Isabel remained calm and dignified, determined to say nothing to offend the Spaniards; but when the Mendozas advanced, and the actual exchange was to be made, she turned pale as she stood to receive and greet them. Through the interminable pompous speeches that accompanied her transfer she remained outwardly unmoved, but when Navarre had actually handed to the custody of Spaniards ‘this princess, whom I have taken from the house of the greatest king in the world to be delivered to the most illustrious sovereign upon earth,’ and the Bourbon princes came forward and knelt to say farewell, the girl’s strength broke down, and she wept bitterly. Cardinal Mendoza, apparently to improve the occasion, advanced and chanted the verse, Audi filia et vide inclina aurem tuam, and the response was intoned by another Spanish priest, obliviscere populum tuum, et domum patris tui. She loved her people and the home of her fathers dearly; she was going, almost a child, to live the rest of her life amongst strangers who had been the enemies of her house for generations, to wed a man she had never seen, but of whom she could have heard little but evil; and, as the words of the versicle were croaked by the ecclesiastic, they seemed to the overwrought girl a sentence of doom, and in an agony of tears she threw herself into the arms of Anthony of Navarre and his brother the Cardinal. She was led away gently by Infantado, with some chiding words that she, the Queen of Spain, should so condescend to the Duke of Vendome. In the midst of her grief she answered with spirit that she did so by order of her brother, and, ‘as to princes of the blood, and after the fashion of the nation to which, up to that moment, she had belonged.’[[173]] And, so still in tears, the beautiful black-eyed girl was led to the Spanish litter awaiting her, and through the heavily-falling snow was carried, to the sound of many hautboys and trumpets, to the wretched village of Burgete, where she was to pass the night; even there, comforted by the beds, hangings, lights, food and delicacies, sent by her French countrymen to furnish forth her poor quarters.’[[174]]
There is no space here to follow the Queen step by step through her new country to join her husband. It was a progress full of jealousy and bitterness between the French household of the Queen, that still accompanied her, and the Spanish courtiers. At Pamplona, the capital of Navarre, where the company passed three days, Isabel charmed all hearts by her grace and beauty as she was carried through the thronged thoroughfares from the cathedral to the royal palace where she was to lodge. At the foot of the grand staircase stood a lady of fifty, stern and haughty in appearance, but now all smiles as she kissed the hand of the Queen and delivered to her a letter from King Philip. It was the Countess of Ureña, daughter of the Alburquerques and the Toledos, and one of the greatest ladies in Spain, who had been chosen by Philip as the guide, philosopher and friend of his new consort. She looked sourly upon the two Bourbon princesses whom she was obliged to salute; and on the departure from Pamplona after three days of rejoicing Isabel, desirous of propitiating the Countess of Ureña, whom Philip had praised inordinately in his letters, offered her a seat in her own litter. This she thought fit to refuse, as she was panting for the fray to establish her precedence next to the Queen; and when the cavalcade was starting her lackeys, violently hustling aside the equipage of the elder Bourbon princess Madame de Rieux, intruded that of the countess into the place in front of it. An affray resulted, and an appeal to the Queen, who decided politely in favour of the blood royal of France until King Philip himself should give his orders—which he subsequently did by placing the countess between Madame de Rieux and her unmarried niece. But the proud dame stored up in her mind the memory of the slight, and many a troubled hour for Isabel grew out of this incident.
The young Queen’s life in Spain may now be said to have commenced, and already she had shown the tact and diplomacy so extraordinary in a girl of fifteen. Her hold upon the affection of the Spaniards was tenacious from the first, owing partly, of course, to her great beauty and sweetness, but also to her prompt adaptability and acceptance of Spanish customs. From her childhood she had studied Spanish, and a very few weeks after her entrance she spoke it fluently. But she never forgot her own people and her own tongue. ‘To Frenchmen she always spoke in French,’ wrote Brantome, ‘and would never consent to discontinue it, reading always in French the most beautiful books that could be got in France, which she was very curious to obtain. To Spaniards and other foreigners she spoke Spanish very correctly. In short, this princess was perfect in everything, besides being so splendid and liberal as never was seen. She never wore a dress twice, but gave them all after once wearing to her ladies; and God knows what rich and splendid dresses they were; so rich and superb, indeed, that the least of them cost three or four hundred crowns, for the King, her husband, kept her very lavishly in such things. Every day she had a new one, as I was told by her own tailor, who went thither a poor man and became richer than anybody, as I have seen with my own eyes. She was always attired with extreme magnificence, and her dresses suited her beautifully: amongst others, those with slashed sleeves with laced points, and her head-dress always matched, so that nothing was wanting. Those who saw her thus in a painted portrait admired her, and I will leave you to guess the delight it was to see her face to face with her sweetness and grace.... When she went walking anywhere, either to church or to the monasteries or gardens, there was such a great press and crowds of people to gaze upon her that it was impossible to stir; and happy indeed was the person who could say after the struggle, “I have seen the Queen.” Never was a queen so beloved in Spain as she; not even the great Queen Isabel herself. The people called her the Queen of peace and goodness, and our Frenchmen called her the “olive branch.”‘[[175]]
Philip at Guadalajara, the town of the Mendozas, waited impatiently the coming of his bride. With him from Toledo had come his sombre widowed sister Joan, and when they learned, at the end of January 1560, that the Queen’s cavalcade was approaching, it was made known that the King wished special efforts to be made by the city to welcome his bride. Through artificial flowering woods with tethered birds and animals, through lines of gaily decked booths amply supplied with good cheer for the free refreshment of her suite, by kneeling aldermen in crimson velvet and white satin, and through an admiring populace, Isabel of the Peace rode into the city between the Cardinal of Burgos and the Duke of Infantado. At the door of the famous palace of the Mendozas, where Philip lodged, stood Princess Joan, who half knelt and kissed the hem of the girl’s garment; then led her by the hand into the large hall, at the end of which a sumptuous altar was erected. Before it, in a gilded chair, sat Isabel’s husband, grave of aspect beyond his thirty-three years. He saluted his bride ceremoniously; and after mass at the altar the marriage was performed by Cardinal Mendoza.
Philip’s impatience for his bride had been more political than personal, for he needed above all things to be sure of France, and there was at first little cordiality between the newly wedded pair. The first afternoon, as the sovereigns sat in their tribune witnessing the bull fight and cane tourneys held in the great square of Guadalajara to celebrate the wedding, the frightened girl gazed so fixedly in the face of her husband that Philip became annoyed, and turned to her curtly and said: ‘What are you looking at? To see whether I have grey hair.’[[176]] Through the tedious feasting that followed, the marriage still looked unpromising. The girl was unformed and inexperienced, and was overwhelmed with the importance of the task her mother had confided to her. Around her there raged incessant jealousy, both between the Countess of Ureña and her French ladies, and amongst the French ladies themselves, and it needed all the authority of Catharine de Medici, and the fear with which she inspired her daughter, to keep Isabel on the right path amidst the contending factions.
The letters that passed between them show how absolute was the command that at first Catharine exercised over her daughter, a command that later was to a great extent replaced by that of Philip. Isabel in the quarrels of her French ladies had sided with Madame Vimeux against her principal attendant, Madame de Clermont, and, girl like, had made friends with some of her younger French maids. Upon this her mother wrote to her as follows: ‘It really looks very bad for you in the position you occupy to show that you are such a child still as to make much of your girls before people. When you are alone in your chamber in private, you may pass your time and play with them as much as you like, but before people be attentive to your cousin,[[177]] and Madame de Clermont. Talk with them often and believe what they say; for they are both wise, and aim at nothing but your honour and well being; whereas those other wenches can only teach you folly and silliness. Therefore do what I tell you, if you wish me to be satisfied with you and love you, and to show me that you love me as you ought.’[[178]]
From Guadalajara Philip and his Consort passed on to Toledo for the completion of the festivities, and to present his son Don Carlos to the Cortes, to receive their oath of allegiance as heir to the crowns of Castile. The capital received the Queen with unusual pomp, and after the public reception was over Isabel retired to her chamber with her favourite French maids, who for pastime danced before her. Soon the Queen, flushed and excited, rose and danced several times herself. Her high colour was noticed by some of the elder ladies, who had been instructed by Catharine to watch the precious health of her daughter closely; and in the morning Philip found that his girl wife was in a burning fever, which was soon pronounced to be smallpox.
Up to this time Philip had not been particularly demonstrative towards his French bride; and she had not quite got over her fear of him. But her dangerous illness struck both him and her mother with dismay. Each of them was determined to use her as a means to keep a hold upon the other, and her death threatened to be disastrous for both; but, apart from this, her mother was devotedly attached to her, and Philip was beginning to love her as he loved no other person in the world, except, years afterwards, his elder daughter by her. Couriers galloped backwards and forwards between Paris and Toledo with daily news of the progress of the malady. No fear for his health, no remonstrance from his courtiers, could persuade Philip to keep away from his sick wife; and for long periods during the most dangerous stages of her illness he would not leave her side. Catharine was almost beside herself with anxiety. For her everything depended upon her daughter’s success in gaining influence over her husband, and for this Isabel’s beauty was as necessary as her life. The attack proved to be light, and the patient was soon out of danger; but Catharine showered upon the ladies in attendance questions and counsels innumerable, as to the marks left by the fell disease. The many remedies she sent appear, according to Brantome, to have given way to the one which he mentions as having saved the Queen from disfigurement; namely, the covering of the exposed skin with fresh white of egg. Though Isabel was soon out of danger her convalescence was long and tedious, and the intimate details of her bodily habit and condition that passed between Catharine and Madame de Clermont, frank to the extreme of coarseness, show how increasingly the Queen-Mother was depending upon her Spanish son-in-law to sustain her amidst the warring interests that were rapidly dividing France.
The irregularities so frequently reported by Madame de Clermont in Isabel’s health, at one time seem to have suggested to her distracted mother that her disorder was the outcome of the dreadful disease which it was stated she had inherited from her grandfather Francis I.; and Catharine alternated scolding with prayers to her daughter to be circumspect, until Isabel trembled with very fear when she opened one of her mother’s letters.[[179]] ‘Recollect’ (wrote Catherine), ‘what I told you before you left. You know very well how important it is that no one should know what malady you have got; for if your husband were to know of it he would never come near you.’[[180]] France had abandoned almost every thing at the Peace of Cateau Cambresis in order to gain the support of Spain against religious reform, and Catharine now looked to her daughter to bring the same influence upon her side in any case. Everything depended upon this girl’s being able to captivate her experienced husband and to lead him as she liked. Philip, it is true, was now in love with her; but his policy was founded upon a fixed principle: it was never swayed by personal affection; and Isabel was really as powerless to move him as all others who tried to do so.
Catharine had impressed particularly upon her daughter that she was to use every effort to draw the ties between France and Spain closer, by bringing about a marriage of her young sister Margaret[[181]] with Don Carlos: or, in any case, to oppose to the utmost his marriage with an Austrian cousin; even if it were necessary to marry him to his aunt Joan. When Isabel entered Toledo she saw for the first time Philip’s heir. He was within a few months of her own age, a lame, epileptic semi-imbecile; already vicious and uncontrollable. When he approached his stepmother for the first time he was yellow and wasted with intermittent fever, and it was noticed that she caressed and petted him more than he had been accustomed to; for he had never known a mother. The passionate ill-conditioned boy had been told only a year ago to call this young beauty his wife, and now to see her the wife of the father, whom he feared and hated, turned his heart to gall. During her illness and convalescence he was ceaseless in his inquiries about her; and when her health again allowed her to resume her family life, she went out of her way to entertain and please him. It was probably the only gentle feminine influence he had ever experienced, for his widowed aunt Joan, whom he alternately loathed and adored, was a gloomy religious mystic, almost old enough to be his mother; and Isabel was not only just his own age, beautiful and French, but for the purposes of her mother exerted all her charms to gain his goodwill.