But Charles knew the dangers of such closeness and proximity. As soon as Christina was marriageable he arranged a brilliant match for her with the Duke of Milan; a strategic alliance indeed for the Empire. Christina was twelve, and the duke nearing forty. The union seemed happy enough, but produced no offspring, and after one year the duke died and Christina found herself a widow at the age of thirteen.
During her year as the Duchess of Milan her fame had spread; the proposals for the hand of the beautiful, witty Christina poured into the Imperial court at Brussels. Duke William of Cleves; Duke François of Lorraine; Duke Antoine of Navarre; the choices seemed endless, but the only consideration given to the decision as to whom this much-coveted prize should wed next was which offer of marriage constituted the best political alliance for the Hapsburg dynasty. While Charles mulled the possibilities for Christina’s next marriage, the Queen of England died giving birth to the son that King Henry had divorced and murdered two wives to get. The King of England, hearing of the availability of the delectable sixteen-year-old Christina, sent an urgent message begging permission for a portrait, that he might consider this paragon for his fourth wife. Holbein duly arrived at the Imperial court and painted the portrait, but Christina firmly refused to marry the King of England; even the lure of a crown was not enough to gain her consent. The answer she gave to His Grace of England’s proposal of marriage was that if she had two heads, she would gladly consider placing one of them at the disposal of Henry Tudor. But as it was…
Had the Emperor Charles set his mind on such a match there would have been no choice for her, but Continental politics was given more weight than just a crown for his niece, and Christina soon found herself on her way to the Duchy of Lorraine.
But even had his father not chosen François of Lorraine for Christina’s next husband, Christina herself had broken her smitten cousin’s young heart by openly declaring her love for Rene of Chalon, the Prince of Orange. The feeling was evidently mutual; had Christina and Rene been permitted to marry, it would have been that rarity amongst the nobility, a love match. But the emperor’s judgment in such matters was never ruled by his heart (if indeed he possessed such a thing, which his son had come to doubt), but by his head. Charles not only decreed that his beautiful niece must marry the Duke of Lorraine, but never one to miss a diplomatic opportunity, he also arranged for the Prince of Orange to marry the duke’s sister. Thus the Hapsburg alliance with the Duchy of Lorraine was assured twice over.
And so Philip watched in stoic misery as Christina married the Duke of Lorraine; and then soon after that he himself was married, at his father’s behest, to his cousin Maria Manuela, in order to fortify the Empire’s relations with Portugal.
Time marched on and Christina once again found herself a young widow, but this time she had a son and was made regent of the duchy on his behalf. Philip’s wife died in childbirth and once again, their dynastic marriages at an end, both were free. But the Emperor Charles, as the father of one and the uncle of the other, did not subscribe to the notion that once one had married for state reasons, one ought to be able to choose, or at least be allowed to exert some influence over, the person who was to be one’s next spouse. Philip was married instead to Mary, to gain the kingdom of England for the Hapsburg dynasty, and Christina, despite a bevy of offers for her hand, had a duchy to rule and was, for the time being, permitted to marry no one.
As fate would have it, the Duchy of Lorraine was overrun by the French, Christina’s son was taken from her, and she found herself once again a refugee at the Imperial court in Brussels. This was just at the time when Philip arrived to take over his father’s dominions so that the tired, ill emperor could abdicate to his son and finally attain his heart’s desire; to retire to the monastery at San Yuste, which he had dreamed of doing for so long.
Philip’s infatuation with Elizabeth of England evaporated like a marsh mist the moment he beheld once again his beautiful cousin; now no longer a sylph-like child, but a grown woman. Suddenly another match with dreary England lost its allure, even with the fiery, fascinating Elizabeth Tudor. And this time, Christina returned his affection.
But now he must needs placate his much-neglected, aging wife in England in order to obtain that which he must have: the sinews of war. The price of marriage to Mary for him had indeed been very high; he expected to be repaid for his trouble, and he was now going back to England to collect on the debt. So here he was, approaching Dover, where he and his party would spend the night before proceeding up the Thames Estuary to Greenwich. Yes, here he was, hat in hand, as it were; to beg his wife and her Council for the men, money, supplies, arms and ships he needed to prosecute his Continental war. And Mary, he knew, was hell-bent on producing the heir to the throne that she so desperately needed to perpetuate her renewal of the Catholic faith in England; but more importantly, to keep her sister, the daughter of her worst enemy, off the throne.
Very well, then, if he must needs participate in this warmed-over honeymoon, then he must…and well he knew what Mary would expect from him as the price of her support for his Continental war. His wife, despite her age and the fact that she had lived most of her life as a virgin princess, was anything but frigid in the marriage bed. The thought of what he would be called upon to do night after night while in England revolted him.
He was no prude, indeed, he had been consistently unfaithful to his wife since he departed England eighteen months before. But he thought, he felt in his heart, that one suffered a unique violence to one’s soul when one was forced to engage in such an act with someone with whom one did not wish to with every fiber of one’s being. And the emotional trauma inflicted by such a thing was worsened a hundredfold when the real object of one’s affection was just a stone’s throw away. So this time, he promised himself, there would be no such scruple as that which he had observed on his wedding night, when he had resolutely refused to imagine himself in the arms of Maria Elena instead of his wife. This time when Mary blew out the candles on the coming nights that he would be forced to spend in her bed, it would be Christina’s face that he saw.
Greenwich Palace, London, March 1557
Overnight the season had turned from winter to spring; the weather was very pleasant and the sun shone warm and golden on the skin. It had been a perfect day for the last stage of their journey, the voyage from Dover to London. The sea air was bracing with just a hint of salt, giving way to a new freshness as the ship left the open sea for the river and tacked up the Thames Estuary on its way to their final destination: the docks at Greenwich Palace. It was from that very pier that Philip had departed eighteen months before. How well he remembered Mary’s pale face, drawn with anguish and with the tears that royal dignity had prevented her from shedding for all to see. He learned later that her grief had been given full rein and was unrestrained once she had returned to her privy chamber. Poor queen; it was not her fault, but then it was not his fault, either. He had not wanted to marry her. And now here he was, his field reversed, with a tail wind from the east speeding his return to a place that he had fervently hoped never to see again.
It was late in the afternoon and the sun was a fiery disc just above the horizon, turning the few clouds, elongated by the wind, blood red so that they reached through the sky like the hand of God. He was flanked at the ship’s rail by Marguerite and Christina. He placed a brotherly arm around the Duchess of Parma; she who was usually so ebullient and confident now seemed less self-assured, he guessed, at the thought of meeting for the first time their cousin, the Queen of England. He squeezed Marguerite’s shoulder with his hand and gave her a reassuring smile.
His other hand sought Christina’s, hidden in the folds of her skirts. She knew that he loved her; he had never hidden the fact from her. But both were royal and pragmatic, and realized that their love might never be allowed to be more than filial. Both had accepted this long ago, but Philip knew that the whole situation was much harder on him than it was on her. For this he did not blame her, ra
ther, he was glad if her heartbreak was less than his. And there was still hope; Mary could die, his father could die. It was something to cling to.
They rounded a bend in the river, making very good speed, then suddenly he saw the pier. It was thronged with people, a hundred torches guttering in the wind, the colorful pennants and banners bearing the royal arms of England, Spain and the Empire snapping smartly in the stiff breeze. As soon as the ship was sighted the trumpets began to blare and the sound carried on the wind, growing louder as the ship approached the dock.
And then he saw her. All were aware of the queen’s habit of pacing frantically when she was agitated. Whereas the other people who had come to greet the king stood cheek-by-jowl, there was a space around the queen defined by her need to stride at least five steps in each direction as she watched the ship approach, so great was her impatience to see, to touch, her husband once again.
Mary had dressed with great care, finally settling on a blue velvet gown cut in the French style, trimmed with powdered ermine. Her headdress was made of fine golden chains studded with diamonds; one of her gauzy affairs would have been most unsuitable for the windy dockside. She wore a plethora of jewels, almost as a man wears his armor, but prominent around her neck was her wedding gift, La Peregrina, the magnificent table diamond with the pearl pendant as big as a pullet’s egg hanging from it. And finally, Philip’s diamond ring graced her thumb; she twisted it in her agitation as she paced back and forth like a tiger. Although she could see the ship, she could not actually see Philip; but she knew, that is, she expected, that he would be on deck and at the rail, as anxious to see her as she was to see him.
Mary had studied her reflection in the glass before departing her apartments for the dock. Had she changed much? She sighed. The mirror did not lie; she had aged greatly since Philip left. There was no mistaking the effect on her looks of all her cares and woes; they were all writ plainly upon her face. She resolved to smile brightly as soon as she saw Philip. She had been told many times that she had a most pleasing smile; perhaps it would distract him from her shortcomings. Yes, that was it…she would smile and be pleasant. She tried it; the death’s head grinned back at her.
The ship loomed large as it approached its appointed berth at the sturdy dock. Her failing eyesight was getting worse by the day; Mary squinted but could do no better than to make out an abundance of people all lining the ship’s rail, backlit by the setting sun. It was frustrating in the extreme; she knew that Philip must be there but she could not see him. Her pacing back and forth became ever more frantic.
At a signal from high up in the palace, the Tower guns boomed for a full minute as the ship was secured to the pier. A somewhat familiar form amidships on the rail was still naught but a blur to Mary, but this must be, it simply had to be, Philip. Her vision was blurred by more than near-sightedness; her apothecary, Juan de Soto, had taken to bleeding her twice a day, once from the arm and once from the foot, because he believed that it helped to relieve the nervous strain engendered by the contradictions of her choleric and melancholy humors. Between the twice-daily bleedings, lack of sleep and the poppy syrup, which she had taken a double dose of that morning due to a most ill-timed, raging toothache, she was reeling with fatigue. Still, this was the moment for which she had been waiting for eighteen long months and despite her lassitude and her still-throbbing tooth, she meant to enjoy it to the fullest.
Philip saw his wife on the pier, pacing like a madwoman, straining her neck to spot him. The deckhands secured the gangplank and flanked by his sister and his cousin, he took the first steps that would render him back onto English soil. He believed that Mary still did not see him or he felt certain that she would have marched straight up the gangway. Finally only a few feet separated them; his wife was still squinting, unsure if it were he or some emissary sent to announce him.
When he reached the end of the ramp and stepped onto the pier, he sighed, drew a deep breath and said, “I am here, Your Grace. It is I.” He bowed and reached out for her hand; to kiss the hand was the Spanish style and he had no desire to kiss her on the lips. But all of a sudden Mary abandoned all decorum and flew into his arms, crying, clinging to him and kissing his face. He was embarrassed both for her and for himself; but not to respond in kind would have been churlish indeed, so he embraced her, kissed her cheek and then held her at arm’s length, ostensibly to be better able to see her.
The thought had crossed his mind that his neglectful behavior might have served to irretrievably alienate his wife, but this eager, puppy-like greeting dispelled all fear of that. But he still had no doubt that he would have to convince her to support his cause with the Council from between the sheets. He put that thought aside; he would think of it only at the very moment when he must.
The two duchesses stood patiently waiting to be introduced to this strange creature who was both their cousin and the reigning Queen of England. Mary had not even noticed them in her excitement at seeing her husband again.
Mary would have flown at him again, so he quickly said, “Your Grace, I have brought you the most wonderful surprise.” With an expansive hand he turned and indicated Marguerite and Christina. He had not told her they were coming with him, lest she make some protest or find some reason to say him nay. He was prepared to justify their unannounced presence by reminding Mary that she had once tearfully confided to him that she longed to meet the other members of her mother’s family. She greatly regretted that she had never met their aunt, Mary of Hungary, and that of all the vast store of Hapsburgs, she had thus far met only his father and himself. Well, now here were two of those relatives in the flesh.
Philip put an arm around each woman and said, “Your Grace, here is my half-sister, Marguerite, the Duchess of Parma; and this is our cousin, Christina of Denmark, the Duchess of Milan and Lorraine.”
Mary’s gaze flitted over Marguerite of Parma, whom she dismissed immediately as of no importance whatsoever; duchess and cousin she might be, but she was illegitimate and unworthy of even the slightest scrutiny, let alone regard, in Mary’s opinion. What had possessed her husband to bring such a creature to her notice she could not imagine. She did note that with her blonde hair and limpid blue eyes, Marguerite could have been Philip’s twin instead of his half-sister. But the bitter memories of her own bastard half-brother, the Duke of Richmond, prevented her entirely from being predisposed to desire a closer acquaintance with Marguerite of Parma. And she had had more than enough of bastard half-sisters! A fleeting thought of Elizabeth, who had not yet arrived from Hatfield, crossed her mind. So after the briefest nod of acknowledgement, Mary turned the beacon of her gaze onto Christina.
So this was the woman who might have been her stepmother instead of Anne of Cleves. And this was she who had sought to demonstrate her renowned wit by insulting the King of England with her quip about having two heads. And then Mary chanced to look not at her Danish cousin, but at Philip, and what she saw took her breath away. It was as if she had taken a mighty blow to the stomach. She had seen a similar expression on her husband’s face once before; the night he first beheld Elizabeth. But that remembered look was as the moon compared with the sun. The look of sheer longing on his face as Philip gazed at Christina told its own tale.
Mary stood before them, the remembered smile with which she had vowed to greet her husband frozen on her face.
Syon Monastery, March 1557
A fine mist fell as Mary’s barge drifted slowly with the tide to Syon. The weather had so far been delightful for Philip’s long-awaited return, but after three years of failed crops and ruined harvests, one must be glad for just enough rain to ensure the success of the spring planting, which was now in full swing. All along the short route between Richmond Palace, where the royal party had repaired, and Syon, Mary rejoiced to see the sights of the plows and the deeply dug furrows, the rich, moist soil, the farmers casting their seed with joyful countenance and rhythmic hand.
The rain stopped and the sun was peeking out from
behind the clouds as the royal barge docked at the monastery’s water steps. Mary alighted and made her way along the familiar path. She had seldom made a visit to Dame Agnes on her own; everyone loved the Dame and usually she would have had plenty of company. But Frances, afraid for her life, had long since fled to the Continent; Margaret and young Lord Darnley had gone back to the north; the Fair Geraldine was seeing to her husband’s estates whilst he saw to the ships of Mary’s newly refurbished navy. And this time she needed to see the Dame alone.
Mary’s heart gave a little twist as she turned into the cloisters. All was just as she remembered it and there was a comforting feeling of homecoming in her breast. The gilly flowers, which were planted against the sunny south-facing wall, had bloomed and were in their full glory. Their heady scent mingled with the freshness of the spring rain, creating an intoxicating perfume. Interspersed with the gilly flowers, which were a riot of color, the blue of the larkspur seemed too lovely and vibrant to be real. A warm breeze caressed the delicate, translucent new leaves of the lime trees along the path and in its sigh Mary heard the echoes of the laughter of former visits with her cousins made to this peaceful place.
And then suddenly there she was, at the stillroom door, where she had in times past spent so many happy hours making candles and mixing potpourri. There was the familiar candle in the little round window, its small flame dancing in the draft; the sight of it brought tears of joy to Mary’s eyes. She stepped inside and there was Dame Agnes, in the pose in which Mary had seen her so many times; sleeves rolled up, crisp, snowy white headscarf tied firmly about her hair, her arms up to her elbows in the great copper bowl that gave off a scent to rival that of the stocks and carnations blooming just outside.
Mary had meant to greet the Dame joyfully, but for some inexplicable reason, as soon as she laid eyes on the old woman, her face crumpled and she burst into tears.
The Baker's Daughter Volume 2 Page 67