The Queen's Bastard

by Robin Maxwell

  Nineteen

  The King of Spain, sitting quite alone at the long council table, studied the document before him with astonishment and a fulminating rage. The margins of the Netherlands field report from the Duke of Alva had been blackened by copious notations in Philip’s scratchy hand. It was his habit — some considered it an obsession, which he admitted gave him almost a physical pleasure — to take each paragraph, each sentence, of the hundreds of documents forwarded to him each week from every corner of his vast realm and government, and comment or question it in the minutest of detail. Equally, he enjoyed writing letters of enormous length, seething with complex instructions and opinion, to his ministers and generals and family.

  But the contents of this communique were so disturbing, so infuriating, that the King found it difficult to go on reading, indeed to take a complete breath. Prince William of Orange had taken up arms against him in the Low Countries. The childhood friend, the young man upon whom his father, the Holy Roman Emperor Charles, had literally leaned during his abdication ceremony, had now dared to defy the King of Spain. Philip, a man ever comforted by his self-imposed tyranny of manners and morals, knew certainly that men betrayed other men. He had not been unaware, even in youth, of William’s dangerous strengths — ones that threatened Philip’s own weaknesses. But that the Prince of Orange chose to defy him in the realm of faith was almost too much to bear.

  Philip, with one exception only, was devoted exclusively to the preservation of the True Religion. He was, of course, king of Spain and the Italian provinces and ruler of the Low Countries, overseeing their government with an exactitude that defied imagination. But even before these duties, he believed in his soul’s core, he must obey God who had entrusted him and him alone with preserving his people in the True Faith, and use any means to accomplish it. He would, he had recently announced to his council, prefer to reign not at all than to reign over heretics.

  And now William of Orange, prince of the Netherlands territory owned by Spain, gathering about him the despicable hordes of Satan-inspired serpents called Calvinists, had challenged him to war for the right of choosing one’s own faith. William professed to believe that religion lived in the heart, and that every man must worship as his heart prompted. He had demanded that Philip’s Inquisition in the Low Countries be halted, and that heretics no longer be persecuted — burnt in the cleansing fires of the Auto da Fé. Ridiculous! thought Philip indignantly. William himself was a Catholic. Had he forgotten the exhortation of Saint John? “If a man abide not in me, he is cast forth as a branch and withered; and men gather them and cast them into the fire and they are burnt.”

  And now the seventeen provinces of the Netherlands, always annoyingly independent, were demanding to rule themselves. Certainly they were rich, with their magnificent cities of Antwerp and Brussels, their booming textile industry and lively sea trade. But they were his, Philip’s, inherited under God’s law. William knew it. The other high lords who rebelled at his side knew it. Perhaps the King should heed the “Iron Duke” of Alva’s suggestion, an exacting but well-deserved punishment for the aristocratic rebels — to chop off their heads. End this idiocy, this criminal waste of the precious gold being shipped into Spain from the New World. His best soldiers were being sent to quell an uprising in his own lands!

  Philip’s large pendulous lower lip quivered with feeling as he regarded Alva’s report — the Low Country Calvinists invading his churches and monasteries, smashing and defiling sacred pictures, statues, and altars. Some of the Netherlands nobles had banded together, donned outrageous costumes of grey frieze with wallets and begging bowls, armed twenty-four vessels, and transformed themselves into pirates who had already done serious damage to Philip’s revenues from commerce. The Sea Beggars were the terror of the oceans, and the King had no good way to stop them. And Elizabeth of England had given safe haven in her ports to these criminals, encouraging them further.

  At least William, thought the King, claimed no identity with these hideous creatures. But he and his ragtag land armies had appealed to the hearts and minds of Low Country people of all classes, and become their rebel hero. Ambition and ambition alone, mused Philip, guided the betrayer William of Orange, for the man could never in his heart believe that his pitiful cause was a just one.

  Philip sighed morosely, feeling the weight of the entire Catholic world lying heavy upon his frail shoulders. Huguenots challenged the True Religion in France, and now threatened to aid the Low Country Protestants in their fight. Europe’s most Catholic queen, Mary of Scots, had been the heretic Elizabeth’s prisoner now for several years. Had everyone gone mad?

  A light tapping at the door, almost inaudible, caused Philip to smile. It was at best a faint upward curving of his lips, but he instantly laid down his quill and unconsciously began straightening his vest, sitting more erect. He wished, as he always did at these moments, that he were handsomer and taller, and did not own the Hapsburg deformity — a lower jaw and bulbous lip that jutted considerably beyond the upper. Still, Isabella seemed to look upon him with favor … with love. And aside from love of God and the True Faith, there was no one to whom he was, or had ever been, more devoted. He had never dreamed, when in order to cement the peace accord of Cateau-Cambrésis he had married the princess of his ancient enemy, France, that the sweet-natured child would bring him so much pleasure. His two previous dynastic marriages had been as hollow and chilly as a tomb, his wives’ untimely deaths inspiring in him the merest trace of grief.

  “Enter, my dear,” he called.

  The doors to Philip’s council chamber were swung open to admit his young wife. In a fluster of tears, rustling skirts, and wringing hands she sought the immediate comfort of his arms and began to sob.

  “Isabella, tell me, what has happened?”

  It took her several moments to compose herself. She wiped the tears from her flushed cheeks and looked up into Philip’s watery blue eyes. As slight a man as he was, Isabella was even more petite than he, making him feel more manly and protective than ever before.

  “Don Carlos …” she began, but could go no further, for the tears again overwhelmed her.

  Philip felt his own body shrink with the mention of his eldest son’s name. What atrocity had he this time committed? What heinous and un-thinkable acts would be added to the ever growing litany of indecent violations? The only offspring of his marriage to Maria of Portugal, Carlos had, fittingly, begun his life by taking his own mother’s — a bloody death in childbed. He had grown into a huge-headed, unnaturally short young man with one shoulder higher than the other. The King, himself blessed with little physical beauty, would nevertheless have found something in his son to love and cherish had Don Carlos shown an iota of virtue. But his mind, it became apparent, was as deformed as his body.

  When he was eighteen he had fallen down a flight of stone stairs while chasing a woman he meant to abuse, and cracked open his head. His brain had swollen and the surgeon had had to open the skull to relieve the pressure. Philip had gone to great trouble to save his son’s life, having the corpse of a saintly monk disinterred to lie in bed with Don Carlos during his recuperation. The boy had lived, but from that day forward his insanity and perversion had blossomed like the branches of a putrescent flowering tree. Was this, wondered Philip for perhaps the thousandth time, a legacy from his own blood? The terrible familial strain of melancholia had held his grandmother Joanna in its grip for nearly forty years before she had gone to meet God. Philip prayed that he had himself been spared, and that in his old age the madness would not, like some firebreathing horse from hell, overtake him.

  Now, however, he was forced to confront again the truth that Don Carlos had become a monster with a murderous heart. He had killed and tortured and raped citizens, royal councillors, highborn ladies, scullery maids, and animals. He delighted in the cruelest of acts and regularly flew into wild, uncontrollable rages, terrorizing the Court. The heir to the throne of Spain was entirely unfitted for inheriting it.
Philip could not fathom the injustice of it all. Why had heaven bestowed upon him such an abomination for a son? He had prayed daily for more than twenty years, begged for guidance, peace of mind, and forgiveness — anything with which to understand so vengeful a punishment from the God he so devoutly served.

  “What has he done, Isabella? You must calm yourself and tell me. Tell me now,” Philip commanded his wife.

  She refused to meet his eye, instead gazing out the window to the courtyard below. “I was in my little chapel praying, and he came in and knelt beside me. I thought that we might pray together, ask forgiveness for our many sins. I had lit some candles when he suddenly fell at my feet and swore he loved me … as a woman.”

  Philip’s face twisted with revulsion. He knew there was more to Isabella’s story and that it would be far worse than these first words had conveyed. He wished to hear no more, but she continued.

  “He said things, Philip, terrible things that he might do to me, to my naked body —”

  “Stop, Isabella. Tell me no more.”

  “I cannot stop, for you must know. Your son stood then and grabbed me, touched me. I tried to scream but he pushed me down on the altar and covered my mouth with his own stinking …”

  “Enough! Go to your rooms, my dear. I will have the guards escort you. You will be safe from Don Carlos from this day forward.”

  Isabella did not move from her place, as though she were paralyzed, or perhaps did not believe her husband’s promise.

  “Did he rape you?”

  “No, but I am nevertheless befouled, defiled by him,” she said. “How could he … in God’s house?”

  ”Look at me, Isabella.” She forced herself finally to meet his eye. “Have your ladies draw you a bath. I shall have Father Miguel bring a sprinkling of holy water to anoint you.”

  “Yes,” she said, relief flooding back into her shaken soul with her husband’s wise suggestion. “I shall bathe.”

  “And I will see to Don Carlos,” said Philip.

  The King bent to kiss his wife’s mouth, but she turned her face away in shame and moved to the double doors. When they swung open, Philip motioned almost imperceptibly and the two guards at their post fell in beside the Queen, escorting her away. Two more guards instantly replaced them.

  The King, so small and insignificant in the doorway of the large and splendid chamber, stood for a long moment, very still, breathing in short shallow gasps. Then he ordered one of the guards to fetch his captain. Presently that officer appeared and followed the King into the council chamber. He remained silent, eyes downcast, awaiting his orders.

  “Captain, it is my will …” Philip found himself moving his lips, forming the terrible words he had wished fervently never to say. “It is my will that my son be held under lock and key in his rooms.”

  The captain of the guard saluted and, never meeting his sovereign’s eyes, marched, sword clanking, out the doors. Philip moved dreamlike to the council table and stared down at the field report that had, an hour before, shattered his peace of mind. But the import of William’s pathetic revolt in the Netherlands receded like a light horseman galloping swiftly from sight, as the dead weight of the order he had just given crashed down around his head.

  His world would never hereafter be the same. His son, heir to the throne, would never reign. And God’s will, despite the pain and displeasure of the King of Spain, would be done.

  Twenty

  Robin Dudley was stretched out naked, gazing down at the woman asleep beside him. She was surely the most heavenly creature he’d ever lain with. He carefully pulled away the fine lawn sheet that covered her, and the glow of the late afternoon sun turned her limbs and torso into polished ivory. Everything about Douglas Sheffield, mused Dudley as he stared at her body, was ripe and rounded — from the perfect spheres of her rosynippled breasts to the small plump buttocks, the luxuriant sweep of firm soft skin over her tiny waist, her full and shapely calves. The exquisite face was also a study in curves, the lush-lipped mouth now slightly parted… . He felt a quickening between his own legs, a not unwelcome hardening as he continued gazing at her. The graceful slope of the nose, dimpled cheeks flushed with satisfaction. There was not a hard angle anywhere on her. Not a sharp bone pushing out against straining flesh …

  Elizabeth! he thought with sudden pang. I am comparing her with Elizabeth.

  He was saved, however, from the wave of guilt threatening to swamp his rising passion as Douglas Sheffield opened her eyes, large and languid, the color of dark honey.

  “Mmmmm,” was all she could manage at first. She gazed up into Robin Dudley’s face lazily. “How lovely … I fell asleep.” She reached out, ran her hand over the hard muscles of his chest and down his belly, still taut and rippling. She gazed unabashedly at his sex and smiled.

  “I see I still please you after all these months, my lord,” she said.

  “How could you not please me, Douglas? You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever known.”

  “More beautiful than the Queen?” she asked with what he perceived as a coquettish pout. But did not coquettes, though Dudley with irritation, have more sense than to demand an answer to such a dangerous question? Still, he did not wish to offend his mistress, featherheaded though she might be. What he wished more than anything at this moment was to plunge deep into her softness once again, feel the rich flesh alive under his touch. He cupped a hand over her breast, then followed the curves of her torso down over her belly as she had done to him.

  “Tell me I’m more beautiful than the Queen, Robert.”

  He knew he should not betray Elizabeth in such a way, but he had fallen under the spell of this woman whose spirit was as yielding as her body, who was sweet seduction personified. Who accepted him fully and wanted him desperately. Also, she was married and therefore a safe liaison. For a man who had endured the Queen’s refusals and embarrassing rejections for so long, a woman like Douglas Sheffield was irresistible.

  He leaned down and circled one rosy nipple with his tongue, then whispered, “You are the most beautiful woman I have ever known … bar none.”

  “Lady Sheffield!” The knocking on the bedroom door was frantic and insistent. “Lady Sheffield!” It was her maid’s voice and now Douglas sat up in bed, alarmed.

  “What is it, Millie?” she called.

  “Lord Sheffield, milady. He’s coming down the road.” There was a pause. “He’s through the gate. You must get up!”

  Robin began throwing on his clothes.

  “I don’t understand. He’s not due back for days yet,” exclaimed Douglas. “Millie, come in!”

  The maid threw open the door and bustled in, ignoring the half-clad Dudley struggling with the buttons on his breeches.

  “You should have some time, madame,” said the maid as she threw Douglas’s underkirtle over her lady’s head and reached for the stiff corset. “He generally fiddles about downstairs awhile before coming to your rooms. Sir …” She turned to Robin. “Down the hall toward the back of the house are the servants’ stairs. You can get to the stables without crossing the courtyard.”

  Dudley frowned. It was unseemly and ridiculous to be forced to escape from his lover’s bed like some character out of a bawdy tale. But he had, it seemed, no choice. With jacket in one hand, boots in the other, he turned to Douglas.

  “I’ll write.”

  But as he spoke the door flew open and slammed back against the wall, sending a looking glass crashing to the floor. Everyone froze at the sight of Lord Sheffield, livid-faced and panting, his large and bulky shape filling the doorway. He had wasted no time below, but come straight and purposefully to his wife’s bedchamber. In one hand was clutched a letter. “Write?” he said querulously. “It seems to me you’ve already written quite enough, Lord Leicester.”

  Dudley could see that the missive in John Sheffield’s grasp was one he had written to Douglas in the first throes of lustful abandon. But how the devil had it gotten into Sheffield’s hands? Dudle
y shot a searing glance at his lover, who looked back at him with the eyes of a cornered doe.

  “I lost the letter at John’s sister’s house,” she said. “I tried desperately to find it. She must have —”

  “You explain yourself to him!” Sheffield thundered. He pushed past Dudley and toward his wife. “What about me! Do I not deserve an explanation!”

  “You’re never at home,” she sniffed petulantly. “I’ve been lonely.” Then, more defiantly, “And I do not love you.”

  Sheffield stared at his wife with a look of total astonishment, and then began to laugh. It was, thought Robin Dudley, a sincere laugh. Cruel and sarcastic, but truly amused as well. Finally Sheffield composed himself and said, “You forget yourself, Douglas. You are my wife. Love has nothing at all to do with it.” Then he turned to Dudley. “And you, my lord, have strayed perilously far from the royal couch.”

  He looked back at Douglas with a neutral gaze. All the fury had gone from him and only bitterness remained. “We part beds tonight, madame. Tomorrow I’ll ride for London and find us a divorce.”

  Douglas had recovered her dignity. “Good,” she said in her chilliest voice. “Have a safe journey. Now do leave my room.”

  John Sheffield wheeled round and marched out the door, slamming it hard behind him. The maid Millie, who during the encounter had flattened herself against a wall and all but disappeared, now heaved a great sigh of relief.

  Robin Dudley turned to Douglas, half dressed and looking quite dazed. He himself felt dazed, for his once safe liaison had just become a complicated affair indeed.

  Twenty-one

  This passage is one I wished never to write. That I feared writing. There is no easy way to remember violent death. But remember it I must, for my story cannot further unfold without its retelling. In deaths aftermath was my lesson in embracing hatred and sadness, and moving onward thro my life.