Jean Plaidy - For a Queens Love: The Stories of the Royal Wives of Philip II

• Название: For a Queens Love: The Stories of the Royal Wives of Philip II
• Автор: Jean Plaidy
• Жанр: Прочая старинная литература

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But he sat still, and only the white knuckles just visible against the pale skin of his hands showed his eagerness.

The great men would not be hurried. Philip looked from the Primate to the Duke of Alba, who was one of those against whom his father had warned him. “He is ambitious, sanctimonious, and hypocritical,” Charles had said. “He will try to tempt you by whatever means he has. But remember that he is a grandee. Do not let him have any share in the interior government of your kingdom. Make use of him in foreign affairs and in war. Those are his fields, and in them he is the best man we have.” Now, looking at Alba’s sly, aristocratic face, Philip thought: But this is not a matter of war, and if you try to prevent my marriage with Maria Manoela, Don Fernando Alvarez de Toledo, Duke of Alba, I’ll not allow it.

But it seemed that Alba was in favor of the marriage.

“Militarily,” he said to the council, “it is ideal. The peninsula of Spain and Portugal must stand as one country, and every tie which binds our two states together is for the benefit of both.”

Philip could smile realizing that Alba saw everything from the military angle.

That other councillor, Granvelle, whom Charles had brought to Spain from Holland, and who was now one of his chief advisers, supported Alba. “Spain and Portugal should stand together,” he said. “Nothing could be better for Spain.”

Then Cardinal Tabera rose. He bowed to Philip and spoke the words which the Prince had been waiting to hear.

“The Holy Father has decided to grant your Highness his formal dispensation for the marriage between your Highness and your first cousin, Maria Manoela …”

Philip heard no more.

He longed to open his doublet, to bring out the locket and gaze at the bewildered face of his Maria Manoela, whom he was going to make the happiest Queen of Spain.

All through September Philip waited impatiently. Disguised, he would ride out with his friend Ruy and his cousin Maximilian. It was the duty of a ruler, he believed, to go unknown among his subjects. How could he properly see them through the traditional haze of ceremony that surrounded a ruler?

He watched the gathering of the grapes and the making of the wine; once he had to fly for his life from robbers whom he encountered on a mountain path when he had ridden too far from home, too heavily disguised. Such adventures did not excite him as they did Ruy or Max. He preferred the successes he scored with his councillors, for he was once more Regent, since his father was again away from Spain. He knew that his father delighted to leave him in charge of the kingdom and that he sought to press more and more responsibility upon him. Every day came long dispatches from the Emperor: he was entrusting Philip with every secret, insisting that Philip should know every move that was made. And the reason? As Philip approached maturity, so Charles stepped nearer and nearer to the life of seclusion that he craved.

Philip was proud of his father’s trust, but how he longed—and particularly at this time—for a carefree life!

“When will she come?” he demanded impatiently of Ruy; and impatience was something Ruy had never seen him display before. “Do you think that even now they will make some excuse to keep her from me?”

“Can you love her when you have not seen her?” wondered Ruy.

“Is it not my duty to love her?”

“So it is duty, the need to marry young and provide heirs for the kingdom, that makes you yearn for her presence? So that is the reason for your Highness’s eagerness?”

Philip half-turned to his friend. But not even to Ruy could he explain his true feelings.

Toward the end of October news came that the Infanta Maria Manoela had left her native land in great pomp and with such lavish display that the eyes of all who beheld it were dazzled.

Philip scarcely slept during the nights of waiting. He longed to act without thought of ceremony and tradition! He wished he could have ridden out to meet her like some hero of old. He pictured himself inches taller than he was, dark and handsome as Ruy, covered in glory as was the Duke of Alba, as romantic as the Cid himself.

If he could have ridden thus he would not have made himself known to her at first; he would have impressed her with his chivalry, his virtues…. He would have been an unknown knight to rescue her from robbers, tilting in her honor, making her love him for himself … Philip … not the Prince of Spain.

Was this the essence of his dream? Was it merely to make Philip loved for his own sake? What a selfish, egotistical dream that was! And yet it was what he longed for. The love of Leonor was the only love that he could feel was completely disinterested. His father loved him for the duties he would take over; his mother had loved him because he was the son whom it was her duty to give to the royal house. Alba, Granvelle, Tabera, Medina Sidonia—all those men who had sworn to serve him with their lives—did not care for him; they gave their allegiance to the heir of Spain. Which of these people would love him constantly whatever he became? Only Leonor. And she made him impatient because she continued to treat him as a baby.

There was no one who could give him the love he needed—except Maria Manoela.

He longed for her; he wanted to tell her of all the trials that beset him, to make known to her the Philip whom none other—not even Ruy or Leonor—could know. That was why he longed for Maria Manoela.

He dreamed of her; he would wake with her name on his lips. And now that she was on her way to him, soon the dream would become a reality. No longer would he have to whisper “Maria Manoela” to the air; she would be beside him; he would put his arms about her, and his love would be tender because of her baby mouth and her bewildered eyes.

Meanwhile he must act, not as a lovesick young man, but as the Regent of Spain. To abandon ceremony in this matter would be an unforgivable breach of that etiquette so dear to all Spanish hearts.

To meet the procession from Lisbon he sent an embassy to the frontiers of Spain and Portugal. At its head was the Duke of Medina Sidonia, the Guzman chief, the richest of all the nobles in Andalusia. In the Duke’s retinue would be slaves from the Indies who would proclaim the extent of Spanish conquest; the members of his household would be clad in the most splendid costumes; as for the Duke himself, the very mules which carried his litter would be shod with gold. The Portuguese—and Maria Manoela among them—must realize the riches and power of the Spaniards.

Philip was a little uneasy thinking of the Infanta’s first glimpse of the grandees of Spain. What would be her reactions when she compared himself with these handsome men? It was true that his entourage would be more magnificent than the Duke’s, his clothes more rich. But could such magnificence, such fine clothes, make up for a shortness of stature? If she were expecting a young man as handsome as Ruy Gomez, would she be disappointed with her pale Prince?

He would make her love him. He would throw aside restraint; for her he would be a different person from the Philip any had known before.

After all, he was not yet seventeen, and he still had time in which to grow.

How could he wait for the formal meeting? He must see her; he must have a glimpse of her before she saw him. He must have that advantage.

Ruy seemed to read his thoughts, for he said with a hint of mischief in his eyes: “I know what I should be tempted to do were I in your place.”

Philip raised his eyebrows.

Ruy continued: “Ride out … disguised … mingle with the crowds … take my first look at my bride before she met me formally.”

Only the heightening of his color betrayed his excitement.

“I will consider that,” said Philip.

Among the crowds that had gathered in the streets of Salamanca to see the entry of the Infanta from Portugal was a young man in the company of six others. He was a fair-haired pale-faced nobleman in a slouched velvet hat well pulled down over his face. Beside him was a dark, lithe man with merry eyes.

They saw the meeting between the Portuguese procession and the Spanish professors of the University of Salamanca. They saw the regidores and the judges in crimson velvet and white shoes—a splash of color against the somber academic robes of the rectors and the professors. Guarding the procession rode the soldiers in their brilliant uniforms; and the shouts of the people mingled with the triumphant music.

Through the gates of the city went the procession on its way to the palace of the Duke of Alba, where the Infanta would pass the night.

Philip’s heart leaped with delight when he saw his bride, for she was all that he had imagined she would be. She was exactly like the pretty picture he carried in his locket. There she sat on her mule, which was covered with rich brocade; her saddle was of silver and her dress of cloth of silver on which flowers had been embroidered in gold thread. Her Castilian cape was of purple velvet and on that had been worked flowers in gold thread. Her lovely dark hair fell about her shoulders; her hat, decorated with a great plume, which drooped gracefully to one side of her face, was of the same purple velvet, gold-embroidered, as her cape.

But what did he care for these gaudy accoutrements! He looked at the thick, dark hair, at the plump little face beneath the feather-decorated hat, at the wide eyes and the rounded cheeks. This was his Maria Manoela whom he loved. He could see that she was frightened—frightened of all the pomp of Spain, which must match that of Portugal. There she was, his dear little cousin as yet, his wife to be.

He wanted to cry out: “Oh Maria … Maria Manoela, do not be afraid. I am here to protect you.”

Then he wondered whether, much as she feared all these people, she feared her husband more.

If only he could have gone to her, pushed aside all these people. If only he could have said: “I will dismiss all these people and we will ride away together!”

The heroes of old might have done such things, but not the modern Prince of Spain.

He wondered what she had heard of him. Was it something to frighten her? Could it be that she had not liked his picture as he had liked hers? For a moment his restraint all but deserted him. This was, after all, the most important day he had yet lived through. There was his wife-to-be, and here he was, in the crowd, looking on like any humble sightseer. He all but pushed his way through the crowd to go to her.

But lifetime habits were too strong.

He remained perfectly still, his face impassive, his eyes fixed on the glittering young girl, as the bridle of her mule was taken by Don Luis Sarmiento, who had recently been Ambassador to Portugal. Now Don Luis was leading her under the brilliant canopy where she would receive the homage of the city magistrates.

All eyes were upon her, and not one of those attendants guessed that in that assembly was the Prince himself.

“Long live the Infanta!” shouted the people.

And if he did not shout as loudly as some, none spoke those words more fervently than Philip, her future husband.

He stood beside her, weighed down with splendor, while the Duke and Duchess of Alba, his sponsors, hovered close, and the Archbishop of Toledo performed the nuptial ceremony.

All Salamanca was en fête. The streets were filled with people, and the merrymaking would continue for days. From all over the country came the great noblemen to attend the wedding and the banquets and tourneys which would follow. The students from the University were given free meals to celebrate the marriage, for Philip, in his silent observation, had discovered what would please his subjects most; the people of the town were to be given the best bulls for their entertainment, and the finest matadors were coming from all corners of Spain to perform in Salamanca on the occasion of the Prince’s wedding.

And, standing before the Archbishop, Philip was aware of nothing but his bride’s covert glances. Her hand trembled in his. It was the first time she had seen him, for etiquette insisted that they should not see each other until the wedding day.

How he longed to reassure her! Poor little Maria Manoela! She was a few months younger than he was, and he was only sixteen. As he stood close to her he realized how young she was. She was a child, which was what he had never been allowed to be.

He had heard that she had wept bitterly in her apartments in the palace of the Duke of Alba; she had cried for her mother and her home in Portugal. She had admitted that she was afraid of her cousin Philip, for she had heard that he never laughed—and at home in Lisbon she and her family had laughed very much.

“But,” said Philip’s informant, “we made the Infanta laugh, your Highness. She could not help it when the Duke’s comic dwarf did his tricks for her. And she was amused with the Duke’s monkeys. She laughed so much at their antics that she forgot your royal Highness.”

He would tell her that she would not long need dwarfs and monkeys to cheer her. Soon he would show her that she had nothing to fear.

He wanted to press her hand, but he did not do so. He had been rehearsed in the solemn ceremony, and he was accustomed to doing exactly what was required of him. He was also afraid that if he did anything unexpected she might turn those wondering eyes upon him and ask what he meant. That would be embarrassing under the solemn eyes of the Duke and Duchess.

The ceremony was long. The little bride was fatigued. The bridegroom saw the sheen of tears in her eyes.

He could not contain his thoughts then. He whispered: “It will not be long now.” He had intended his voice to sound soft and comforting, but instead it seemed harsh. That was due to emotion, but how was she to know that! She would remember that she had heard how stern he was, how he never laughed. She flushed, concluding that in showing her tiredness she had been at fault.

Now she kept her eyes firmly fixed before her, and he knew that she was longing for her home in Lisbon.

After the ceremony was concluded the banquets and the entertainments began.

Would they never be alone? he wondered.

He did have a few words with her, whispered words, for how could he say what was in his heart, with all those people looking on?

“We are cousins,” he said.

“Yes.”

“And now … we are married.”

“Yes.”

She was straining to give the right answers. He is very serious, they had told her. Already, in spite of his youth—he is only a few months older than yourself—he has governed Spain in his father’s absence.

He knew that she was looking for some significance behind his words. How could he say to her, “I want to hear your pretty voice. I want to watch your pretty lips …”?

But there was time. They had the whole of their lives before them.

They danced together in the house of Christóbal Juarez.

“The Spanish manner is different from the Portuguese,” he said.

“I … I crave your Highness’s pardon. I … I shall quickly learn the Spanish ways.”