Philibert sat beside him now. What more handsome man could she hope to marry? He was the hero of many a battle. Alas! he had little fortune to offer; but what had Elizabeth apart from her questionable birth and her high hopes?

He watched her in the dance, flushed, excited, lifting her eyes to her partners—flirtatious and yet so regal. He whispered to Mary: “I would speak with the Princess. Summon her here. Philibert must have his answer.”

Mary was nothing loth. She would like to see Elizabeth banished from the country, but there was one thing she would not do, even for Philip, and that was acknowledge her sister’s legitimacy. To do so would cast a slur on her own birth, for how could Elizabeth’s mother, Anne Boleyn, have been the true wife of Henry VIII, while he had another wife living, and that wife Mary’s own mother, Katharine of Aragon? No; at all costs she must stand out against Elizabeth’s legitimacy.

Elizabeth came and took the seat indicated by Philip. She glanced at him in a manner which made him uncomfortable. Was she suggesting that he found her so fascinating that he must have her beside him?

He said coldly: “I trust your Grace has considered the proposals of Emmanuel Philibert?”

Her eyes clouded. “Alas! Sire, it is so difficult for a young girl to know her mind.”

“Oh, come. You have had plenty of time.”

“But marriage is such an important matter, your Highness.”

“His Grace of Savoy has paid a visit to England for the express purpose of wooing you.”

“And of beseeching your Majesty to restore to him his estates,” she said quickly.

She knew too much. How did she learn these things? At one moment she was a frivolous girl; at the next a statesman.

“He has forgotten the latter in his desire to achieve the former,” said Philip.

“Does your Majesty think so, then?” She laughed—the frivolous girl again. “Would it be improper of me to ask how your Highness could have imagined it could be so?”

“You are so young and … fair.” He was playing the game she wished him to play. She threw him a glance from under those fluttering sandy lashes.

“Your Highness honors me. I shall always remember that the King said I was young and fair.”

He felt vexed. He said coldly: “It would please us if you gave him your answer before he leaves.”

She pouted slightly. “And I thought your Majesty liked to see me at court!”

“I do indeed …”

“Then I am twice honored. I am a fair young lady whom your Highness likes to see at his court.”

“I would like to see you married.”

Her eyes were reproachful. Then she smiled brightly. It was as though she were telling him she understood his meaning; he wished her to marry because her presence at court disturbed such a respectable married man as himself. What a pity, her eyes went on to suggest, that the younger prettier sister had not been the Queen whom it was expedient for him to marry. Then there would have been a different tale to tell!

How could she say so much with her eyes? The answer was: Because besides being the vainest woman in the world she was one of the cleverest. She angered, exasperated, and attracted him.

“The match is a good one,” he said swiftly.

“An excellent one for a bastard Princess,” she said, and her looks belied her humble words. “Ah, your Majesty,” she went on, “you know what it means to leave your native land. I think if I left mine I should die.”

“I should have thought you would have been glad to leave these rains … these fogs …”

“Your Majesty has not been here when the first primroses are seen in the hedgerows and the blossom bursts on the trees.”

“Well,” he answered, “I doubt not that Savoy could offer you primroses and blossoms.”

“Not English primroses,” she said passionately. “Not English blossoms.”

Now she was speaking loudly that those about them could hear her. She is one of us, they would say. She loves us and our land; and she is the one for us!

Philip looked at her sternly and wondered whether she should be forced to the match. He sensed that she was the most dangerous person in the country. Now she was trying to lure him to what?… To flirtation! To some indiscretion?

As he would have turned again she laid her hand on his arm with a gesture of charming timidity.

“It is so comforting to a young lady to know,” she said with the utmost simplicity, “that the King has her welfare at heart.”

He could not stay with Mary that night. He was disturbed. He showed the utmost solicitude toward his wife. “These festivities have been too much for you. You must sleep now. Remember the child.”

She was not sorry to be cosseted, to be left alone with her dream of the child.

As he made his way to his apartments, he felt dissatisfied. What did he want? To play that old game of kings? To disguise himself, to stroll out into the streets and join merry bands, to find strange women and make love to them; in any case he wished to escape from the restraint he had put upon himself.

Passing along a corridor, he saw, from where he was, a lighted window. He looked at it idly, and as he did so he saw a woman on the other side of it. She had taken off her coif and was shaking out her beautiful long hair. He recognized her as the beautiful Magdalen Dacre. It was not often that he acted on impulse, but this was one of the occasions when he did.

His heart beating fast, his need for excitement urging him on, he went to the door of Magdalen’s room and silently opened it.

Magdalen had taken off her gown. She stood in her petticoats, her long hair, cloak-like, covering her bare shoulders. She paled when she saw him, and strode to the door where he stood hesitating. She did not speak, but as she laid her hand on the door, he saw the vivid flush in her face. Her excitement was as great as his.

She tried to close the door, but his foot was inside.

“Magdalen …” he began; and he put out a hand to touch her.

But he did not touch her. To his profound astonishment, before he could do so, Magdalen lifted her hand and administered a stinging blow on his cheek. He could only drop his hands and stare. There was no time to do more. This English amazon had, with a second gesture, pushed him backward and shut the door in his face.

As he stood there, bewildered and horrified, he heard her turn the key in the lock.

The new year had come.

Emmanuel Philibert had left England, and Elizabeth had gone back to Woodstock, not exactly a prisoner, but under some restraint. She had declared in the presence of several people that her heart would be broken if she were forced to leave England. Philip realized that between them the royal sisters had defeated him. Both were obstinate: Elizabeth in her determination to remain in England, Mary in hers to insist on Elizabeth’s illegitimacy.

Their behavior was typical of them. Elizabeth, fervently believing in her destiny, though her sister was securely on the throne and about to have a child, was refusing to leave England because she felt that when her great opportunity came she must be in the right spot to exploit it. Yet Mary, secure, with the child in her womb and the might of the Anglo-Spanish alliance behind her, was so afraid of that young girl that she denied her the benefit of legitimacy.

Certainly these had been uneasy weeks for Philip. He could not forget his humiliating encounter with Magdalen Dacre. He did not blame her; he blamed himself. When they met about the court there was no change in her manner to him, nor in his to her; he was as gracious as he had ever been, she as humble and courteous. Neither gave a sign of having remembered the incident. He did not believe she would be so foolish as to report the matter to Mary. Magdalen was clever enough to know that, however angry Mary might be with Philip, she would be doubly so with Magdalen.

Magdalen herself had spent a sleepless night after the incident. She believed that Philip would not allow her behavior to go unpunished. She saw herself disgraced and exiled on some trumped-up charge. She had heard of Spanish vengeance, and she had seen how some of the hidalgos were ready to fight to the death in order to avenge an imaginary insult.

Daily she waited for the storm, but nothing happened. Once she fancied she saw a mute apology in his eyes. Could he really be so reasonable, so just? If so, she must admire his character, for it was not in the nature of powerful kings to see their own faults.

Magdalen eventually became grateful and sought to defend Philip when he was maligned. She mentioned the incident to one of her friends, in strictest confidence, to whom she pointed out that while he might be human in his desires, he was at least man enough to know himself in the wrong and not to seek to avenge a loss of dignity. That, said Magdalen, was admirable, in a King … and a Spaniard.

But how could such a secret be kept? Others must savor it. They must laugh in secret because Philip of Spain had had his face slapped by an English maid of honor.

As the weeks passed the fires of Smithfield had begun to blaze. Gardiner and Bonner had put their heads together; this should have started long ago, they declared. Now that England had returned to the Catholic fold, heretics should learn the folly of their ways, and those who wavered toward heresy should watch the writhing bodies in Smithfield Square and turn from their wickedness.

The people of London looked on sullenly. It seemed to them that a pall of smoke continually hung over the square. They could not get the smell of burning flesh out of their nostrils.

It was the Spanish marriage, the citizens declared. “All was well in this land until we had foreigners among us …”