Mary was tossing on her bed. There were few ladies to attend to her wants, and she knew why. They had deserted her—so many of them—and were on their way to Hatfield.
There, her red-haired sister would have put on new dignity. That haughtiness which ever lurked behind her blue eyes, would emerge. Elizabeth … Queen of England.
She, so young, would be so powerful. She would choose her own husband. Perhaps Philip would sue for her hand. No, not that! She must not imagine such things. She must try to be calm.
The fever was with her again. It had been decided that the Palace of Richmond was too damp and had aggravated her fever. Her dear friend Reginald Pole suffered from the same fever. He was not expected to outlive her.
Will Philip come? she wondered. Surely none could refuse the request of a dying woman?
This time she wished him just to touch her hand and to smile, to pretend to the last that he loved her. Was that asking too much of him?
Ah, but he had hated her. Her people hated her. They would say after she was dead: She brought strangers into the land; she restarted the fires of Smithfield; she lost Calais.
How bright had seemed her future on that day five years ago when she had ridden into London to the Tower to be crowned. Queen of England! And all England was with her then, all shouting: “Death to the false Jane Grey!”
But now it was a different tale. Now they would shout: “Death to Mary. Long live Elizabeth!”
One of her ladies came to tell her that the Count of Feria was without and craving audience.
The Count of Feria! But it should have been Philip.
Yet why should Philip come? There was nothing he wanted of her now.
She greeted the Count with her melancholy smile. There was one who would be more glad to see Feria than Philip. Might he prove a good husband to Jane Dormer, better than the husband the Queen had had!
But she would entertain no evil thoughts against Philip. He was good and noble. Was it his fault that he could not love her? He had tried. How he had tried!
The Count knelt by her bed and, kissing her burning hand, gave her the loving message and the ring; then he told her the real reason for his coming. “His Highness declares it is imperative that you name the Lady Elizabeth as your successor.”
She smiled wanly. Ah, yes, of course. She must ensure English friendship with Spain. She must remember Spain’s enemies, the French. She nodded feebly.
“If Elizabeth will pay my debts and swear to keep our religion as she found it, then I agree.”
When Feria had left her, she lay half-conscious, thinking that Philip was beside her. Then she became disturbed. She cried out that she could hear the screams of men and women in agony. Were they burning now outside the Palace? Did they not know that Smithfield Square was the appropriate place?
Mistress Clarencius soothed her. “Nay, your Majesty. All is well.”
“But I smell the fires.”
“It is the one here in your chamber, your Majesty.”
“I hear the crackle of wood. What of Cranmer?”
“It is not for your Majesty to concern yourself with heretics at this time. Rest is what you need.”
She said: “He held out his right hand that it might burn first. My father was fond of Cranmer. He gave him much honor. Oh, Clarencius, less than three hundred were burned under my rule; and in my husband’s land there have been three hundred at one auto-da-fé.”
“Do not speak of it, dearest Majesty.”
“In the streets they speak of it. They call me Bloody Mary. I know it. There are things which cannot be kept from me. They are all going to Hatfield now. They will shout for her. She is young and fair enough … though not so fair as she thinks she is. She will have many suitors for her hand, and Philip … Philip …”
“Rest, your Majesty, rest.”
She closed her eyes and the tears rolled slowly down her cheeks. She smiled suddenly and said: “What matters it, my friends? This is the end.”
She asked for extreme unction and that afterward Mass should be celebrated in her chamber; and at the elevation of the Host she lifted her eyes and she bowed her head at the benediction.
Then she seemed contented and at peace. She seemed to have forgotten the martyrs who had perished in her reign, that the people had called her Bloody Mary, and that she had lost Calais.
Her smile almost beautified her face in those last moments, and those about her bed thought that she could only have smiled thus if she had believed that Philip was with her.
ELISABETH
DE VALOIS
ONE
Carlos had changed. He had grown quieter; he had assumed more dignity; he no longer referred to himself as little one. He was Don Carlos, heir to the throne, and he did not forget it.
The reason was that he was to have a bride.
He had seen her picture and as soon as he had seen it this change had come upon him, for never had he seen anything so beautiful as the face in the locket which he carried about with him. She had a small, oval face, great dark eyes, and masses of black hair; she was half French, half Italian, and she was the daughter of Henri, King of France, and the Italian Catherine de Medici.
He had heard some time ago that he was to have this bride, but he had taken little heed at the time because, as Prince of Spain, many brides had been suggested for him. It was not long after his father had left for England on the first occasion that his father and the French King had decided Carlos should marry the young Princess when the Peace of Vaucelles had been signed. That seemed to have been forgotten, as so many plans were; but now there was a new treaty with France, the portrait had arrived, and, having seen it, Carlos could think of little else but the Princess of France.
At first he had thought it would be amusing to have a bride, to be the master, to force her to do all that he desired; but when he looked at the picture, those feelings left him. There was nothing within him now but a tenderness and an apprehension, for what would she, this beautiful Princess, think of him—stunted, crippled, and so ugly when the fits of anger came upon him?
Once he had loved his Aunt Juana, but she was strange now. She prayed constantly, and she thought of nothing beyond saving her soul for the future life; and she went about with her face half covered, withdrawn, remote from the world. People said she was strange; but it was not the strangeness of himself and his great-grandmother; there was no wild laughter, no impulse to do extraordinary things. Juana’s strangeness was a religious fervency which resulted in deep melancholy. She was, Carlos reflected, very certain of her place in Heaven, but that did not make her such a good companion here on Earth.
But to whom else could he talk? There was so much he wanted to know. He wished that he had not neglected his studies. He did not understand French; nor did he know Latin. He knew very little of the history of his own country, let alone others. If only he had worked harder! But how could he have known that they were going to give him a beautiful and learned Princess like this one for his wife? And how could he have known he would want to shine so much in her eyes?
“Juana,” he asked, “Aunt Juana, what is it like at the court of France?”
She drew her hood closer over her face, and he saw her lips tighten. “The French are godless,” she said. “Although they have improved under the present King’s reign. In the time of his father, theirs was the most immoral court in the world, and still is, I doubt not, for the French are wicked by nature.”
“That was her grandfather—this wicked King,” said Carlos with satisfaction. His brain was more alert; he was determined it should be. He was not going to be ignorant any more. He was going to learn and be clever for the sake of Elisabeth de Valois. “What did they do at her grandfather’s court?” he asked.