29
Mary
But why did he not write to me? It seemed so strange that I had as yet received no letter from the man I was to marry. Talebearers gossiping within my hearing—I know they wanted me to hear them, they wanted to hurt me!—archly suggested that perhaps he was too busy, and with great glee and relish imparted tales of his amorous excesses.
They claimed he had mistresses, some liaisons of some duration, others only for one night, and numerous bastards born as a result of both. They said he sometimes exchanged clothes with his grooms and went into low, common taverns to consort with the kind of women who frequented such places, his servant pretending to be the Prince, and the Prince enjoying a taste of freedom in the guise of his own servant.
I also heard tales of a golden-haired Spanish girl, an alluring little nymph, a bud rather than a full-blown rose, who rarely left her couch of satin sheets, upon which she lay naked, except for the jewels Philip gave her, and whose exquisite little toes Philip liked to kiss and suck.
Another scandalmonger told of a pair of twin sisters who shared a bath and washed each other most erotically while Philip and a few chosen friends watched. They were said to have had their portrait painted fondling one another’s breasts, and the painting was rumored to hang in Philip’s bedchamber in a cunningly devised frame that also contained a religious painting by Señor Titian which could be maneuvered via a lever to conceal the lascivious canvas if Philip so desired it.
There was also talk of a dancing girl who performed at private parties for men of wealth and means and in a haze of incense rose up out of a black enameled red-velvet-lined coffin wearing only a corset, stockings, and tall leather boots, sometimes black, other times white, to dance seductively around the man she intended to offer herself to while sultry Moorish music played, ending her dance lying flat on the floor at his feet with her knees up and her legs spread wide so that her naked feminine parts were fully exposed to his gaze.
The talebearers also spoke of a cinnamon-skinned girl, with hair like raven silk and a ruby in her navel, from some heathen land, plucked from the jade green stone temple where she used to dance before a golden idol and given as a present to the Prince to console the bereaved young man after his wife died in childbirth.
Blushing in embarrassment and blinded by tears, I fled from such tales in horror, with my hands clasped tight over my ears, screaming at these “well-meaning” and “concerned” purveyors of slander to be silent if they could speak no good reports of my prince. But the damage was done. I could not outrun what was already inside my head; I carried these wild and lewd tales with me wherever I went and sometimes had lurid dreams about them at night.
I tried to quash the jealousy raging like a stormy sea inside of me, but I just could not do it. And, finally, in blackest despair, I sent for Ambassador Renard.
I ran to him the moment he came through the door, looking, I am sure, quite wild and frenzied, a very hag, with my hair and clothes all unkempt and my face red and swollen from crying.
“I cannot marry His Highness,” I blurted out, “for he has been amorous! I am told he consorts with courtesans and dancing girls and has bastards too numerous to count!”
“Madame!” Ambassador Renard took a step back, a pained expression on his face, and his hand rising to clasp his heart as if my words had hurt it. “I can scarcely believe it! I knew those who opposed His Highness would try to discredit him by slandering his good name, but . . . Can it be? Have you actually believed these ludicrous tales?”
My heart leapt in my breast, eager to grasp at this newborn hope.
“You mean these wicked, lascivious tales are not true?” I asked hopefully.
“Madame, may I be so bold as to act as—dare I suggest it?—your uncle by proxy since you have no living male relative who can speak candidly and advise you on such matters?”
“Oh yes, please do!” I cried, grasping at his arm as if only he could save my heart from drowning in grief.
“Then come”—he led me to the window seat—“sit beside me, and dry your tears,” he said kindly, “and I shall explain. Madame, they have told you these things in an attempt to poison your mind against Prince Philip. He married young, at sixteen, to a lovely young girl, the Princess Maria of Portugal; though an arranged marriage, as royal matches always are, it was also a love match. Sadly, she died two years later giving birth to their only son, Don Carlos. His Highness has been a grieving widower ever since. A handsome widower at the age of only eighteen, heir to Spain, the Low Countries, and the gold-rich Americas, Madame, it is no vainglorious boast that he has been for some years accounted the greatest catch in Europe, and I cannot begin to count the number of princesses who have been paraded before him as prospective brides, but he has rejected all of them, until you; he wants you, Madame, only you.”
“Oh! Oh, Señor Renard, you are like unto a tonic to my heart and nerves! How can I ever thank you?” I cried, smiling through my tears.
“That is simple enough, Madame.” He smiled. “You can thank me by drying your tears and stopping your ears to any more of this base slander.”
“I will,” I promised, “I will! And may God bless and preserve His Highness and speed him soon to me!”
“Amen!” Ambassador Renard said, smiling also as he bowed gallantly over my hand and took his leave of me.
God had well and truly blessed me; He had given me the prince of my dreams, and I must not let those gossipmongers acting as the Devil’s agents succeed in taking him away from me!