Juan was with Charles when the news was brought of Philip’s action at St. Quentin and his subsequent hesitation.
The Emperor’s face grew purple and the veins showed in angry knots at his temple.
“Holy Mother of God!” he exploded. “Why … why … in the name of Christ, why? The greatest opportunity a general ever had … and lost … lost! Philip is useless. Is he as mad as his grandmother? Had I but been there …”
He paced the apartment and all feared that he would injure himself. But suddenly he stopped and looked at the boy.
“One day,” he said, “you may be a general leading your armies. Then … you will remember this day. But, Juan, you will learn … you will profit from the mistakes of others …”
And, contemplating the boy beside him, he grew calmer. He shrugged his shoulders. He was an old man in retreat from the world. He had but to brood on his sins and win absolution. The conduct of wars was no longer any concern of his.
He fell to wondering what he would have for dinner—a rich capon, chickens, a fat goose, peacocks roasted by the best cooks in Spain, who now resided at the monastery of Yuste?
Mary Tudor shut herself away; she lived almost completely in retirement now. She had failed. She had lost Calais, and her people were saying that in the five years of her reign she had brought disaster on England. She had burned men’s bodies—respected men such as Archbishop Cranmer; she had put England under a foreign influence. There was disaster everywhere.
And she was old and ill. She could only write passionate letters to Philip, some of which she did not send. She even offered him coronation if he would return to her. For as long as she could, she had believed in the coming of the child; but the months were passing, and it was nearly a year since Philip had gone.
Philip was still urging the marriage of Elizabeth with Emmanuel Philibert. He had made peace with the French, and his son Don Carlos was to marry the eldest daughter of the French King; but Calais was still in the hands of the French.
Jealousy tormented her. Great attention was being paid to her sister Elizabeth, and many of those whom she had believed to be her friends were slipping away to Hatfield and begging to be of service there. Cardinal Pole, that dear friend and staunch supporter, was as sick as she was herself. And Philip did not come back.
He sent his cousin, Christina of Denmark, to try to persuade her to permit the marriage of Elizabeth with Savoy. How she had hated that visit and the visitor!
Christina was noted throughout Europe for her charm and beauty, and there were rumors that Philip had been deeply enamored of her and would have liked to marry her.
Mary’s jealousy would not allow her to treat Christina with the honor due to her rank. She was coldly received in England, and went back, her mission unaccomplished.
And on the day she left, Mary stood before Philip’s latest portrait, which represented him in armor, and in which he looked very handsome, in spite of the fact that he wore no helmet. She recalled the message he had sent with the picture: It was not in accordance with etiquette that he should stand, his head covered, in the presence of the Queen.
She had been delighted with picture and message. Now she thought with great bitterness how very devoted he could be when he was absent!
And as she gazed at the picture, she cried: “You are cold! You will never come back to me. You are not faithful to me. You stay away, not because of state affairs, but because you hate to be with me. You could be at my side if you wished. But you hate me … hate … hate me …”
She took up a knife and slashed the canvas to ribbons.
Then, in frustration, she fell sobbing to the floor.
Jane Dormer found her thus; she called to Mistress Clarencius and tenderly they carried her to her bed.
The Emperor knew that his end was near. It was September at Yuste and he felt at peace. His confessor, Juan de Regla, sat on a stool at his bedside. The Emperor was ready to leave this world.
He prayed for Philip, who had so many good qualities. He feared for Philip. What would happen in the great dominions? wondered Charles. Philip was surrounded by enemies. He had shown himself to be a man who could not make the quick decisions which could shape his destiny. He consoled himself; there was much to be said for caution, patience, and steady virtue.
He thought of Orange and hoped that young man would not give Philip any trouble. Orange was a man born to greatness. And Philip was not one who could combine religion and statecraft. Philip had been taught that he must serve God first, his country second; and he believed it. Philip took these precepts too literally. Charles had been Emperor first, Catholic second. That was a sobering thought now that he was nearing his end, but he was too much the realist to deny it.
“God help him …” murmured the Emperor. “God help Philip in the tasks that lie ahead …”
But now Charles was smiling, thinking of little Juan. There was a son to warm the heart of a dying man.
Philip would look after little Juan. Thank God and all the saints that Philip could be trusted. Philip would do his duty. What more could a man ask of his son?
He had been blessed in his sons.
But he must think of his own passing. The time was short. Philip would do his duty. Juan would be a great soldier—he was sure of it—handsome and strong so that the people would love him; it might be that in the future they would speak of Don Juan as they now spoke of the Cid.
He had had a long life and it had been a satisfactory life since it had given him two such as Philip and Juan.
To his eyes, the light in the room seemed dim. His priest was at hand. They were giving him extreme unction. So the end was as near as that. All the sins of a long harsh lifetime were forgiven …
“Christ … crucified … aid me.”
He was fast sinking; his lips moved. “Christ crucified …”
But his hazy thoughts were reaching into the future … that future which was Philip’s and little Juan’s.
Death did not come singly. Hard on the news of the Emperor’s death came the messenger from England with news of Mary’s sickness.
Philip would not believe that she was dying.
“How can I go to England now?” he demanded. “My father is dead. My duties increase. Moreover, the Queen has been ill before.”
She had had a false pregnancy, he was remembering. Might not this also be a false alarm?
He decided to send Feria with a message and a ring.
“If the Queen is dying,” he said, “we must at all costs secure the accession of Elizabeth. She is suspected of heresy, and that is deplorable; but if she does not succeed to the throne, the King of France will have the crown for Mary of Scotland. That we must prevent. If France succeeds, all our work will have failed. We shall lose our footing in England; and before long we shall have the English and French banded together against us.”
“There is the match between Elisabeth of Valois and Don Carlos,” said Feria.
“These matches! They sometimes come to naught. We will not rely upon it. The English law says that the reigning monarch must name his successor. Mary must name Elizabeth.”
“I will make known your Majesty’s wishes to her.”
“And, Feria, give her loving greetings from me. Explain that I cannot come. Speak of my duties here … my father’s death … Surely there are excuses enough; and even she must see that I must be here.”
“I will endeavor to make her see reason, your Highness.”
When Feria had gone, Philip stared ahead, seeing that bed-chamber which he felt would be engraved upon his mind for ever. Could it be true that his wife was dying? If so, it would mean the loss of Spanish power in England, but oh, what glorious freedom for the King of Spain!