There was no fire in the galley and Cook was nowhere to be seen. Don Diego found some hardtack and wine, wolfed it down, and sloshed on to his cabin. He ached with fatigue and longed to divest himself of his saturated garments. He absolutely must sleep, if only for an hour or two. Mateo could be trusted with the wheel; he had never had a better First Mate. When he finally gained the door to his cabin, he realized how truly exhausted he was.
He managed to dress himself, at least from the waist up, in blessedly dry clothes. He was just about to climb up into his bunk, to enjoy the feeling of comfort he would realize by stretching himself out, when a profound sense of duty assailed him and he decided that he should first pay a visit to His Grace, the prince, to see how he was faring. Don Diego sighed and looked at the dry, inviting bunk, then he turned and made his way back down the narrow companionway to the prince’s quarters.
A wraith-like figure appeared in answer to his persistent rapping. Don Diego barely recognized the gaunt, hollow-eyed creature, soaked to the skin, hair awry, who appeared just as he had decided to enter the cabin without leave, so concerned was he. He had barely made the acquaintance of the prince and his entourage before they set sail; and before any further niceties could be observed, the storm had overtaken them, and so it had been for two whole days. It took Don Diego several moments in the dim light of the horn-covered lantern to recognize Raul Gomez, Prince of Eboli, Duke of Estrana, and Prince Philip’s closest friend and servant. He remembered Raul as exceedingly handsome, but this haggard creature bore little resemblance to the gallant rake who had boarded the ship two days before.
Those below decks had fared no better than the battered seamen on deck, it seemed; worse, judging from the foul odor that emanated from the royal quarters. Don Diego’s eyes, adjusted now to the dim light, revealed a hellish scene. The prince lay in a sodden heap on his bunk. Every so often a groan escaped his lips, adding to the mournful sound of the howling wind whistling through the spaces in the wooden hull. It was evident that he and Raul had tried, but failed, to keep down such food as they had been brought. Raul was green with seasickness and the prince was so pale that he might have been dead were it not for his pitiable moaning.
“My Lord,” said Don Diego. “I have come to enquire as to the state of His Grace.” He bowed.
“It is as you can see,” replied Raul, waving a weak hand to indicate both the prince and the state of the cabin. He was glad that he and the prince had confessed and been shriven at the shrine of St. James at Compostella before embarking on what was known to be a most dangerous sea voyage. “Have we any hope of arriving in England?” This was the third dawn of this most dreadful voyage; he was convinced that none of them would survive another day.
Don Diego decided that a little bolstering up was warranted. “Have no fear, My Lord,” he said. “The storm is fierce, but certain to die down soon. The wind has been true, if harsh, and I believe that we are on course and shall arrive safely in England.” He smiled. God forgive him the lie. It was more probable that they would all be dead and at the bottom of the sea before the day was out.
The death’s head that had been the handsome Raul smiled back. Even in his condition, it transformed him. “Truly?” he asked, running a sheepish hand through his thick black hair.
“Of a certainty, My Lord,” assured Don Diego, puffing out his chest. “Truly. God grant us all just a little more perseverance, My Lord, and all will soon be well.” After all, it could happen…
Southampton, July 1554
Philip was unaware that he had been sleeping until he awakened. For so long now he had been suspended in that half-world between sleeping and wakefulness, between darkness and light, between life and death. Had it not been for the gnawing in his belly he would have sworn that his soul had departed its fleshly bonds. He had by this time grown used to the constant pain; the pain of intense hunger, for he had been unable to eat anything for days; the pain of sickness, for what little he had attempted to eat resulted only in extreme nausea followed by violent retching, and finally, when he had given up trying to take any sustenance, dry heaves. In the dark, swirling world that was the ship in the terrible storm, one simply became the pain. At first he had been dreadfully afraid that he was going to die; by the second full day at sea he found himself praying fervently that he would.
But now something was different. For days he had been able to hear nothing but the constant roar of the storm, the howling wind, the crash of waves against the hull, and the mournful moaning and groaning that after a while he recognized was coming from his own lips. He had the strangest sensation as the ship pitched and swayed, as it climbed up each terrible wave only to come crashing down into the trough between the wave they rode and the next one that would toss them about like a child’s toy, that he was flying through the air unaided. After a while he realized that Raul had tied him into his bunk for his own safety. But now he was aware only of little sounds, little movements. Now he could hear a gentle slap, slap, slap sound as if the sea seemed to caress the ship instead of assaulting it; the ship was rocking rhythmically, slowly, almost hypnotically, as if it were a giant cradle. And there was the distant, oddly reassuring sound of a ship’s bell.
And then another sound arrested his attention; it was a steady click, click, click. He was convinced now that he was alive and somehow, had survived the storm. He stirred and immediately the clicking sound ceased.
“Oh!” cried Raul, laying aside his rosary, the beads of which were what Philip had heard and awakened to, as Raul passed them deftly through his fingers. “Your Grace is awake! I am so glad.”
Philip sat up very slowly; his head still swam, but the nausea was gone. “You mean I am alive,” he said. “That is much better than merely awake.”
Raul retrieved the rosary and hefted it back and forth between his two hands. “True, Your Grace,” he said with a lopsided grin. “I was just finishing a novena in thanks to the Virgin for our safe arrival in England.”
Memory came flooding back; Philip had forgotten the purpose of this voyage when in the grip of the storm and the very real fear of death. Now he was not so sure if it might not have been best for the sea to take him. No, that was a blasphemous thought, and unworthy of him, a good Catholic. He must also give thanks to the Virgin, as Raul was doing, for the miracle of his deliverance from a watery grave. If only he could be vouchsafed just one more miracle; one that would relieve him of the necessity to live the rest of his life with his aging cousin in dreary England! For he had heard that in his new adoptive land it rained constantly and was cold almost all the year round. How could he hope to survive in such a place? It sounded worse than Brussels!
“I have good news,” said Raul. “Here, try one of these wine-sops.”
At the mention of food and drink Philip half expected his body to begin convulsing in the dry heaves that all thought of food had inspired in him for as long as he could remember at this point. But it was not so…he was hungry. It was a good sign. He reached for the bowl and dipped a chunk of the bread out with his fingers and placed it in his mouth. It was an odd sensation, to eat. He chewed tentatively; he swallowed. All seemed well. “What is this good news?” he asked, reaching for another lump from the bowl.
“An imperial messenger was waiting for us when we arrived,” said Raul. “Marienburg has fallen to the French.”
Philip choked on his second wine-sop and began to cough. Raul arose casually, took the few steps to the prince’s bunk, and began slapping Philip on the back. “That...is g-good news?” he asked between coughing fits.
“Indeed,” said Raul. “It is, because the emperor commands that you marry your bride, consummate your marriage, and depart forthwith for the Continent with the troops promised to your lady aunt. He needs us to command a counter-attack, before the French devils reach Brussels itself.”
Philip’s eyes went wide and he stole a look upwards, as if he could see the heavens through the roof of the cabin. This was the very miracle for which he had j
ust been praying! Suddenly he felt not only recovered, but positively restored. “Dios Mio!” he exclaimed. “We must make all speed,” he said. “Do we know yet the English plans? How quickly can we leave?” He arose, to test his ability to stand, to walk a little. “How long have I been here? What of the fleet?”
Raul laid back on his own bunk and propped himself up on an elbow. He tossed back the wine in his cup and laid it aside. “The fleet, thanks be to God, has been arriving during the two days you have lain insensible. All have been accounted for and are now assembled here at Southampton. We have been very lucky, Your Grace. As for the English, they have rowed out each day in hopes of presenting Your Grace with a boon, and whisking you ashore to begin your trek to Winchester for your wedding with the queen. I doubt not that they are on their way again at this very moment.”
Philip ate two more wine sops; he would need all the strength he could muster. “Find my clothes. Help me to dress. Today we must be ready when the delegation arrives. Tell Don Diego to prepare to receive them. And Raul…”
Raul smiled. He was at heart a gentle soul, but he had a somewhat wolfish grin, with his white teeth, the incisors of which were just a little long and pointed. It was good to see the prince on his feet again and taking charge. Raul’s gentleness sometimes lapsed into indolence; he was content to lie about unless given direction. But once direction was given, he always saw to it that the prince’s orders were carried out speedily and to the letter. “Yes, Your Grace?”
“Tell Don Diego to give the order not to debark the horses. And anyone who has no part in the wedding ceremony is to stay aboard ship. We must be ready to depart as soon after the ceremony as possible.”
Philip doused his head in the basin and rubbed himself with a damp cloth. Raul handed him a shirt, which he pulled over his head, and then slipped on his hose and breeches. Raul held his doublet and guided the prince’s arms into it. As Philip deftly worked the buttons he opened the porthole. Just as he suspected! The day was gray and gloomy, and it looked to be raining. God send him a quick wedding day! He would do his duty and then be gone. If his luck held, he would hear the good news that the queen was with child while he was still on the Continent. And then he would defeat the French and head back to Spain and Maria Elena with the next tide. Even the prospect of another voyage on the Bay of Biscay was not enough to deter him from going home to Spain, the land of sunshine and of all that he loved.
Wolvesey Castle, Winchester, July 1554
“What about this one?” asked Mary, as she regarded her reflection in the looking glass. Scarlet was one of her favorite colors, and she looked well in it with her auburn hair. But she favored the deep blue gown. The purple gown was, she believed, lucky for her, and visually proclaimed her royalty; should she wear that one…? She knew from her mother, who had been much on her mind these past few days as she prepared for her wedding day, that the Spanish very much favored black; and she did so want to make a good first impression on Philip! And black actually suited her quite well, setting off both her pallor and her red hair. Before any of her ladies had a chance to respond she said, “Susan, bring the black velvet, if you please.”
At least a dozen gowns lay in colorful heaps all over the floor. As Mistress of the Robes, it was Susan Clarencius’s task to see to all of Mary’s clothing. She waved her hand at the harried serving wenches, who dutifully picked up each dress and laid it back into its traveling trunk, sprinkling lavender between every fold.
In her impatience, Mary pulled the scarlet gown back over her head and stood waiting for the black one, clothed in her cloth-of-silver under-gown. The under-gown was as gossamer as tissue and was sewn with diamonds so tiny that the eye could not really see them; rather, one saw only their effect. It was afternoon but exceedingly gloomy outside, and the diamonds winked in the light of the fire that burned brightly on the hearth.
Mary allowed Susan to help her pull on the black gown, and straighten its folds. The black gown was devoid of any trim or jewel. Mary surveyed the effect. It was perfect. One did not, after all, want to be outshone by one’s clothing. She would wear only two jewels on this night of nights; around her neck La Peregrina, and on her finger the diamond ring that Philip had sent her from the Espiritu Sancta on the day that he had received from her the diamond, ruby and pearl garter that had allowed him to take his first step onto English soil as a Garter Knight. She had not taken the ring off since she received it, and she admired its effect now. “Bring the necklace, Frideswide,” she said, without taking her eyes off of the ring.
Mary had been beside herself with joy on the day that she was brought the news that her betrothed’s ship had (at last!) been sighted in Southampton Water. She immediately dispatched the earls of Arundel, Derby, Shrewsbury and Pembroke to welcome Philip to England on his bride’s behalf, and to invest him with the Order of the Garter. She had been dashed and greatly disappointed to learn that Philip was exceedingly indisposed due to the nature of the sea voyage from Spain, which by all accounts had been horrendous; and so the honor had had to wait. She also sent Philip a gift in the form of a beautiful white horse trapped with crimson velvet and ornamented in gold, for his journey into the town of Southampton, and thence to Winchester, where they were to be married in the cathedral there.
Finally, on the third day after his arrival, the English delegation found Philip up and about. The queen’s representatives presented her beloved with his garter and he rode into town on her magnificent gift. If only the weather had been better! By all accounts it had rained so hard that one could barely see the rider before one; Philip had been soaked to the skin by the time he reached Holyrood Church, where he had attended a Mass of thanksgiving for his safe arrival in England. By all accounts, the prince had been royally received, even being presented with the keys to the city by the Lord Mayor. Mary was relieved; after all the fuss about the Spanish marriage, perhaps all would be well after all.
Philip had tarried in Southampton for three days waiting for the weather to clear; but if anything, the rain had gotten worse. Finally, she could wait no longer and sent a message that the prince must come. He dutifully mounted his gift-horse and made the muddy, twelve mile journey from Southampton to Winchester. A formal entry had been planned, but there were few besides the appointed officials to greet the prince upon his arrival. His fine clothes were soaked and mud-spattered, and the feather in his hat drooped miserably in the wet. But she simply could wait no longer…he was in England at last and Mary wanted to meet him, to see her prince with her own eyes.
And so on this evening he would come to the Long Gallery at the bishop of Winchester’s castle of Wolvesey and there, this very night, she would finally come face to face with her husband.
# # #
The serene music of crickets chirping and the peaceful call of a nightingale, all the comforting sounds of night, greeted Philip’s ears as he made his way across the garden from his lodgings at Wolvesey Castle to the West Hall where he was finally to meet his wife. How strange that sounded! He had always thought of Maria Manuela as his wife, until this very moment. The fact that she had been dead for nine years made no difference; she was, and always would be, the mother of his child, his son and heir, Don Carlos. For him, it had always been as if she had simply gone a journey and never returned. He loved Maria Elena, but his wife she could never be; this he knew and so he had never thought of Maria Elena in quite that manner. And now he was on his way to meet his new wife, and the thought struck him at that moment as exceedingly odd.
The reports he had heard about the queen from various diplomats and other Spanish or Imperial visitors to the English court had not been particularly encouraging. He expected the queen…his new wife! …to look, to be, eleven years his senior. He had been sent a portrait of the queen, which did not seem so bad; in any case, he was about to see for himself.
Upon his arrival in Winchester he had once again gone straight to the cathedral to hear Mass, then he had been brought to his lodgings in the Dean’
s House. He was served supper at the unheard of hour of six in the evening. He had heard that the English had some peculiar customs, but to him, this was one of the strangest. The hour was now ten of the clock and instead of just sitting down to eat, he was being taken to meet the queen. After that he would be expected to retire. It was all very confusing, but he supposed he would grow used to it. Besides, he hoped that he would not be in England for very long in any case.
So far, all of his fears about his ostensible new home had been fully realized. It had not stopped raining since he arrived; and in what godforsaken place besides Brussels did one need a fire in July? England was even bleaker than he had been led to believe. He could only hope that the queen would not be as bad as he feared. If she were, then there would be little left to live for!
By the light of the guttering torches he noticed that the wind had risen. And then suddenly the rain stopped. Perhaps that was a good sign. There was nothing left to hope for at this point except positive auguries!
They reached a door with elaborate iron findings that creaked when Bishop Gardiner’s amanuensis opened it for them. The delegation filed past the monk, whose head was bowed in respect as the prince passed him. He entered a dark corridor where there were torches in sconces on the stone walls, but these gave off surprisingly little warmth. Again Philip marveled that there was any place where it could be so cold in July. He shivered. It seemed that he had never been completely dry since he left the Espiritu Sancta.
He was led a short distance down the corridor, up a small flight of stairs, and then the party stopped in front of another door. Even though they wore no spurs, the Spaniards all wore their elaborately decorated ceremonial swords for this awesome occasion, and they made quite a racket. Suddenly he heard the sound of rapid footsteps; someone on the other side of that door must have heard their approach and had been running towards the door, but stopped just short of opening it. That task was left to the queen’s halberdiers; the two men stepped back, each grasping a sturdy iron handle, and the doors swung wide.
The Baker's Daughter Volume 2 Page 51