The Complete Tudors: Nine Historical Novels

by Jean Plaidy

  Surely this was the answer, thought Philip. It should be done.

  Carlos was quietly happy.

  At last she was coming to him, this beautiful girl. He had worked hard with the French language; he could speak many words now. He could say: “I shall call you Isabella, because that is a beautiful name in this country. It is Spanish, and Elisabeth is French. You are Spanish now, dear Isabella.”

  He talked to her when he was alone; and he fancied the picture in the locket smiled at him.

  He would show her the countryside; he would tell her about his ambitions, how he had always longed to be a great soldier, and that perhaps now that he was so much better, he could be.

  “Isabella…Isabella…” he whispered. “I am so glad you are here. There is no one who loves me. Now there will be. There will be you, Isabella.”

  Sometimes he pictured darker scenes when he was angry—not with Isabella though; he would never be angry with her. But he fancied that one of his black moods came upon him and he struck his servant until Isabella came to him and begged him to show mercy to the man. And for Isabella’s sake he would pardon the servant. She would be delighted. “Thank you, Carlos,” she would say. “How happy you make me!”

  Isabella was gentle. He could see that by her picture. She would be sorry for helpless little animals. She would beg him not to roast hares alive as he liked to do; she would beg him not to cut their throats and let them bleed slowly to death.

  “I know I am silly, Carlos,” she would say, “but it frightens me.”

  Then Carlos would answer: “I will not do it, Isabella, because I wish to do what you want always…always…”

  Then they would laugh together and he would tell her of the black moods. She would kiss him and say: “I will charm them away, dear Carlos.”

  “Oh, Isabella…Isabella…at last you are coming! Even my father cannot keep you from me now.”

  In the Brussels Palace Philip thought continually of this marriage, and how could he possibly think of the marriage without sorrowfully pondering over the prospective bridegroom?

  He shuddered, remembering Carlos in a hundred ugly moods.

  “Holy Mother,” he groaned, “why was I burdened with such a son?”

  What could Carlos do for his father? What could he do for Spain? The reports from his tutors were alarming; there was not one of them who, having been given a high post in the household of the Prince of the Asturias, did not hint that he would be delighted to dispense with it.

  Philip must face the truth. Carlos might not yet be as mad as his great-grandmother Juana, but he was not entirely sane. What trouble Juana had caused! Philip recalled the stinking apartment and the wild-eyed woman. He remembered how she had kept her daughter Katharine in seclusion in the Alcázar of Tordesillas. He remembered how she had screamed from her window, ordering the guards to kill one another.

  Carlos was unfit for marriage.

  Philip himself must have another son; if he did so, this marriage of Carlos with Elisabeth of Valois would be unnecessary. The important matter at issue was alliance with France, and Philip was the one who needed a wife. Why not continue with the French marriage, but with a different bridegroom!

  He reached for the marriage contract. It was so simple. All he need do was substitute the name of Don Philip, King of Spain, for that of Don Carlos, Prince of the Asturias.

  And what would the King and Queen of France say to such an exchange of bridegrooms? He could rely on their attitude. Instead of marrying their daughter to a weakling boy who had no power they would be offered alliance with the most powerful monarch in the world. What would any ambitious father and mother say to such a project?

  And what would Elisabeth herself say to such a dazzling prospect?

  But did it matter what such a child would say? She would of course obey first her parents and then her husband.

  The more Philip thought of the project, the more he liked it.

  It was left to Juana to tell Carlos.

  She came to him, her face, as usual, half-hidden; and there was a terrible fear in her heart. She knew why he had improved so much during the last months; she knew of the picture in the locket, which was his perpetual solace.

  She dreaded telling him, yet she knew he must not hear the bad news from any other. Who knew what wildness would take possession of him? He would be capable of a murderous assault on anyone who told him what had been decided.

  She came to him while he was studying a book written in French.

  “Carlos!” she cried. “Little One!”

  He looked at her haughtily. He was not Little One now. He was grown up. He was about to be a husband.

  “Carlos, there is sad news, dear one. It is hard to tell.”

  “My father is coming home,” he said scowling.

  “Yes, yes. I doubt not that he will be home. Carlos, he is to marry.”

  “Ha! Then we shall both be bridegrooms. Who is it to be? The Queen of England? I am sorry for her…though they say she is a fury herself. Ha…ha…”

  “Do not laugh like that, Carlos. It is not to be the Queen of England.”

  “Juana…Juana…why do you look at me like that? Why do you look so sad and frightened?”

  “Because, my darling, I have such bad news for you.”

  “For me? Oh! He is going to stop my marriage. He hates me. He hates me to be happy. He will keep Isabella from me. But I will run away. I will go to her. I will go to the King, her father, and tell him how they treat me here.”

  “No, Carlos, no. Your father has decided that…you are too young to marry, and…”

  Carlos let out a howl which was like that of a wild animal. He ran to Juana and began beating her with his fists.

  “Stop…stop!” she cried. “You have not heard, Carlos. Do you want me to tell you? I thought it better that you should hear from me.”

  He glared at her, and all his misery showed in his face.

  “Isabella…” he muttered. “Isabella…”

  “Yes. But I cannot tell you till you lie down.”

  His lips were twitching and there was foam at his mouth. But he allowed her to lead him to a couch, and there he lay while she knelt and took his hand. It was clammy and the pulse was erratic.

  “Carlos, my Little One. I would give my life to spare you this. Your father…he is going to marry Isabella himself.”

  He did not speak. He just lay with eyes wide open; she thought he had not understood, and she began to pray: “Holy Virgin, help me to comfort him. Holy Mother, help him, because he needs your help so much…”

  Now he was speaking. The words came through his clenched teeth; but he did not pray. Juana felt her limbs go stiff with horror as she heard his words.

  “Hate…hate…hate…I will kill him. This has decided it. I will kill him…with mine own hands…”

  Then the tears rolled down his cheeks, and suddenly he turned on to his face and began to bite the cushions on the couch; strange noises came from his lips; his clenched fists were shaking; he twisted and turned, and as he rolled over she saw his face. There was blood on his chin, and his eyes were staring inhumanly.

  He did not see her. He saw nothing but the pictures conjured up in his distorted mind. He had forgotten his love for Isabella in his hatred for his father.

  Juana ran from the room. He was in one of those terrible fits which had afflicted Juana’s own small brothers. And as she ran, calling for attendants, she could not shut out of her mind those words of the young Prince concerning his father:

  “I will kill…kill him…with mine own hands!”

  TWO

  In The Palace of the Louvre, a frightened girl of fourteen was preparing herself for her marriage with the greatest monarch in the world.

  She had wept so much that she could weep no more. She had confided her miseries to her young sister-in-law, Mary Stuart, herself a bride of less than a year. Mary was kind, for the two girls had been brought up together and were great friends, rivals in beauty
and learning, and so happy until the news had come of this great honor which had fallen to Elisabeth.

  “It is so different for you!” cried Elisabeth to Mary. “Such a marriage as yours could not but please all concerned. You married François, and you and François have loved each other ever since you came to live with us, and it is all as it was before, except that you are his wife; and when he is King of France you will be Queen. Your life is easy; you see whither it is leading. Whereas I must go away…right away from France to this land of Spain where they never laugh, and dance only in the most solemn manner. And I must marry an old man—nearly twenty years older than I. He is thirty-two, Mary. Think of that! And he has already had two wives. They say he is gloomy and that it is all prayers with him.”

  “But think, dear Elisabeth,” said Mary. “You will be the most important Queen in the world…the Queen of Spain.”

  “I would rather be Queen of France than of any country in the world.”

  “But you will be Queen of Spain as soon as the ceremony is over. I can only be Queen of France if dear Papa dies, and that could do nothing but bring unhappiness to us all. And, Elisabeth, being Queen of France is not always so very pleasant. Think of Queen Catherine, your mother.”

  Elisabeth glanced over her shoulder. She was always afraid of talking about her mother, who would come so silently into a room, watching and listening, so that one turned and found her there. It was said that she had strange powers, and Elisabeth often felt that she knew what was being said even when she was not there.

  “She is not here,” said Mary now, following her gaze.

  “No; but she might be.”

  Mary was very bold, conscious of that beauty which attracted all at court. She had often been careless before the Queen, showing a lack of respect which she would not have dared show Diane, Duchesse de Valentinois, the King’s mistress, who ruled the court as Queen. Mary was careless, and Elisabeth feared that one day she would be sorry for behaving as she had toward Queen Catherine.

  “Well,” went on Mary, “you have seen how a Queen may be humiliated. It is Madame Diane de Poitiers—I beg her pardon, Duchesse de Valentinois—who is the real Queen of France. But they say that King Philip would not keep a mistress to humiliate his wife. You may be sure that the Queen of Spain will be treated with more respect than your honored mother, the Queen of France.”

  Elisabeth went to the window. “I hate it,” she said. “All these people…all these foreigners…all the ceremonies and the preparation. Oh, Mary, how wonderful it would be if we were all young again without thought of marriage!”

  “There are always thoughts of marriage with people like us.”

  “I mean if we were in the schoolroom. You remember? Vying with each other, trying to write better Latin verses than one another? And Papa’s coming in to see how we were progressing?…”

  “Coming in with Diane; and we all had to kiss her hand, do you remember, and she would fuss over us as though she were our mother?”

  “I remember.”

  “And the Queen, your lady mother, would come in, and…”

  “I remember that, too,” said Elisabeth. “And once you called her a merchant’s daughter. You should not have done that, Mary.”

  “But I did, and she is…”

  “I should not listen to you.”

  “Elisabeth, you are afraid of life. That is your weakness. You are afraid of your mother, and now you are afraid of Philip. You are beautiful—almost as beautiful as I am! Never fear. You can enjoy life at the court of Spain…if you are wise.”

  “I wish I were as gay as you. But it is so easy to be gay when you are married to dear François and may spend the rest of your life here…with Papa and all the family.”

  Elisabeth looked down on the gardens, where her young sister Margot was walking arm in arm with her special playmate, young Henry of Guise. Margot was only six, yet self-assured; they were like a pair of lovers, those two. François and his young brother Charles came into the gardens; they were looking for Mary, Elisabeth knew, for they both adored her.

  “Oh, why cannot I stay here!” cried Elisabeth. “This is my home. This is where I belong. Mary, François and Charles are looking for you.”

  Mary came to the window and rapped on it; the boys looked up. Young Margot and Guise paid not the slightest attention; they were absorbed in each other.

  “Go to them,” said Elisabeth. “Do not let them come here. I wish to be by myself for a while.”

  Mary kissed her tenderly. “Do not fret so, little sister.”

  When Mary had gone, Elisabeth sat down and covered her face with her hands. She was trying so hard not to think of what was before her. She had been given Philip’s picture. Such a cold face, she thought it; she did not know whether it was cruel or not. He had fair hair and blue eyes; and when the picture had been formally given to her she had had to kiss it.

  Her father had said: “This is the greatest honor that could befall any Princess. The great Philip of Spain has chosen you for his wife.” Oh, why had he not married the Queen of England? Why could she not have stayed just a little longer with her family? Her sister Claude had been married recently, and Claude was even younger than she was; but Claude had been married to the Duke of Lorraine, and that meant that she would not go right away from her home; she could often come and see them all. What comfort that was! But Elisabeth knew that once she had crossed the borders to that gloomy land of Spain and entered the household of her gloomy husband, she would never return.

  “Holy Virgin,” she prayed, “let something happen…anything…but let me stay with Mary, François, Charles, little Hercule, Margot, Papa, and Diane and…and my mother…”

  Suddenly she knew that she was not alone in the room. Hastily she lowered her hands. Her mother had entered quietly, and was standing very still, leaning against the tapestry on the wall, watching her.

  Elisabeth rose hastily. “Madame, I…I did not hear you enter.”

  “Stay where you are, my child.”

  The flat features betrayed nothing; only the dark eyes seemed alive in that heavy face.

  “So,” went on Catherine de Medici, “you have been weeping and wailing and getting your sister-in-law to commiserate with you because you are to be the most important Queen in the world. That is so, is it not?”

  How did she know such things? She knows everything, thought Elisabeth in a panic; she has some secret power which René or the Ruggieri brothers have given her.

  “Mother…” she began. “Madame…”

  “Yes, my child, you are sad because you must leave your home. My dear daughter, it is the fate of us all. I was no older than you when I left my home in Italy and came to France.”

  “Yes, but…”

  “But what?”

  “That was to marry Papa.”

  Catherine gave that loud burst of laughter which was familiar to them all. “He was a stranger to me.”

  Elisabeth looked at her plump mother and thought how she would willingly change places with her, endure all the humiliations which any other woman would suffer—Catherine gave no signs of suffering them—from the dazzling Diane, who, although so much older than the King and the Queen, had had the King’s devotion ever since he was a boy.

  Elisabeth would willingly change places with anybody who had not to go to Spain to marry Philip.

  “Yes, but…” faltered Elisabeth.

  “I was as alarmed as you are. But you see, I became the Queen of France and the mother of you all, and one day, my daughter, you will laugh at your fears even as I do now at mine.” Catherine came close to Elisabeth. “You will have much to occupy you in your new life. I shall write to you often and my letters will bring you something of myself. When you read them it will be as though I am speaking to you. You will remember that?”

  Elisabeth tried to conquer the fear she had of her mother. She knew all the children had it—except young Henri, whom Catherine petted and adored. Even Margot, brazen and bold, tremb
led in the presence of her mother.

  “You will be our little ambassadress at the court of King Philip, dearest child. You will not forget us all…your father and mother, your brothers and sisters.”

  “I shall never forget you,” cried Elisabeth. “I shall long to be home with you.”

  “Bah! When you are Queen, you will be content with your lot. You are young and very pretty, and I doubt not that your husband will wish to please you. That will depend on you. It is for you to make him wish to please you.”

  Elisabeth wished her mother would not smile in that way. It frightened her even more than when her face was quite expressionless. The smile suggested distasteful things—caresses, love-making with a husband whom Elisabeth could only be happy in forgetting.

  “There is a stepson, Elisabeth—Don Carlos, he who was to have been the bridegroom.” Catherine laughed again. “Never mind. You have the better one. A king on the throne is worth many an heir to the same throne. For we know what is, but how do any of us know what may be? Now, child, this will be your first mission at your husband’s court. You will arrange a match between your sister Margot and Don Carlos. That is what I wish you to do; and if you achieve it I shall be very proud of you. It will be almost as though I am there…so you will not be lonely.” She laughed again. “I shall write to you often. I shall give you the benefit of my advice and comfort. Dearest daughter, although you will be gone, we shall not really be parted. You believe that, do you not?”

  “Yes, Madame.”

  Catherine put her cold lips against her daughter’s forehead. Then she went silently from the room.

  Elisabeth closed her eyes and began to pray for a miracle, something that could happen to prevent or even delay her journey to Spain.

  She saw her father later. It was easier to talk to him although he was the King. It had always been thus. When he had come to the nursery, the little ones, unaware of his rank, had clambered over him, pulling his beard.

  Now that beard was silver although he was only forty. He was a man slow of speech, a little taciturn in the company of adults, but at ease with children. He was Father first, King second, to his family.