In High Places

by Bonny G Smith

  Philip rose, went to the sideboard, filled his goblet and brought the flagon to refill de Feria’s as well. Finally he said, “I will think on it, Good Figueroa. As you say, it may be for the best. In what manner did Her Grace treat the other foreign envoys?”

  De Feria grunted, and took a sip of his wine. “As if they were long lost friends! At least in my presence. And my sources at court tell me that Her Grace meets with some of them regularly, and is most affable to them.”

  The king was restless; as soon as he had seated himself and set his goblet down, he arose and put another log on the fire, which crackled and hissed as it was embraced by the flames.

  “And she asked for no advice? She asked for no assistance of any sort?”

  “No, Your Grace,” replied de Feria. “Far from it.”

  That was disappointing; he had counted on Elizabeth depending upon him as the good brother-in-law he had promised to be once she became queen. In the struggle between the eternal triangle of Spain, France and England to balance power amongst themselves, it was he who had had to sacrifice himself to marriage with Mary of England. And what a purgatory that had been!

  “Everything,” said de Feria, “depends upon whom this woman chooses to be her husband. All expect the queen to marry, and soon. I know her Council desires this most earnestly, and not only to assure the succession!” He had heard accounts of the queen’s high-handed treatment of her Councilors.

  “Yes,” agreed Philip. “I fear me that you are right. But what of Her Grace’s vow never to marry?”

  De Feria grimaced. “If I may be permitted to say so, Your Grace, such behavior is nothing more than the histrionics of a coy virgin, I am certain of it. Everyone expects that the queen will marry none but yourself. The Protestants fear such a match, and the Catholics pray for it. Besides, no woman, unless she takes the veil, should remain unmarried. In such a state, the female becomes frustrated for a man, is given to fantasies, and becomes unstable of mind. I believe that Her Grace has already demonstrated this tendency once before…that we know of.”

  It was true, reflected Philip. Ten years earlier, Elizabeth had indulged in an affair with her stepmother’s husband that had cost him his head and had almost cost hers. “You may be right,” he said. He stared into the fire, contemplating what yet another match with dreary England would mean to him. And to such a harridan as Elizabeth had proven herself to be!

  As if de Feria had read the king’s very thoughts, he said, “Still, I must say that Her Grace is incomparably more feared than Queen Mary ever was. All quake at her temper, and she is instantly obeyed. Your Grace is the only suitable match for her. And rumors are already rife on the Continent that you will marry.”

  “Indeed?” said Philip.

  De Feria shifted in his chair. “Well, there is talk of a domestic match, but such would be most unsuitable. Marriage to a subject! It would be unthinkable, and should cause nothing but faction and strife. No, it must be a foreign match for the Tudor, and none but yourself is suitable.”

  Philip steepled his fingers and tapped his chin with them. “A dispensation would be required.”

  “Easily obtained, Your Grace, I am certain of it.” Pope Paul IV and King Philip of Spain had not always been in accord, but surely His Holiness must do what was best for the Catholic faith in Europe, which was beset on all sides by the Protestant threat. Warming to his subject, de Feria continued on. “And consider, Your Grace, that with Her Grace’s accession, England is now in the hands of heretics and traitors. The Catholics are dissatisfied, but dare not say so. Those who have done so have been threatened, both overtly and obliquely. Her Grace is clearly bent on a path by which she shall undermine the Catholic faith in England. If left to her own devices, soon everything sacred shall be profaned, Catholics will be ill-treated, and priests run out of the realm. Only marriage to the most powerful monarch in Christendom can save England. In fact, the bishops are very much afraid of what her Grace will do to them.”

  Philip sighed. “A situation that must be remedied. But I could not possibly marry the queen or remain England’s ally if Her Grace establishes the Protestant faith in England. I am the leader of the Counter-Reformation in Europe; I have vowed to stamp out all heresy.”

  He thought back to the first time he had ever seen Elizabeth. It had been in just such a room as this one; small, comfortable, intimate, fire-lit with a mellow glow. He had been pressing Mary to arrange for him to meet her notorious sister, and finally, Mary relented and called Elizabeth to court from her exile in the country. When he walked into the room, Elizabeth had been sitting on the floor, her long red hair glinting in the firelight, her golden eyes enhanced by the glow of the flames. For just an instant, he had been struck speechless at the sight of her. He had at that moment conceived a very great passion for his entrancing, enigmatic, charming sister-in-law. Over time his infatuation had faded, but he had never quite gotten over that first flush of fascination. At first he had believed it to be simply a lust of the eye, but he had found that it was not so. The girl was fire and ice all at the same time; she made a visceral appeal to his staid Spanish reserve. Most intriguing. And now, finally to be his! But at what a price! He had vowed never to return to England once he was free of Mary and he had meant what he said.

  Philip sighed again. “There would be conditions,” he said. He was prepared to overlook Elizabeth’s heretical tendencies in the interest of both diplomacy and the Catholic Church. And he still needed to play England off against the French. And no matter how one looked at it, both he and Elizabeth had a stake in keeping Mary of Scotland off the throne of England.

  “Of course,” agreed de Feria.

  Philip sipped his wine. “Her Grace must agree to the following, if I am to martyr myself once again on the altar of England for the sake of the Catholic faith. First, Her Grace must become a truly devout Catholic…no lip service! She must maintain and uphold the Catholic faith in England. She must own, publicly, that by my agreement to marry her, I have saved herself and England from eternal damnation. And she must apologize to the pope and ask for absolution.”

  “At the very least,” agreed de Feria. He wondered what unfortunate being would be called upon to face Her Grace of England with such proposals and conditions. Thanks be to God, it would not be himself!

  Philip set aside his wine cup and buried his face in his hands. He must stop England’s downward slide back into heresy. It was his duty as The Most Catholic King, the title that had been bestowed upon his great-grandparents, Isabella and Ferdinand, and which he now held by right of inheritance. He could not, he knew, accomplish this aim with force; Spain’s treasury was almost as bare as England’s. Nor was papal anathema the best course of action, a tactic being pursued by King Henri of France. Spain had no candidate to present as an alternative, as Henri had in Mary of Scotland. And he had his trade between England and the Low Countries to consider as well. Another marriage with England would unite that country with Spain and the Netherlands. No, for him, there was no other way…it must be accomplished by diplomacy, and that, unfortunately, meant marriage. If he did not marry once again into that dreary country, they would lose a kingdom, body and soul.

  “I am confident,” said de Feria, who had drained his wine cup and was feeling very mellow, “that Her Grace of England shall not be unmindful of the great honor Your Majesty does her in seeking her hand in marriage.”

  Philip once again buried his face in his hands. Despite his lust for her, proposing marriage to Elizabeth Tudor went against his inclinations with every fiber of his being. No good had ever came of lust; but God knew he was only agreeing to pursue this unhappy course for the good of the Catholic Church, and to serve God. He felt like a condemned man awaiting his fate.

  De Feria arose and refilled their wine cups. He had one more issue that he must put before His Grace before he could retire to his well-deserved bed, and they would both need wine to fortify them for the hearing of it.

  “There is something else,
” he said.

  Philip took a long pull from his wine cup and said nothing.

  “Of late, Lord Robert Dudley has come into much prominence at the English court.” De Feria eyed Philip over the rim of his goblet.

  “Indeed?” yawned Philip. “In what way?” He knew Lord Robert well; they had fought the French together when Robert and his brothers had been freed from the Tower and pardoned the treason for which their father had lost his head. The Dudleys had raised troops at their own expense and sought to rehabilitate their reputations by fighting for Spain and England. They had acquitted themselves well; Henry Dudley had died in battle.

  “It seems,” said de Feria, “that when they were children, Her Grace and Lord Robert were much thrown together, and became great friends. So great that now Her Grace fondles him like a lover before the entire court. And Her Grace allows him great influence on affairs.”

  “Ah, well,” said Philip. “It may mean nothing.” He smiled, and ran a weary hand through his thinning yellow hair. “As you say, Her Grace has recently had a barony bestowed upon her, and for now, with no restraining hand. Let her enjoy her liberty whilst she may. Let us wait to see which way the cat jumps. In the meanwhile, we must be practical. There are a great many jewels belonging to Spain that must be recovered and returned to me now that Queen Mary is dead. Most important among them is my wedding gift to Her Grace, La Peregrina, that priceless pearl. Should Elizabeth become my wife, I shall graciously return it to her. But for now, that jewel, and many others, must be retrieved. And there is the marriage proposal to be rendered to Her Grace, of course. I trust none other as I trust you, Good Figueroa. Go back and see to all, if you please?”

  De Feria, who had been lulled by the heat of the fire and the heady wine, had almost nodded off when Philip’s last words snapped him to attention. Go back? Had he heard a-right? He groaned inwardly.

  There was nothing for it. “Certainly, Your Grace, as you command.”

  Both seemed to have forgotten, for the moment, that England had rebelled the last time it became known that its queen was to marry a foreigner.

  Paris, January 1559

  The royal hunting party crested the hill and just as they did so the sun emerged from behind a cloud; below them, as if cupped in God’s loving hand, lay the entire city of Paris, gleaming luminously yellow in the morning light. The group was composed of King Henri; his wife, Queen Catherine de’ Medici; the royal mistress, Diane de Poitiers; the Guise brothers, cardinal and duke; their niece, Mary Stuart, the Queen of Scotland; and her husband François, the Dauphin of France and Henri’s heir. It was not that this was a group of people who enjoyed each other’s company; far from it! But where Henri went, mistress or no, the queen was sure to go. The Guises feared the king’s influence on their niece and so where she went, so went they. And wherever Mary went, the Dauphin had to go by their mutual consent, for they were that most rare of royal couples; they were in love.

  At sixteen, the Queen of Scotland had attained her full height; the Guise family were all tall, and Mary was no exception. Even now she was able to meet the eyes of her uncles, Charles, the Cardinal of Lorraine, and François, the Duc de Guise, at their own level. She was beautiful and charming, and was frequently assured by all around her that this was so. She never doubted it, and took such praise as only her due. She had been the Queen of Scotland since she was a newborn babe; indeed, she could remember no other state than that of being a queen, and being treated like one. However, she did not reign; since her birth her native land had been ruled on her behalf by regents. At the present time, that role was being fulfilled by her mother, the Queen Dowager, Marie de Guise, sister to the two uncles who had her in their charge at the French court.

  Most of the party were mounted, but Queen Catherine, who was no horsewoman like the accomplished Diane, trundled behind the riders in a litter. Beside her, wrapped warmly in furs and quilts against the frosty January air, was her precious son, the child for whom she had waited ten agonizing years. For it was unthinkable that the queen should be barren. Where would that leave France? And then, after ten years of marriage had come her little François. And nine more followed him! Not all of her children had survived infancy, but still, she now had a goodly brood. And of all of them, her firstborn was the most loved, the most precious to her.

  But little François (she would always think of him as the baby who had vindicated her) was not robust, and this was a constant worry. Especially since he was married to a girl who was two years older, so tall that she towered above all of them, including her husband, and who was athletic and fearless into the bargain. Thank heaven that François listened to his wife; she forbade him to try to keep up with her, and took very tender care of him, almost as if he were a younger brother instead of a husband. Their marriage had been consummated, she had witnessed it herself, but sometimes she wondered…there had been no sign of a child as yet.

  Behind the litter the hawksmen struggled up the hill on foot leading the special wagon containing the perches on which the royal birds, hooded and jessed, lurched back and forth uneasily. There were three gyrfalcons for Henri, two falcons belonging to the duke, the sparrow-hawk of the cardinal, and two merlins for Mary and Diane. The royal hounds followed, and would be used to retrieve the kills. The royal party waited as the hawksmen prepared the birds.

  Apropos of nothing, King Henri turned in his saddle and said to Mary, “It is not a question of whether Your Grace ought to be Queen of England. The fact is, you are Queen of England. Elizabeth is both bastard and heretic, a usurper who is unfit to rule. You must begin bearing the arms of England right away, if you are to assert your rightful claim to the throne of England.”

  Mary considered this statement. It seemed as if she had always been threatened by the English in one way or another. To her, England was the enemy. It had been so feared by her family that her great uncle, the King of England, now dead these many years, would attempt to abduct her and take her away to the English court, that she had been moved regularly from castle to castle. But no castle, not even formidable Stirling, had proved safe enough, and finally, in desperation, she had been hidden on a tiny island in a loch, with the monks at Inchmahome Priory. When the danger reached fever pitch, Marie de Guise had made the agonizing decision to allow her daughter to be spirited away from her island kingdom and sent to the security and protection of the French court.

  But the feelings of danger and anxiety experienced by her mother and the Scottish court on her behalf had seemed like no more than a romantic adventure to the little girl. She had faced each move with courage and with a scintillating sense of audacity that her mother could only wonder at and be thankful for when it was all happening; at least the child had not been fearful. Ten long years had passed since then, during which Mary had seen her mother only once. She missed her mother terribly, and for their painful separation she blamed England.

  But Mary had come to love France and the French court, where she was pampered and spoiled and made much of. Her husband was the heir to the throne of France, the King of France was her father-in-law, and she was destined someday in the far future to become Queen of France herself, when François finally became king. She hoped that day would be long in coming; she loved her father-in-law and had no wish to take on the burden of rule. For if her uncles were right, the burden would be hers; François was two years her junior and if he was not in overtly poor health, he certainly was not robust. Her Guise uncles assured her that they would stand behind her and François when the day came that they must rule, so even so, it would be all right.

  And now, if her powerful Guise uncles and the king himself were to be believed, with the death of her cousin Mary in England, the crown of that land should be…no, was… hers, but her bastard cousin Elizabeth had usurped the throne and now held sway there. This should not be, for many reasons, not the least of which was that if she, Mary, were queen of the entire island, the two countries of Scotland and England should be united and brought under the
auspices of the more rich and powerful French.

  “All right, then,” she said. “I agree.”

  The king, the cardinal and the duke exchanged significant glances; the Queen of Scotland would be required to do as she was bid, but it was far more preferable for her to believe that the decision to begin quartering the royal arms of England with her own of Scotland and France was her own. This must be done immediately, before the usurper Elizabeth could be crowned. Already King Henri had sent petitions to the pope asking for Elizabeth to be declared bastard and heretic by the Catholic Church. Once anathema was visited upon her, no Catholic country would recognize her coronation. If only things did not move so slowly in Rome!

  “But will not my cousin be angry at such an insult?” asked Mary. “Will she not send soldiers to tear down my banners, if I claim the sovereignty that she has already taken for her own?” She was not worried; France was rich and powerful. But still…

  King Henri placed a soothing hand on his daughter-in-law’s arm. “Have no fear,” he said. “At the present time England is a poorer country even than Scotland, torn by religious strife and with an empty treasury. Elizabeth could not fight even if she wanted to, indeed, even as we speak, she sues for peace at Cateau-Cambresis, along with her ally, Spain.” He laughed, and his breath came out in clouds of steam on the frosty air. “Just last week the English delegation once again demanded as the price of their agreement to a treaty that I return Calais to the Queen of England. I asked how that would profit the usurper Elizabeth, since my daughter-in-law, Mary of Scotland, is the rightful Queen of England. That tweaked their noses well and good!”