XXXVII

artO ladye deere,

Be ye so neare

To be knowne?

My hart you cheere

Your voyce to here;

Wellcum, myne oivnel

In June of 1554 Philip the Prudent assembled his ships, his men and his treasure for the rough sea voyage to England. Because his father had ordered him to arrive with a “minimum of display” he was taking with him only some nine thousand nobles and servants, a thousand horses and mules, and three million ducats in gold, transported in a fleet of 125 ships. Twenty of the greatest nobles of Spain would travel with him, along with their retinues and trains of servants, and—much to the discomfiture of Renard—their wives. The ambassador had warned Philip that the presence of Spanish duchesses and countesses in his company would lead to endless inconvenience and bad feeling; unlike their husbands, the Spanish noblewomen could not be counted on to keep their distaste for the English in check. But the prince would not be persuaded, although he did agree to take no unmarried women with him.

Apart from the nobles, most of those who were to accompany Philip would not leave their ships. The majority of his retinue were soldiers who, in accordance with the terms of the marriage treaty, could come along to protect the prince at sea but could not come ashore. Once he set foot on English soil Philip would have to rely on the hundred gentlemen of his Spanish guard, conspicuous in their red and yellow liveries, and the hundred Germans whose similar liveries had silk facings “as their custom is to go bravely dressed,” plus his bodyguard of mounted archers. Renard had told him not to take any chances, advising him to disguise some of hissoldiers as servants and have them bring arquebuses ashore with them in their trunks, but he disdained to follow this precaution. For better or worse, he would place himself in the hands of the alien English, trusting his future wife to guarantee the preservation of his honor and his life.

Charles V had put no limitation on the size of Philip’s wardrobe, and in the months before he left his capital to take ship for England the royal tailors, weavers and embroiderers of Valladolid were kept at work night and day sewing the gorgeous doublets and surcoats the prince would need when he arrived at the court of his bride to be. One of the gentlemen of his chamber wrote a flowery description of the clothes made for Philip at this time—suits of crimson velvet, gray satin, and white silk velvet, lined in satin and cloth of silver and adorned with inter-worked embroidery and precious stones and metals. One jacket was covered with twisted gold chains intertwined with silver braid, with leaves outlined in silver filigree. Gold and silver bugles adorned several of the prince’s surcoats, and his doublets were embroidered so thickly in gold thread that the colors of the cloth beneath were all but hidden. With these splendid garments Philip would wear jewels at his wrists and around his neck, and he liked to wear gold chains at his shoulders and to wind them around his hats. With the addition of his gem-studded ornamental weapons, his magnificence was complete.

Philip’s wardrobe was more suited to a reigning king than a royal bridegroom, and in fact he had already begun to think of himself as a king, and to adopt the regal style. Writing to Mary’s councilors in England he signed himself “Philippus Rex”—a tactless presumption that would certainly have affronted them if Renard had not intervened. The ambassador quietly destroyed the prince’s letters before they reached their destinations and had his message to the councilors delivered orally.

To an extent Philip’s error was pardonable. A Spaniard in Mary’s service, Antonio de Guarras, had brought him news that he had already been proclaimed king, and he was merely taking advantage of this informal promotion in status. But a more experienced statesman would never have committed such a dangerous breach of diplomatic etiquette, and the incident confirmed fears by many in the emperor’s government that Philip might disgrace himself in some way or display before the English the same hauteur that had so far made him detested in every land he had visited. The imperial ambassador in Rome wrote Philip a cautionary letter advising him to yield to the English in everything, and to be as ingratiating as possible. “For God’s sake,” he warned, “appear to be pleased.” Renard sent essentially the same advice, while the emperor, not content to trust Philip to be guided by his own better judgment, entrusted to the duke of Alva the delicate task of making certain the prince behaved himself. “For the love of God,” Charles wrote to Alva shortly before thewedding flotilla left for England, “see to it that my son behaves in the right manner; for otherwise I tell you I would rather never have taken the matter in hand.”1

One of Philip’s worst lapses had been neglect of his future bride. He did not write to her until the middle of May, nor did he send her any jewel to commemorate the betrothal as his father told him to do. Charles himself sent Mary a handsome large diamond after the marriage articles were signed, with the warm message that he now “considered her as his own daughter,” but it was his son she wanted to hear from. Weeks passed, then months, and though Renard and the Council members received letters from the prince—some of which spoke of her in dutiful terms—the queen had none.

Just as the issue was becoming almost scandalous an envoy arrived from Spain, bringing a letter for Mary and much else besides. The letter had been written May I I, but the envoy, the marquis de Las Navas, did not come to court until June 20, shortly before the prince was expected. The gifts Philip sent with his letter, however, more than made up for the long delay. Mary and her ladies were showered with presents of all kinds, and with pearls, diamonds, emeralds and rubies of great value. Mary received three matchless jewels of incomparable loveliness. The first was a necklace of eighteen brilliant diamonds, in a dainty setting which became her delicate proportions. The second was a huge diamond with a large pearl hanging from it, to be worn over her breast on a long gold chain. Some who saw this piece called it “the most lovely pair of gems ever seen in the world,” and it quickly became Mary’s favorite jewel. But the third gift moved her by its sentimental value. It was a precious heirloom, a great table diamond mounted in a rose in an ornate gold setting, and it had originally been given by the emperor to Philip’s mother, Isabella of Portugal. The diamond was said to be worth eighty thousand crowns, but to Mary it held a greater value; it symbolized her closer union with her mother’s family, and all they meant to her. Whether Philip knew what effect this jewel would produce or whether he was guided by Alva or some other adviser the gesture achieved its effect, and made Mary long to see the man who had so honored her and who must love her as well.2

The English envoys who were sent to deliver the marriage contract to Philip in Spain found him very much to their liking. They met him at Santiago, where he stopped for a time on his journey from Valladolid to the coastal city of Coruña where he would embark. He was grave, dignified, and generous—he gave one of the two envoys, Lord Bedford, a piece of statuary four and a half feet high, exquisitely worked, made of solid gold. One of Philip’s gentlemen who understood English overheard one of the Englishmen say to the other “Oh! God be praised for sendingus so good a king as this!” after the marriage articles were signed, and he probably meant it.

At Santiago Philip was joined by his eight-year-old son Don Carlos, whom the prince could not expect to see again for several years at least. They hunted together and attended a tournament, and in the evening watched “a procession of beautiful and strange inventions” by torchlight in the plaza. There were horses disguised as elephants, and pasteboard castles full of savages from the Indies. More savages carried a green temple-like structure with a maiden inside, and following these was a miniature ship, complete in every detail, flying English and Spanish flags. A grim pageant featured a girl lying in a coffin, complaining loudly that cupid had brought her to her death, followed by an artificial cupid on horseback. As the display reached the center of the plaza the cupid was pulled upward by ropes while fireworks burst from him to the crowd’s delight. The prince and his son also watched a great bullfight in the plaza which, because of one “devilish” bull which resisted death for hours, lasted all night long.3

After several weeks at Santiago Philip said goodbye to his son and went on to Coruña, where the fleet rode at anchor and the beach was littered with stacks of provisions, tuns of wine and casks of water, animals and their fodder, and the weapons, armor and sea chests of thousands of soldiers. When the prince arrived six hundred Guipuzcoan sea warriors lined up along the edge of the sand to receive him, lances in hand, and the guns of the fleet and the nearby castle boomed out a salute. Their firing produced such smoke that “for an hour and a half neither heaven nor earth was visible.”

The English envoys wanted the prince to travel in an English ship, but he declined; he did let them choose which of his Spanish galleys would be his flagship, however, and their choice rested on a ship so elaborately decorated it resembled “a lovely flower garden” more than a seagoing vessel. It was the Espiritu Santo, a twenty-four-oared galley upholstered from stem to stern in fine scarlet cloth. The forecastle was hung with crimson brocade painted with golden flames, and a royal standard was suspended from the mainmast, a banner thirty yards long, painted with Philip’s coat of arms. Another standard hung from the mizzenmast, while flags with the royal anus flew from the foremast and from the stays and shrouds. Alongside these stately banners were thousands of little silk pennons, attached to every inch of wood and rigging and flying gaily in the wind.

It was this vessel that Philip and his gentlemen boarded on the afternoon of July 12, as the sailors in red and yellow liveries hung from the masts and yards and performed gymnastic tricks on the ropes. The crowd of townspeople who came to watch the departure of the prince knewthat he was sailing to England to be married, but there was no mistaking the larger diplomatic object of his marriage—to strengthen Hapsburg power at the expense of the king of France. As the prince boarded the Espiritu Santo they not only shouted out wishes for a safe voyage but “hurled defiance to the French.”4

The fleet put out to sea in a high wind, and throughout the first night and all the next day heavy weather kept the prince and his retinue below decks. Philip was unusually susceptible to seasickness, and to make his misery as brief as possible the English envoys arranged for him to land at Plymouth instead of the officially designated port of Southampton should he need to.5 He set sail on Friday, and by Wednesday morning the English coast came into view. The sea was calmer now, and the strong current brought the Spanish ships past the Needles and into the coastal waters between Southampton and the Isle of Wight the following day, Fortunately the prince had not been ill, and was ready to receive the first of several deputations from the shore on the very day the Espiritu Santo dropped anchor three miles out in Southampton Water.

The English admiral, Lord William Howard, was his first guest. Philip managed to contend with Howard’s bluff playfulness, but the admiral’s mocking reference to the Flemish ships as “mussel-shells” infuriated the Flemings, and he started a quarrel with the Spanish admiral as well. When Howard saw that the foreign ships had not lowered their topsails on entering English waters he shot off a gun in their direction, reminding them to do so, and his English sailors looked across the bows of their ships at the Spaniards with undisguised contempt.6

The next day, after receiving a boatload of young lords who begged him to accept them as gentlemen of his chamber—the eldest sons of the earls of Arundel, Derby, Shrewsbury and Pembroke, and the duke of Norfolk’s grandson—Philip went on board a royal barge to be escorted the short distance to shore. While still aboard his own ship he had been invested with the Garter, and he stepped on English soil a Garter Knight. Mary was not there to meet him—she was waiting at a country house two miles away—but she had sent him a white horse, beautifully trapped in crimson velvet ornamented with gold, to carry him to church to give thanks for his safe voyage. Sir Anthony Browne met the prince as he stepped on shore, greeting him in Latin and telling him that he had been sent to serve as his master of the horse, indicating the rich mount that stood waiting. Philip replied graciously that he could just as well walk, but Browne was insistent, lifting the prince into the saddle and kissing his stirrups in the traditional gesture of deference. Browne led Philip’s horse all the way to the church of the Holy Rood, stopping only at the gate of the town to allow the prince to solemnly receive the keys to the town from the Lord Mayor.

Philip stayed in Southampton three days, in apartments hung with tapestries commemorating the deeds of Henry VIII and embroidered with his offensive titles “Defender of the Faith” and “Head of the Church.”7 He slept late each morning, then dressed and met with Mary’s councilors and other lords who presented themselves to kiss his hand. There was little else to occupy him in Southampton—then a small community with only three hundred houses—and it rained incessantly throughout the prince’s stay. Mary had appointed her lord privy seal to report to Philip on “the whole state of this realm with all things appertaining to the same,” and to give him any advice he might ask for, but as yet Philip knew too little of England and her politics even to frame a question. He did make a formal speech to the councilors, assuring them that he had not come to England to enrich himself—for, as God knew, he had enough lands and riches to content any prince living—but because he had been called by the divine goodness to be Mary’s husband. He would live with her and with them, he said, as “a right good and loving prince,” and hoped they would fulfill their promise to be “faithful, obedient and loyal to him” in their turns.

Philip was well aware that his every word and gesture were being noted and judged by the English, and went out of his way to create an atmosphere of casual good will in order to put them at ease about him. On his first evening ashore he joined a roomful of lords and gentlemen talking informally among themselves. He greeted them genially and then went over to talk to Lord Howard, “to whom he showed great favor.” He even attempted a clumsy pleasantry, remarking to the admiral that he now realized none of the suits he had brought with him was elegant enough to wear on his wedding day, or as rich as “the greatness of the queen deserved.” But he hoped to have a suit made from the trappings of the horse Mary had sent him, he added, meaning to compliment her gift and to disparage his own sartorial splendor. Just then great ewers of wine, beer and ale were brought in, and tall silver drinking pots. Philip turned to his Spanish companions and announced that from now on they must forget Spanish customs and adopt English ones, and that he would show them how. Ordering beer to be brought to him, he drank it down after the English fashion, much to the approval of the Englishmen present.

The prince gave every appearance of being a carefree young man looking forward to his wedding day, but behind his joviality he was gravely distressed. While he was still at sea word had come from his father that on June 26 the French had seized Marienbourg, a strong fortress on the border of the imperial lands, and that within days they might be in Brussels itself. Already bands of French scouts and arsonists were chasing the peasants off their lands and burning their houses and fields, whileCharles’ own soldiers, taken completely by surprise, were trying to collect themselves for a counterattack. The emperor appealed to his son to come to his aid, to stay in England only long enough to get married and enjoy a brief honeymoon, then sail for Flanders.

Philip sent word from Southampton that he was willing to do as his father asked, and ordered his servants not to bring his horses ashore as he would only have to order them loaded again in a few days. The French seizure of Marienbourg troubled Mary as well as she waited to meet Philip. She feared Charles might take advantage of the new ties binding England to the Hapsburg lands to ask that English soldiers be sent to the defense of Brussels. But by the time the wedding day arrived the crisis had passed. The French were not prepared to do more than harass the countryside around the imperial capital, and the emperor’s troops eventually gathered themselves to push them back across the border.

It soon became obvious that Philip would have nothing to combat but the English weather, which grew worse day by day. On his second day in Southampton Philip had to borrow a hat and cape from one of the Englishmen to protect his clothing when he rode to mass. Two days later when he left the port to ride to Winchester, where he was to meet the queen and take his wedding vows, it was raining violently, and the road became a muddy ditch. Philip covered his diamond-studded surcoat with a red felt cloak for the journey, but long before he arrived in the episcopal city he was drenched and his white satin trunks and doublet were stained and splattered. He stopped at a hospital—once a monastery—just outside the city and changed into a suit of black and white velvet covered with gold bugles, and continued on his way, flanked by the sad-looking Spanish guardsmen in their soaking liveries and his bedraggled but faithful noblemen.

The prince rode into Winchester at dusk, and went directly to the cathedral, where Gardiner and four other bishops met him and sang a Te Deum. The church was crowded with onlookers, packed so tightly “they were all in danger of stifling,” and after the ceremony of thanksgiving was ended the people followed Philip as he made his way to the dean’s house, where he would spend the night. The queen’s guard kept the crowd at a distance from the prince, but he turned and bowed slightly, first to one side, then the other, as he passed them and they “much rejoiced to see his noble personage.” Mary had come that day to the bishop of Winchester’s palace, just across the cloister from the dean’s house, and that night she and Philip were to meet for the first time.

If Philip felt the self-assurance of a handsome young prince matched with a woman much older and, by repute, less well favored than himself, his preparations for this first meeting did not reveal it. He changed hisclothes once again, after deciding that his gold-embroidered suit and matching hat were not fine enough for the occasion, and put on a doublet and trunks of the softest white kid. Over these went a French surcoat intricately worked with silver and gold threads, and a matching cap with a long plume. Thus arrayed—“and very gallant he looked,” one of his gentlemen observed—the prince and a dozen of his Spanish and Flemish courtiers crossed the narrow lane between the garden of the dean’s house and that of the bishop’s palace, and were admitted into a private garden, full of arbors and plashing fountains, and up a narrow winding staircase to where the queen was waiting.

Philip came into the room, a “long narrow room or corridor where they divert themselves,” and stood smiling before Mary, the beloved Titian portrait come to life. A Scotsman who saw the prince at this time described how he appeared to British eyes. “Of visage he is well-favored, with a broad forehead and grey eyes, straight-nosed and [of] manly countenance. From the forehead to the point of his chin, his face groweth small; his pace is princely, and gait so straight and upright as he loseth no inch of height; with a yellow head and a yellow beard.” The Scotsman found nothing whatever to complain of in the prince’s appearance. “He is so well-proportioned of body, arm, leg, and every other limb to the same,” he concluded, “as nature cannot work a more perfect pattern.” After all the months of waiting, Philip proved himself worth waiting for.

Mary, though, was something of a disappointment to the Spaniards. It was not entirely her fault; nearly all Philip’s Spanish gentlemen professed to find English women unattractive, preferring the full-bodied, olive-skinned Spanish women to the porcelain pallor and coltlike proportions of the English. But the queen, looking thinner than ever in a plain, tight-fitting black velvet gown, “cut high in the English style without any trimming,” her complexion almost dead white and her small features drawn into an expression of hopeful anticipation, looked exactly what she was: Philip’s maiden aunt.

Her first twelve months of rule had left her tired and careworn, and the excitement in her face on this night could not disguise the exhaustion of all she had lived through. She was naturally restless and somewhat high-strung, and the worries of the last few months had made her an insomniac. Near-constant anxiety over the safety of the country and the government, long hours of tedious work and the endless annoyance of living in the same household with an odd dozen squabbling politicians who ate, worked and slept in her immediate surroundings had all taken their toll. The circumstances of Mary’s life over many years had doubtless robbed her of whatever self-absorbed sensuality she may once have possessed, and her romantic feelings for Philip had from the start beentainted by the accusation that the man who would be the best husband for her might well be the worst co-ruler for her country.

She bore the marks of these concerns now as she looked eagerly across the long corridor toward the prince and his party. Ruy Gomez, Philip’s most intimate confidant, described Mary shortly afterward as “rather older than we had been told,” but others in the group minced no words. “The queen is not at all beautiful,” one of them wrote. “Small, and rather flabby than fat, she is of white complexion and fair, and has no eyebrows.”8

Mary was walking up and down at the opposite end of the room when Philip came in, and as soon as she saw him she ran up to him and kissed her own hand, then took his. He greeted her in the English way, kissing her on the mouth. The only other persons in the room were four or five “aged nobles” and the same number of “old ladies.” Mary had not wanted to risk showing herself to Philip in the company of her young unmarried gentlewomen. The fiances sat down under a cloth of estate and began to talk together, searching one another’s faces for signs of approval, liking, affection. Admiral Howard interrupted this most sensitive of exchanges with coarse reminders of the closeness of the wedding day, the appealingness of the bride, the prodigious capabilities of the groom, and so on, but his loud jokes did not distract Philip and Mary from one another. After a time Philip’s gentlemen came up to kiss Mary’s hand, and she in turn led the prince into an adjoining room where her ladies, two by two, presented themselves to be kissed.

Good manners demanded that this visit be a brief one, but when Philip was preparing to leave Mary took him by the hand and led him away for another long talk. “No wonder,” the Spaniards remarked as they saw this. “She is so glad to get him and to see what a gallant swain he is.” Finally, though, Mary had to let Philip go, after teaching him the English words “Good night, my lords all.” He forgot it the first time, and had to be taught again, and even then the best he could do was “God ni hit,” but the queen was delighted and her courtiers tolerant, and the interview ended happily.9 Philip went off to his quarters satisfied that he had done his duty, and Mary retired to her bedchamber rejoicing that God had sent her a storybook prince.