At first Philip could not believe his eyes; he had skimmed the letter simply to get its gist. But now he went back to the beginning and read it word for word. There must be some mistake. It seemed that the Flemings had rallied and had driven the French back from Marienburg, which was once again in the emperor’s hands; there was no need for Philip to come to the Continent after all. Charles had received a loving letter from Mary just after the wedding, describing her deep love for her husband and her gratitude to her cousin for arranging such a fine match for her. And good Renard had followed the queen’s letter with one of his own, describing how quickly the English had developed an affection for their new king. Mary was safe in Philip’s hands; Renard himself admitted that between Philip’s swiftly developed accord with the English and the instant attachment that the queen had formed for the king, his own presence at the English court was now redundant and somewhat superfluous. Perhaps it would be best for all concerned if Renard returned to Brussels and the king remained behind with the queen…? The emperor had considered all of this advice very carefully and decided that it was best for Philip to remain in England.
His father expounded further that the Empire needed England, and the English Council’s goodwill; it was possible that the tide would turn again and if that happened, he might need English troops to help him repel Henri II’s onslaught. The marriage treaty, of course, said that the English would never be called upon to involve themselves in any Imperial conflict, but treaties were made to be broken; did not one learn that lesson when one studied history? Such an order would have to come from the queen; only Philip would be able to convince her to go against their agreement and seek to convince her Council to assist the emperor. It was evident that Philip already had Mary under his thumb; he must keep her there by convincing her of his love and affection. And certainly the emperor could not permit his son to depart England before the queen was with child. So, concluded the emperor, Philip was to stay in England; he was to continue his nightly efforts; he was to make himself useful, and if possible, indispensable to the queen and her Council, and above all, he was to ingratiate himself with everyone.
Had Renard not been in the room he would have wept with chagrin, torn the letter in pieces, and thrown it into the fire. Fire! Dear God in heaven, how could he live in a country where it never stopped raining, one needed a fire in August, and where his wife clung to him like a barnacle to a galleon? But he was schooled in the fine art of never letting anyone, especially an enemy, see his discomfiture. So he raised his eyes to Renard’s with a bland countenance; but what he saw there took his breath away. Renard also kept his features still, but there was no mistaking the hatred and malice glittering in his eyes.
Philip knew from his father’s letter that this change in circumstances was due in no small part to Renard. Philip had joined Raul in his contempt for the ambassador from the moment they had made the Imperial envoy’s acquaintance. They had listened to gossip from Dubois, Renard’s second in command and another who loathed him, pertaining to the possibility that Renard had accepted bribes from some on the queen’s Council; that he had taken sides in the recent rebellion, which no ambassador should ever do; and they had reported to the emperor that they believed Renard had in general made a muddle of things in England.
In short, they had played right into the Imperial ambassador’s hands and now Renard was recalled and he, Philip, was to stay in England. The fleet was to sail to Flanders as soon as possible, and Renard would sail with it.
But Philip was now stranded in England with the queen and with little hope of reprieve.
# # #
The queen’s great bed faced a wide window that always caught and reflected the last of the daylight. The bed was hung with the elaborate hangings that Mary had had made, that combined and entwined the royal emblems of England and Spain. Wherever she went, these always went with her. The horizon was still luminous with just a hint of violet, but above it where the sky was now a deep blue, a million stars sparkled and winked. In the past, before Philip came, retiring for the night had always been little better than a hurried, inconvenient chore. But now it had taken on an aura of ritual.
Mary had ordered that the sideboard was to be spread every evening with exotic fruits from Spain; it made for a colorful display. There were oranges, pomegranates, figs, melons, along with English strawberries, cherries, peaches and pears. All day long a bottle of Philip’s favorite wine would be cooling in the great well that served the palace, to be brought up in the evening and served chilled in a delicate Venetian glass flagon. Rose petals were to be strewn about the floor and on the bed. And she herself was then clad in a gossamer shift whilst only enough candles to dispel the gloom were lit. She knew that she looked tired and careworn; the candlelight was kind and she was glad of it.
While she waited for Philip to come to her, which he did every evening without fail, she would think back over the events of the day. Philip rarely attended Council meetings; the language barrier was an issue, but even so he preferred to work with each councilor on an individual basis. In this manner he made his opinions and decisions known, and the few men he trusted, like Paget, represented him at Council meetings. This way he was inconspicuous in his role as King of England, which he surely was, but it gave the men who resented a Spanish king with obvious Imperial interests less to complain about. And still, he could not mandate, he could only advise. To Mary, it was the perfect solution; Philip was her equal in royalty, he was a king in his own right, he was a man, and he was her husband. The Council must at least listen to him, and he had taken a great deal of the burden of rule off of her shoulders.
The moon rose slowly over the gardens over which her windows looked. It was a moon made for romance; a thin yellow-white sickle lying on her back. As I soon shall! The thought sent a little thrill up her spine. The candles began to burn low; where was he? The Queen Consort’s apartments were on the other side of the palace; she wondered what had happened to delay him.
When she awoke the moon had risen beyond the view of her windows and all but one candle was burnt out. The palace was silent. The bed beside her lay undisturbed.
Something must be wrong.
She donned her wrap and taking in hand the lone candle that was still burning by the bedside, she walked to the door. She was unused to opening doors; there was always someone there to do that for her. She grabbed the heavy iron handle and pulled. Her halberdiers were there, silent sentinels; neither looked her way. She spared a thought at that moment for the thick oaken doors to her bedchamber; Philip was a quiet lover, and she never uttered a sound. Thank heaven! She had never given a thought to the fact that there were always men stationed outside her doors. She stifled another one of those deliciously wicked spontaneous guffaws.
She moved on silent feet in her silken slippers. She could feel the cold stone of the passageway through them. There had been very little sun and a lot of rain all summer, so the palace had absorbed very little of the heat of the sun. Finally she gained the passageway where Philip’s rooms were. At her approach the halberdiers that stood guard at Philip’s doors at first just stared at her in confusion, and then recognizing her, opened the doors.
The room was dark except for a lone candle burning by the bed, and a faint glow from the fireplace. The fire had gone out, but the embers still held the afterglow of the flames that had burned there earlier. She knew that Philip, being from a warmer climate, found England very cold. She had tried to assure him that the amount of rain and the cool summer weather they were experiencing that year was unusual, but she did not think he really believed her.
She approached the bed; she could just make out a hump under the covers.
“Philip?” she called, in a soft voice.
The lump in the bed did not stir, but he answered her immediately. “Yes, Your Grace?” His voice was alert and very cold.
So he had not been asleep! And to address her as ‘Your Grace’! “What is wrong? You didn’t come. I received no messa
ge from you.”
Philip sat up in the bed. He could just make out her features in the light of the candle she held. Usually candlelight flattered, but the reddish-yellow glow lit her face from below and showed every wrinkle, highlighted her sagging chin.
He said nothing for a long moment and then he spoke. “Please accept my deepest apologies, but I am indisposed.”
Mary regarded him sympathetically and laid a soothing hand on his shoulder. “What is wrong?” she asked again. “Shall I send for a leech?”
Had he but known it, Philip felt the same recoil at her touch that Renard did. He shuddered at the very thought of having to make love to her, just as he always did when the moment was upon him. It was only the idea that escape from England was imminent that had allowed him to tolerate this impossible situation. It was all that had kept him not only civil, but seemingly affable. But no more.
Escape from England and from the queen was now just a shattered dream. Now that avenue was closed to him and it was this which had kept him from the queen’s bed that night. He simply could not face it, knowing that now there was to be no getting away from her, from England. What in God’s name was he going to do? He firmly believed that the queen was far too old to conceive, but until she did, his father would not allow him to depart. He would be trapped in this hell forever.
At that moment it seemed as if a fist gripped his very vitals. From the pit of his stomach a great anger seized him. For weeks he had kept his true feelings from all except his faithful Raul; but he could no longer keep his fury in check.
“What is wrong?” he asked so softly that Mary was not certain that she had heard him speak, and leaned closer to the bed. “I will tell you,” he hissed. “I was never consulted as to the terms of our marriage treaty. Had I been, do you think that I would have agreed to it? Only a madman would have done so. I have no power, and yet I am expected to rule a country that does not even want me here. And I am expected to do so for absolutely no remuneration. Even a queen receives a dowry! I have been allowed no patrimony, not a penny of crown revenues has been allotted to me; I am expected to pay both of my households out of my own pocket. I did not ask for an English household; it was my plan to bring all the people I need to attend me from Spain. But now I am expected to support both households, and to mediate every petty squabble that arises between them! I will not let my Spaniards go back to Spain, as if I were some quivering princess, brought from a foreign land to marry its king! I am a king in my own right and expect to be treated as such! And there is no Englishman in my so-called household who is a good enough Catholic to be so close to my person! And now I have been informed that I am not even to have a coronation. I have been embarrassed before the entire English court, Madam, yea, before all of Christendom! Queen Philip, the English call me, as they snigger up their sleeves! Petticoat king, laugh the French! I am unmanned, Madam; is it any wonder that I shun your bed?”
He said all of this in a very low voice, but there was no mistaking the ferocity of his demeanor. Mary had seen her father in his famous Tudor rages, but she knew, as did those closest to him, that as long as he was bellowing, his anger could be assuaged. When his anger turned inward and he became very quiet, he was at his most dangerous. If this were true of Philip, then the situation was indeed very serious.
He was silent for a few moments and then his voice was barely a whisper when he said, “You are queen, you must demand that I be given my rights as king.”
Despite her chagrin at his speech, Mary responded instantly and instinctively. “Oh, I couldn’t very well do that,” she said. Perhaps things were done differently in Spain, but in England Parliament and the Council must agree to all, and there was no hope of rescinding any of the decisions that had upset her husband so very much.
Philip eyed her coldly for a long moment and then lay down in the bed with his back to her. “Then I pray you, leave me in peace,” he said. He may be trapped between his father’s iron will and the queen’s pathetic belief that she would produce an heir, but this night, he intended to sleep alone.
Mary stood holding the candle that was now guttering and almost burnt out. She was stunned; she had thought everything was wonderful, that Philip was as happy and satisfied with her as she was with him. She knew her own shortcomings, especially her physical ones, but he had seemed so happy and pleased to be here. Was it all really just an act? If that were so, then her idyll was shattered. She looked over at the hump in the bed that was her husband. To quarrel would be the very worst thing; at all costs she must remain calm. To find out now that the precious diamond that was her marriage was really only glass was a painful discovery. But she was still a Tudor, and she possessed in full measure the Trastamara trait of devotion to duty that both she and Philip had inherited from Queen Isabella of Spain.
First and foremost, no one must ever know; she must present on the morrow the same face of happiness and satisfaction that she had truly felt for the past weeks since her marriage. She could do nothing about her husband’s long list of things about which he was so dissatisfied, but she must find a way to deflect him from his discontent. She thought for a moment and an idea so brilliant filled her mind that she was certain God must have placed it there in this moment of dire need. Another miracle!
“Philip,” she said urgently, “Listen to me. I understand and I share your unhappiness over these things. But there is one thing that you can do that is much more important than any of it.”
He stirred; he sat up again and faced her. She was his wife and a queen; that he could not ignore, so strong was his sense of responsibility and obligation to his position as king. He said nothing; he waited for her to speak.
“Philip,” she said, “the plan to return England to the Catholic faith has stalled. I cannot move it forward. The Parliament defeated the reinstitution of the heresy laws in their last assembly. Charles has Reginald lingering in Brussels, for fear of I know not what. I am certain that if you set your mind to it, that you could find a way forward. This is important work, Philip. It would not be for me, or even for England. It would be for the glory of God Himself.”
Philip regarded her. Mary’s face always took on a fanatical glow whenever she spoke of returning England to Rome. He knew why; he knew her history, and England’s. He also knew that she was as adamant about the return of church property as Reginald, Cardinal Pole, was himself. It was for this reason that the emperor detained the cardinal in Brussels. If he should allow the cardinal to return to England before he had changed his position on this issue, it might very well set in motion a series of events that could prevent England from ever returning to the Catholic faith. When all was said and done, the nobles and the landed gentry were perfectly content to hear Mass again, but they had no intention of giving up their wealth to an ideal. Before any real move could be made towards reconciliation and the withdrawal of the Interdict, the English must be assured that they would be permitted to keep their land and revenues. Cardinal Pole and the pope, as well as the queen herself, must be convinced that there was no other way they would ever be able to reclaim England back into the fold of the Catholic Church. And the Parliament must reinstate the heresy laws so that anyone not willing to conform could be punished. Philip considered; given time, he felt sure that he could accomplish all of this.
The only obstacle, did she but know it, would be Mary herself. She was as adamant about the return of Church lands and revenue as was her kinsman, Cardinal Pole. He did admire that she had the courage of her convictions; the crown owned much of the lands and claimed much of the revenues in question. As queen, Mary had tried to set an example to her nobles and had returned much of the crown lands and revenues. But her example had fallen on deaf ears and had accomplished little save violence to her own finances.
Still, he could sense that she was desperate to keep the peace between them. Very well. He would begin the monumental task of returning England to Rome for the glory of God. If he never accomplished anything else in this saturated Hell
of a place, it would be enough. But there was no getting around the fact that part of that task was the provision of a Catholic heir to ensure that it all did not come crumbling down upon the queen’s death. He was certain that his seed was wasted on this old, barren woman who was his cousin and now, was his wife and queen. She could never satisfy his needs as a man; he would have to find some other outlet for that or go mad. But for now, he must do his duty He sighed and threw back the covers.
Mary blew out the candle, which now had a flame so small that it did not take more than the slightest breath to do so.
Chapter 42
“The baker’s daughter in her russet gown; better than Queen Mary without her crown.”
– Verse from a contemporary song at the time of Mary Tudor’s marriage to Philip of Spain
Westminster Palace, September 1554
The muted light of a cloudy dawn filtered in through the heavy curtains on the vast windows, masking the rich colours of the bed hangings and making everything seem black, white and gray. For the third morning in a row, Mary had awakened with a jerk and a start, going from deep slumber to wakefulness in the space of just a moment. But this morning she was prepared. Beside her on the empty bed lay the porcelain bowl. Just as before, she awakened, all seemed well for just an instant, and then a wave of nausea swept over her, followed by violent retching.
On the first morning that this mysterious malady occurred, she was taken completely unawares and had vomited on the floor. On the second morning, she made sure that the porcelain bowl was to hand. That had been wise; and it served her again on this third morning.
For the first time, she was glad that Philip was not in the room. It grieved her that he never spent the night with her. She had had visions of them lying there in the vast bed, legs and arms entwined after a night of lovemaking, remaining together as one flesh even after the culmination of the act of love. But he never stayed. He always crept silently away when he thought she had fallen asleep. Sometimes she was asleep when he left her, but sometimes she was not; on those nights she would weep quietly into her pillow.
The Baker's Daughter Volume 2 Page 53