by Jean Plaidy
He wanted to cry out: “Oh Maria…Maria Manoela, do not be afraid. I am here to protect you.”
Then he wondered whether, much as she feared all these people, she feared her husband more.
If only he could have gone to her, pushed aside all these people. If only he could have said: “I will dismiss all these people and we will ride away together!”
The heroes of old might have done such things, but not the modern Prince of Spain.
He wondered what she had heard of him. Was it something to frighten her? Could it be that she had not liked his picture as he had liked hers? For a moment his restraint all but deserted him. This was, after all, the most important day he had yet lived through. There was his wife-to-be, and here he was, in the crowd, looking on like any humble sightseer. He all but pushed his way through the crowd to go to her.
But lifetime habits were too strong.
He remained perfectly still, his face impassive, his eyes fixed on the glittering young girl, as the bridle of her mule was taken by Don Luis Sarmiento, who had recently been Ambassador to Portugal. Now Don Luis was leading her under the brilliant canopy where she would receive the homage of the city magistrates.
All eyes were upon her, and not one of those attendants guessed that in that assembly was the Prince himself.
“Long live the Infanta!” shouted the people.
And if he did not shout as loudly as some, none spoke those words more fervently than Philip, her future husband.
He stood beside her, weighed down with splendor, while the Duke and Duchess of Alba, his sponsors, hovered close, and the Archbishop of Toledo performed the nuptial ceremony.
All Salamanca was en fête. The streets were filled with people, and the merrymaking would continue for days. From all over the country came the great noblemen to attend the wedding and the banquets and tourneys which would follow. The students from the University were given free meals to celebrate the marriage, for Philip, in his silent observation, had discovered what would please his subjects most; the people of the town were to be given the best bulls for their entertainment, and the finest matadors were coming from all corners of Spain to perform in Salamanca on the occasion of the Prince’s wedding.
And, standing before the Archbishop, Philip was aware of nothing but his bride’s covert glances. Her hand trembled in his. It was the first time she had seen him, for etiquette insisted that they should not see each other until the wedding day.
How he longed to reassure her! Poor little Maria Manoela! She was a few months younger than he was, and he was only sixteen. As he stood close to her he realized how young she was. She was a child, which was what he had never been allowed to be.
He had heard that she had wept bitterly in her apartments in the palace of the Duke of Alba; she had cried for her mother and her home in Portugal. She had admitted that she was afraid of her cousin Philip, for she had heard that he never laughed—and at home in Lisbon she and her family had laughed very much.
“But,” said Philip’s informant, “we made the Infanta laugh, your Highness. She could not help it when the Duke’s comic dwarf did his tricks for her. And she was amused with the Duke’s monkeys. She laughed so much at their antics that she forgot your royal Highness.”
He would tell her that she would not long need dwarfs and monkeys to cheer her. Soon he would show her that she had nothing to fear.
He wanted to press her hand, but he did not do so. He had been rehearsed in the solemn ceremony, and he was accustomed to doing exactly what was required of him. He was also afraid that if he did anything unexpected she might turn those wondering eyes upon him and ask what he meant. That would be embarrassing under the solemn eyes of the Duke and Duchess.
The ceremony was long. The little bride was fatigued. The bridegroom saw the sheen of tears in her eyes.
He could not contain his thoughts then. He whispered: “It will not be long now.” He had intended his voice to sound soft and comforting, but instead it seemed harsh. That was due to emotion, but how was she to know that! She would remember that she had heard how stern he was, how he never laughed. She flushed, concluding that in showing her tiredness she had been at fault.
Now she kept her eyes firmly fixed before her, and he knew that she was longing for her home in Lisbon.
After the ceremony was concluded the banquets and the entertainments began.
Would they never be alone? he wondered.
He did have a few words with her, whispered words, for how could he say what was in his heart, with all those people looking on?
“We are cousins,” he said.
“Yes.”
“And now…we are married.”
“Yes.”
She was straining to give the right answers. He is very serious, they had told her. Already, in spite of his youth—he is only a few months older than yourself—he has governed Spain in his father’s absence.
He knew that she was looking for some significance behind his words. How could he say to her, “I want to hear your pretty voice. I want to watch your pretty lips…”?
But there was time. They had the whole of their lives before them.
They danced together in the house of Christóbal Juarez.
“The Spanish manner is different from the Portuguese,” he said.
“I…I crave your Highness’s pardon. I…I shall quickly learn the Spanish ways.”
He wanted to say: “Yes…yes. But I like the Portuguese way. I like it because it is yours…”
But he could not say those words, and he wondered whether he would ever be able to tell her what he felt.
But there was time.
He said: “We have all our lives together.”
But again he sensed the fear in her. Did she think even that remark was a reproach?
Now they were truly married.
She was a little less frightened. He had not said all that he had meant to. He was too shy. It was, he had discovered, not possible to guard the feelings for sixteen years and then let them fly freely and naturally. They were like birds that had never learned to fly; and because their wings had been clipped they would never fly high and free.
Haltingly he had made love to her.
“You must not be frightened, Maria Manoela,” he had told her. “It…is expected of us.”
She seemed grateful for his gentleness. But she had expected that. Doubtless she had heard many stories of him. They would have said to her while she cried in her Lisbon home and begged them not to send her to Spain: “He will not be unkind. He is cold and stern, but never violent.”
She was ready to laugh—though not with him. She liked to lie on her couch with her attendants about her, eating sweet-meats while they talked of their home in Lisbon; she liked to watch the dwarfs; she liked to hear the Indian slaves speak in their strange language. Such things amused her.
But when Philip appeared she would be subdued, although she did not shiver when he caressed her, as she had at first. She grew plumper and complacent.
Once he said to her, after he had previously rehearsed the speech: “It is a good thing for a Prince to find that he can love the wife who has been chosen for him.” And she gave him great joy by laughing in her childish way and putting her arms about his neck, saying: “It is even better for a Princess to find that she loves the Prince they have chosen for her.”
Her words and gestures were so delightful that he wished to continue with such a happy conversation.
“Then you love me, Maria Manoela?”
“It is my duty to love you.”
“But apart from the duty?”
She laughed, showing her pretty teeth. “I was so frightened. They said that you did not laugh. And you do not much. But you are so kind to me and…I do not fret for Lisbon now.”
He must remember that she was still a child, even though the difference in their ages was so slight. She had not discussed matters of state with a great Emperor; she had never had to listen to the discourse of general
s, archbishops, and statesmen.
He thought of the home in which she must have been the petted daughter. Little petting had come his way—except from Leonor. That was all to the good, for petting did not help a prince or a princess to face what it was necessary to face. What if this little girl had fallen into hands other than his? His cousin Maximilian would have been impatient with her childishness. What would the Emperor, who was so vigorous, have thought of her? Philip thought of the French King who would not bother to hide the mistresses he preferred; he thought of the lusty man in that far-off island kingdom, who had beheaded yet another wife. She was not so unfortunate, this little Maria Manoela, to have fallen to Philip of Spain.
“I want you to be happy,” he said. “I want you to love…” But it was difficult to talk of love. He finished lamely: “…to love Spain.”
One day, he thought, I shall tell her everything that is in my mind. There is time yet, for we have the whole of our lives before us.
But he could not dally with his wife for long. He was the Regent of Spain, for even such an important event as the wedding of his son could not keep Charles from his exploits abroad.
The Prince must return to Valladolid and state matters. So the long journey north began.
Now there were state duties to absorb him. Every day he must read his father’s dispatches and attend the meeting of the council; there were many problems to be solved, and such problems could never be settled quickly by one of Philip’s temperament.
And all the time he longed to be with his bride. Constantly he wished that they could ride off alone together, not as Infante and Infanta of Spain, but just as Philip and Maria Manoela, two ordinary, simple people. How happy that would have made him! Was he, like his father, longing to cast off his responsibilities? He would have denied it. He told himself that he merely wished to be alone with her for a time, to learn to speak to her freely, not to couch his thoughts in solemn words, not to be afraid of showing excitement and the tenderness she aroused in him.
Could he not for a few short months be a lover instead of a statesman? Perhaps when his father returned he could explain his feelings to him. No! While he was alone he could imagine himself explaining but when he tried to do so he could never speak but in the calmest terms, in tones unsuited to the passions about which he wished to speak.
He imagined his father’s loud laughter if he tried to tell him. “You have your nights with her. We do not intend to disturb that, you know. The sooner she gives you a family the better. You cannot start too soon. The country needs heirs.”
He would have shrunk from his father’s laughter. He would never be able to say: This love of mine is an ideal love. It is a state of companionship and understanding, not merely of physical love. That is but a part. She is my wife, and one day we will rule Spain together as Ferdinand and Isabella ruled. But I want more than that, Father. I want her to love me…me…Philip…not the Prince I am, not the King I shall one day be. I want to be tender to her so that she will come to me when she is afraid; I want her never to be afraid of me, and I want us to be happy as few people know happiness; and I think that because she is young, and because I am her husband and love her so much, I can build up that affection between us—strong and firm, so that it will make us happy all the days of our lives. But I must have time now to be with her. Now is the time to make her understand.
But how could he ever say such a thing to his father? The Emperor had been fond of his wife, but that had not prevented his having mistresses all over the world. Charles did not understand the ideal relationship which Philip sought.
It is because I am so much alone, thought Philip. I have been apart from others. But that is no longer so. There are two of us now and we must grow close together. We must be loving, tender, and faithful, my Maria Manoela and I.
They were riding the few miles from Valladolid to Tordesillas. They were going to visit Philip’s grandmother because tradition demanded it; she was that Queen Juana who was also the grandmother of Maria Manoela.
Maria Manoela was frightened. She had heard tales of Mad Juana.
Philip wondered what his wife had heard, remembering how, in his childhood, he had been aware of the mysteries which surrounded his grandmother. He would have liked to ask her, but he could not. Doubtless some garrulous attendant had chattered with another in the Lisbon palace, and the madness of a queen—and that Queen a near relation of them both—would be an unseemly subject. Her madness, her captivity, her most embarrassing conduct were all matters that should never be mentioned.
Maria Manoela looked very pretty today, and he thought how charming she was with that bewildered and fearful look upon her. Thus she had looked when she had first come to Spain—like a trapped animal, wondering what was in store for her. He felt that when she was troubled, he loved her more deeply, more tenderly than when she was laughing and gay—although she was never so gay with him as she was with the pretty young girls whom she had brought with her. Sometimes, unknown to her, he had listened to her laughter. She could not believe that the important young man whom she saw at state functions could ever be the warm-hearted lover he longed to be. That cold young Prince was always between them; even Philip could not escape from him. When he tried to tell her of his love, that other Philip would be there, restraining him. He could only comfort himself by believing that it would not always be thus.
She would begin to understand him soon. She would cease to be a fearful child who could crow with delight over the antics of a dwarf. She would grow into a woman, and then she would understand. He longed for that day.
He could not take his eyes from her without a great effort. Her lovely black hair was combed high and her coif was decorated with rich jewels which she had brought with her. Her velvet dress billowed over the rich trappings of her mule. He must turn from her to bow his head in the acknowledgment of the greetings of water-carriers, muleteers, and gypsies who stood along the road staring at them as they passed. These people cheered him loudly and with affection. As a young bridegroom he was a romantic figure; and his little bride was such an enchanting sight.
“The saints preserve our Prince!” they cried. And some murmured: “Give him long life. He looks delicate. ’Tis a pity he has not his wife’s healthy looks.”
Courteously he acknowledged their greetings, but he gave no sign that he heard their words.
Philip and Maria Manoela rode on to that palace, which was in reality a prison.
Maria Manoela could not prevent herself from shivering as they rode into the courtyard. She would have been terrified had she been alone. She had heard that her grandmother was a witch who consorted with devils, for it was true that she had railed against Holy Church and the Inquisition. But for the fact that she belonged to the royal house, the Inquisition would have taken her before this.
“Is she truly a witch?” she whispered.
Philip answered: “All will be well.” His voice was harsh with tenderness, and she turned from him. He wanted to tell her that he would be beside her, that she would have nothing to fear, but they were surrounded by attendants and this was not the time.
Maria Manoela wanted to ask Philip to turn back, but she dared not. She was never sure of him. Sometimes he seemed kind, but at others he was so stern. He frightened her. “He is always right,” she had told one of her ladies. “I am frightened of people who are always right. Sins…nice venial sins are so comforting.” And that was true, she thought now. Eating too many sweetmeats, not concentrating during Mass, passing on scandalous tidbits, not always confessing the more private faults…those were the little sins committed by everybody—except Philip. He was apart. That was why he was frightening. Still, she would be glad of his presence when she had to kneel before the old lady; she would pray then that her grandmother would not touch her. It was said that the touch of a witch was enough to lay a spell upon you. The thought of a witch, perhaps…no wonder she was shivering.
Philip whispered: “You are afraid.” And he knew e
ven as he spoke that the words sounded more like a reproach than the comfort he intended to convey.
“What…will she do to us?”
“Give us her blessing.”
“Will she…touch us?”
“She will hardly be able to give us her blessing without doing so.” And he thought: Little one, I shall be there. I shall be with you.
They had entered the palace now. They were walking through long, tiled corridors; their footsteps echoed through the gloomy halls. Maria Manoela moved closer to Philip; and he thought: She turns to me when she is afraid. Gradually she will come to trust me…to love me…
Now they were about to enter the presence of the mad woman of the Tordesillas Alcázar.
As one of the guards of the door knelt before Philip he said: “Your royal Highness, this is one of her Highness’s good days.”
Philip nodded. The doors were thrown open. A herald sounded a fanfare.
“Their royal Highnesses, Prince Philip and the Princess Maria Manoela.”
They went forward together.
Maria Manoela was trembling; she was more frightened than she had been when she had said good-bye to her family in Lisbon, more frightened than when she had been left alone for the first time with her husband, for she believed herself to be in the presence of a witch.
The room was hung with black velvet which shut out most of the light. The air was filled with the smell of decaying food. Candles burned in their silver candlesticks.
Now that Maria Manoela’s eyes had grown accustomed to the gloom she saw that dishes of food were lying about on the floor; they had clearly been there for a long time. It was one of Queen Juana’s fancies that she should eat her food on the floor like a dog and that the dishes should be left until she commanded that they be removed.
In a high chair sat Queen Juana, daughter of Queen Isabella the Catholic and Ferdinand. Her face was unwashed; her hair hung in greasy strands about her shoulders; her robe of rich velvet was torn and stained; through its rents it was possible to see her dirty skin.