.
I WAS AT GREENWICH. The news had come that evening. Philip had landed at Dover.
It was wonderful to see him again. I embraced him warmly, and he smiled at me affectionately. I was a little concerned, because he had aged considerably. Yet in a way that made me feel better, for I knew that my looks had not improved since his departure. There had been too many sleepless nights, too much bitterness.
As soon as I saw him, my heart softened toward him. I told myself romantically, foolishly, We shall start again.
I ordered that the bells of London should ring out and the Tower guns fire their salutes. And we rode together into the capital. There was a noticeable lack of rejoicing in the streets. I fancied I could smell the smoke from the Smithfield fires. There were a few faint cheers and a great deal of silence.
The citizens no longer loved me, and they distrusted my husband. Reginald would say he had been right. There should never have been a Spanish marriage.
I had prepared banquets and masques to welcome Philip but he displayed little interest in them. He had never had any great enjoyment in that kind of activity.
When we were alone together, he was subdued. He told me he had been concerned in affairs of the Continent, and the election of Paul IV had been a shock to him.
I said that a man such as he was, a firm upholder of the true faith, should be beloved by the Pope.
“This Pope is an ambitious man,” he said. “He should never have been elected.”
“I wish that Reginald had become the Holy Father,” I said.
He did not answer.
And so we retired. It was not quite as it had been before. I felt I was outside the scene, looking on at myself and my husband. There was no spontaneous love. Did I imagine it or was he as one performing an onerous duty? In the past it had been necessary in the hope of getting an heir. That reason was there no longer. He regarded it as an impossibility, though hope lingered with me. But now he must perform his duty for the sake of getting England to declare war on France.
It was not for such purposes that love was meant.
I half deluded myself. I suppose, when one has been so deprived of love as I have, one snatches at even a pretense of it.
The next day, when I was introduced to the ladies and gentlemen of his entourage, I received a shock.
A tall and beautiful woman was presented to me, and I was immediately struck by her radiant good looks.
“The Duchess of Lorraine…”
I felt sick. He had brought her with him! Oh, how dared he! How could he be so blatant?
She was kissing my hand, lifting her dark-fringed eyes to my face, studying me, no doubt seeing me as the plain, unwanted wife. I looked at her coldly, nodded and passed on to the next who was being presented to me.
I was wondering what he had said of me. People talked indiscreetly during intimate moments. I was angry, but most of all very sad.
SUSAN AND JANE DORMER understood. They were indignant.
“It is nothing,” I said to them. “Kings have mistresses. They are not serious entanglements.”
“Do they bring them in their trains?” demanded Susan.
“Often, I suppose. It just happens that we have heard her name mentioned. He does not know that.”
I turned over in my mind what I should do. Should I confront him with the fact that I knew who she was? Should I demand how he dared bring his mistress to my Court? Or should I feign ignorance?
But how should I receive the woman? I could not endure it. I would have her sent back. On the other hand, if I did, there would be more whispering, more titters. Pretend I did not know? I had been living a life of pretense for so long, shutting my eyes to the truth.
I could not bring myself to be civil to the woman. Yet I did not see how I could order her to go.
Sometimes I was on the verge of telling Philip that I would not have his mistress here, but I did not.
When we were together, when he showed affection for me, I was still able to deceive myself. It was because I so earnestly wanted there to be love between us.
He talked a good deal about the iniquity of the French. They must be defeated. They were the enemies of England as well as of Spain. I must see that the sooner England declared war on them the better.
This was why he had come. Not to be with me. I knew it and still I wavered. There were moments when I completely deluded myself. I wanted him with me. I wanted to please him.
He was getting exasperated because I was shelving the question. It was urgent, he said. The French were laughing at us. They were working against us as they always had.
I said I would speak to the Council.
The verdict was noncommittal. We were not in a position to go to war. The Exchequer was alarmingly low. The people were not in a mood to suffer taxation.
It seemed as though Philip had come in vain.
My attitude toward the Duchess of Lorraine was becoming very strained. I wondered whether people noticed. No one mentioned it to me. But at several banquets I cut her when she approached me, and I always insisted that she be seated as far from Philip as possible.
Susan came to me in distress one day. She had friends who were always ready to pass on news, and she thought it her duty to garner it and sometimes tell me.
She explained that she had heard that, at the French Court, they were laughing about the ménage à trois, and there was speculation as to how the Queen would deal with her beautiful rival.
“It is an impossible situation,” I said.
“I do not know what to do.” Susan was forthright. She had already expressed her disapproval of Philip's behavior with Magdalen Dacre, so she did not hesitate to do so now.
She said, “Your Majesty should send her away.”
I frowned. I said, “But she is in Philip's entourage. It would not be good manners for me to interfere with his private circle.”
“In the circumstances,” she said, “Your Majesty should remember that you are the Queen. He had no right to bring her here but you have every right to dismiss her.”
“How could I?”
“Simply by telling her that her presence is no longer required at your Court.”
“Philip would be angry.”
“Your Majesty is angry.”
I said, “I think you may be right.”
I pondered on it for a few days. I almost spoke to Philip, and then found I had not the courage to do so. I was afraid he would leave me. He was already becoming impatient about the delay in agreeing to make war on France.
Eventually I did it. I sent a message to ask her to leave, as her presence was no longer required at my Court.
She was a discreet lady. A few days after receiving the order, she left.
I WAS NOT SURE what would happen. There was a feeling in the Council against war. As for myself, I wavered. There were times when I wanted to please Philip beyond everything; there were others when I reminded myself that he had not come to see me but to persuade England to declare war on France.
He made no comment on the departure of the Duchess of Lorraine. I was glad of this, although I should like to have known what his true feelings were. I had come to the conclusion that I would never know much about this strange, cold man I had married.
He seemed to be obsessed by the need to bring us into the war with France.
I am not sure what would have happened but for the Stafford affair. Reports of the latter's activities were coming in from our people in France, and it was clear that what had seemed just another little plot was really dangerous, due to the increasing involvement of the King of France.
Stafford was becoming more vociferous. It was clear that the influence of the French King was making him very confident. It seeme
d as though Henri might be using Stafford as he had attempted to use others before; this put a new aspect on the matter.
Stafford was declaring that the Spanish marriage was a disaster and that the Spaniards were preparing to land in England, bring in the Inquisition and make England a vassal of Spain.
I knew how inflammatory such talk could be. He called himself “the Protector,” and he had supporters in England who were already urging the people to rise and fight the Spaniards who were dragging the country into war.
He landed in Yorkshire and took possession of Scarborough Castle. It was a foolhardy thing to do. His forces were pitiably small and lacked the means to fight against us. It was hardly a battle.
He was soon captured and brought to London, where he was tried and hanged and quartered at Tyburn.
That was the end of the Stafford rebellion, but it changed the minds of those waverers on the Council.
The French part in the affair was apparent, and we had to make it clear to them that we would not have them meddling in our affairs.
So Philip achieved his object through Stafford rather than through me. England was at war with France.
THOSE WERE HAPPY DAYS. Philip was in high spirits. Well, perhaps that is an exaggeration. Philip could never be in high spirits; but let me say he was pleased. He looked better, and he had the air of a man whose mission is accomplished.
I was expecting him to declare his intention to depart, and when he did not and seemed to be happy to be with me, my joy was boundless. I had come from the depth of despair to the heights of happiness.
He discussed military preparations with me; and the only time he left me was when campaign strategy had to be worked out with the generals, in which he said I should not be interested.
Ruy Gomez da Silva had left soon after Philip arrived. He had returned to Spain to raise the necessary army and funds for the proposed war.
I was as happy as I had been in the first days of my marriage. I was believing once more in the love of Philip. He wanted to be with me, I told myself. He was finding it difficult to tear himself away. When he had conquered the French, he would return to me, and we should live happily together.
As for the Duchess of Lorraine, she was just a memory to me—and, I hoped, to Philip. There was no question of philandering now. There would have been no time for him to indulge in such things. When he was not with his generals, he was with me.
I threw myself into the task of raising money to support the army.
It was wonderful to share a project. We talked of it incessantly. There was even time for a little hunting, and with Philip beside me that was a great joy. I found such pleasure in being in church with him. A fervent devotion to religion was something we shared. He was as eager to attend the service as I was, and to worship together brought us even closer, I was sure.
I knew that every day he asked if there was any message from Ruy Gomez. I tried not to think of it. He did not mention it, but I knew he was eagerly awaiting the return of his friend.
And then at last the news came. Ruy Gomez da Silva was in the Channel, and with him was the Spanish Fleet. They were ready to go into battle.
From the day Ruy Gomez was sighted, Philip was all eagerness to be gone; and only ten days later, he was ready to leave.
He was to join the Spanish Fleet at Dover. I was wretchedly unhappy and wanted to be with him as long as possible so, sick as I felt, I insisted on making the journey with him from London to Dover.
I cherished every moment of those four days we spent on the road. We halted three times and that last night at Canterbury was a bittersweet one for me.
I could scarcely bear to look at the ship which was going to take him away from me, but he could not hide his eagerness to be gone. It was his duty, I told myself. He had to defend his country. It was not that he wished to leave me.
He bade me a tender farewell, but even then I could not help being aware of his impatience to be gone.
Sadly I stood on the shore, watching until I could see the ship no longer.
I had a terrible presentiment that I should never see him again.
BEFORE PHILIP LEFT, he asked Reginald to look after me.
“I know your regard for each other,” he said. “It is rooted in the Queen's youth. You alone, Cardinal, can comfort her.”
The trouble had begun just before Philip left. The Pope, who had made himself Philip's enemy, declared he was deeply dissatisfied by the manner in which the return to Rome had been conducted in England. I had to admit he had some cause for complaint. I had thought it would be a simple matter and that, once the law was changed and the Pope acknowledged as Head of the Church, everything would be as it had been before the break.
There were certain facts which had escaped my attention. With the break and the introduction of Protestantism, many of the churches had been destroyed; the monasteries had been dissolved, and their lands sold or given away. The Exchequer was very low, and the war with France was depleting it further. It seemed to the energetic Pope that we were not really trying; and for this he blamed Reginald.
It was unfair. Reginald had never forgotten his duty to Rome. He had been placed in a very difficult position when the Pope and Philip had become enemies, for as a cardinal he owed his allegiance to Rome. We had brought England back to Rome, and now the Pope regarded us as his enemies, for friends of Philip were enemies of his. Moreover, Paul had allied himself with France—so we were at war with him.
Paul blamed Reginald, who was supposed to be my guide and counsellor, and he had allowed me to be persuaded to join the alliance with Spain against him.
The Pope was withdrawing all his legates from Philip's dominions, and that meant that Reginald himself was recalled. He was to be replaced by Cardinal William Peto.
To add to his tribulations, Reginald was accused of heresy. This was absurd but typical of the fiery Pope. He was good to his friends but could not hate his enemies enough, it seemed; and, having decided that Reginald was serving Philip and myself, he was determined to destroy him.
His next move was to command Reginald to appear before the Inquisition. True, he had been appointed Archbishop of Canterbury, but in the Pope's eyes he was guilty of heresy because he had not succeeded in bringing England back to Rome as he should.
I am sure Reginald was not afraid of facing the Inquisition; he would never fear bodily torment or even death; but he was bitterly wounded by the Pope's treatment of him, for he had always been a loyal son of the Church. It was the break with Rome which had made him an exile; his entire life had been changed because he had been faithful to his beliefs. My father had loved Reginald dearly before the disagreement between them; it would have been easy for Reginald to have denied Rome and kept my father's favor. What a different life he might have had if he had done so! But he had been true to his faith… and now, to be accused of heresy…it was more than he could bear.
He was seized with tertian fever and became very ill indeed. He had been ill for a long time but now he seemed to have lost something of himself. He became vague and suddenly, in the midst of a discussion, he would seem to lose his way and wonder what we were talking about. He would wander through the Court, unsure of where he was going. It was very sad to see him.
I felt I was losing one of my dearest friends—for already he seemed more dead than alive.
Life was so unhappy. I had to create dreams. And as we passed into the autumn I began to believe that I was pregnant.
I did not tell anyone at first. I could not forget the humiliating experience when everyone had been awaiting the birth of the child which had never been conceived.
I clung to the thought. I knew it. All the symptoms were present. I must be so this time. God would not desert me again.
When I told Susan, I saw the look of horror dawn on her face before she set her features into joyous lines.
“Your Majesty, can it really be so?”
“It is, Susan, I know it. Everything points to it.”
/> “Then…it is wonderful news. It will give Your Majesty new life.”
“What I have always wanted, more than anything, Susan, is my own child.”
“Yes, Your Majesty, I know.”
“As yet I shall tell no one.”
She could not hide her relief.
“No,” I said. “Not even Philip. I will wait awhile.”
“It is best,” said Susan.
“But I am sure,” I said firmly.
I had to be sure. It was the only thing which could draw me out of the morass of misery into which life had plunged me.
I HAD THOUGHT I had touched the very depth of misery, but there was more to come.
We were at war. The people said we were fighting Spain's war. We had not the means to finance a war. The Council had been against it. It was only when the Stafford affair had exposed the perfidy of the French that they had reluctantly agreed to declare war on them.
Now we were reaping the harvest.
One of the greatest blows I had been called upon to suffer had come upon me. The French had taken Calais. It was the final humiliation. That this should have happened in my reign! I was more deeply wounded than I could express. Calais had always meant something to the English. It was the gateway to France, and we had always seen the need to keep it well protected. It had been in our possession since it was taken by Edward III in 1347, and he had won it after a twelve-month siege. Always its importance had been recognized.
And now it was in the hands of the French; and all because we had become involved in a war which we did not want, which would bring us little good, and into which we had gone largely because I wished to please Philip.
It was no use telling me that our garrison had behaved with the utmost bravery—at the end only 800 of them holding out for a week against 3,000 troops of the Duke of Guise.
We had lost Calais, and in my heart I blamed myself.
Not even the thought of my pregnancy could lift my spirits.
THERE WAS SILENCE in the streets. They were burning people at Smithfield and all over the country. They are heretics, I said. It is God's will. He has set me on the throne for this purpose, and I am carrying out that purpose to the best of my ability.