She read the accompanying letter:
“These pictures are for you, my dearest daughter. Show them to the Prince, particularly the one of little Marguerite. Is it not charming? Little Margot grows irresistible. Everyone loves her. Do not forget what you have to do for your sister. If your husband were to die, you would be the most unfortunate woman in the world, for what would your position be? There would be a new Queen of Spain, the wife of Don Carlos. If that wife were your sister Margot, why then your position would be assured. So you must bring about this match …”
She must. Of course she must. And what fun it would be if Mar-got were there with her! She tried to imagine the high-spirited Mar-got—who had already announced her intention of marrying her dear friend Henry of Guise—in this court, married to Carlos. Henry of Guise was the most handsome boy she had ever seen. And Carlos? Well, she was fond of him because he was so gentle with her, and if he was in one of his passions, she alone could bring him out of it; but what would Margot think of him?
She went along to the apartments of Carlos, taking the pictures with her. She came and went as she liked now. She had dispensed with much of the ceremony which it behooved the Queen of Spain to use. No one seemed to mind. This was the enchanting Isabella, the favored one. Everyone loved her, including the King; and they could see no harm in anything she did. She was just a charming child for all that she was the Queen of Spain.
“Carlos,” she cried. “I am here.”
He was with his companions, Alexander and Juan. They all stood up to greet her, and she joined them at the table. They sat around it like four children, only there was a look of passionate yearning in the eyes of Carlos which was unchildlike.
“I have brought some pictures to show Carlos.”
She put it in that way because she knew it would please him that the pictures were mainly for him to see. He must be the one she came to visit. If he thought she came to see any of the others, he would not reprove her, but he would sink into deep melancholy. She could, with a word, make him happy or sad. And she must please him; it was her duty to please him; those were her mother’s instructions.
So now she produced the pictures.
“They have just come. Look! There are two of them.”
“I am to see them,” said Carlos, elbowing the others away. “Isabella brought them for me, did not your Highness?”
“I brought them for you to see, Carlos. But the others may look if they wish. Which do you like better, Carlos? Tell me first and then I will tell you who they are.”
He was so happy to have Isabella there, so happy to be near her. He smiled first at her, to let her know that she was more interesting to him than any picture could be.
He said: “Ah, this chiquita … she is beautiful.”
“She is indeed. She is my sister; and the elder lady is my mother.”
“I do not like so well your mother,” said Carlos.
“No; indeed you would not, for she would seem so old to you.”
“And fat,” said Carlos. “But the little one is so pretty.”
Juan asked her name.
“It is Marguerite, but my brother Charles nicknamed her Margot. She is the gayest creature I ever knew. How I wish she were here!”
“I wish I could bring her to you, if that would please you,” said Carlos wistfully.
“Mayhap she could come on a visit?” suggested Alexander.
“It is a long journey,” said Isabella. “I wonder how she would like it here.”
“You are sad,” Carlos put in.
“Only when I think of those at home in France. There were so many of us. François, who is now the King, and Charles, Henri, Claude, Margot, and little Hercule …”
“Well,” said Juan, “now you have Carlos, Alexander, and Juan.”
She smiled and kissed them in turn. It was astonishing to them, but they knew it was the way of the French.
Carlos could not bear to see her kiss the others; he put his arms about her and clung to her as long as he dared.
She showed the pictures to Philip, interrupting him while he was busy with his dispatches from all over the Empire.
There was bad news from Flanders. He knew that Orange was organizing a revolt.
He was sitting deep in thought, when she appeared—an enchanting vision in her Parisian dress, her black hair dressed in a new style. How could he help but be delighted to see her? It was so much more pleasant to contemplate her than the treacherous Orange.
“But I am interrupting,” she said. “I came to show you the pictures which have arrived from Paris.”
“Everything that is charming would seem to come from Paris,” he said. “I pray you, let me see the pictures.”
She showed him the one of her mother first. The plump, inscrutable face looked back at him.
“And the other is my little sister. This is beautiful. Is she not charming? Do you like this picture, Philip?”
“Very much.”
“I wish you could see Margot.” She looked at him wistfully. “Oh, Philip, how I wish that I could see her.”
She sat, rather timidly, it was true, upon his knee. The French were so demonstrative, but he understood. She was going to ask some favor. It was a little childish of her, but then he loved her childishness. And this was a habit they would have taught her in the French court.
He looked at her quizzically yet indulgently, and she went on: “Carlos will have to have a wife. He grows old. Philip … would it not be wonderful if he could marry my sister Marguerite?”
Now it was all quite clear. So Madame le Serpent had set his own wife to cajole him. Catherine had made one of her daughters Queen of Spain, and she wished to make sure that the Queen who followed should be a daughter of hers. Catherine clearly set great store by Spanish friendship; but the woman was not so clever as she rated herself. Did she think he was a besotted fool to be persuaded on matters of state policy even by the most charming of wives?
He drew Isabella toward him and put his arm about her; and as he did so he looked at the plump, flat face of the woman in the picture.
He was thinking: Yes, Madame, you sent me your daughter and I made her my wife. From now on she shall be my wife entirely and cease to be your obedient daughter. If she is to act the spy and agent, it is better that she should act so for her husband than for her mother.
And he decided that he would mold her; he would make her completely his. He had won her friendship and affection with his gentleness; before long he would win her passionate devotion; then she would be free from her mother’s influence.
At length he answered: “My dearest, we must not think of marriage for Carlos at this stage. He does not enjoy good health; and I do not intend to allow him to marry until his health has greatly improved. If and when such a time should come, I will choose a wife for him. Until then, let us not think of his marrying.” Seeing her disappointment, he smiled wryly. “Why,” he went on, “your little sister looks so gay. The Louvre is the place for her. Do not brood on the marriages of others; think only of ours, which we are discovering to be a good one, are we not?”
“Yes, Philip, but …”
“Isabella,” he interrupted, “your mother writes often to you, does she not?”
“Why, yes, indeed.”
“You never show me her letters.”
“N … no. Was it your wish that I should?”
He saw the panic in her eyes and marveled at the power of a woman who could arouse it at such great distance. “Only if you wished to show them to me,” he said.
“I … I would, of course, do so if you wished it.”
He took her hand and kissed it tenderly. “There are times when I think you are afraid of your mother. Are you, my dear?”
“Afraid of her … but I love her. I love all my family.”
“Perhaps it is possible to love and fear. I would not have you afraid. There is nothing to fear. Why should the Queen of Spain fear the Queen Mother of France? Tell me that.”
“I do not know. But she is my mother and we always had to do what she wished.”
“Or be beaten? Tell me, did she beat you often?”
“There were times.”
He laughed, and permitted himself to show a little of the tenderness that surged through him. He held her fast against him and said: “No one shall beat you anymore, my Isabella. There is no need to fear anyone, particularly those who are far away and cannot reach you. If they should ask you to do what you do not wish to do, then you must refuse. And if you should be afraid—why, here is the King of Spain to defend you.”
He laughed, and his laughter was always pleasant to hear, because it was so rare; so she laughed with him.
“Then you will promise me not to be afraid anymore; and if you are, you will tell me all about it?”
“Yes,” she said with only the faintest trace of hesitancy. “I will.”
“Then take your pictures, and when I have finished with these papers I will join you. Perhaps we will ride together. Or shall I show you my new pictures and tapestries? Anything that you wish.”
“I should like to ride,” she said.
She picked up her pictures and went from the room. She was a little relieved, for he was right. It was rather silly to be frightened of someone living hundreds of miles away, when the most powerful monarch in the world was your husband who had sworn to protect you.
What Philip did not understand was—and how could she explain this?—that, while it was true she was afraid of her mother, she was also afraid of him.
With the passing weeks Philip’s love intensified. He had never been so happy, in spite of the troubles in his dominions. He felt young again. He faced the extraordinary fact that he was in love, even as he had been in the days of his first marriage with the pretty little Maria Manoela.
But how much better this could be. Maria Manoela, charming as she was, had been an uneducated girl compared with Isabella. Isabella was young, it was true; she was very gay—with her French attendants; she loved fine clothes and jewels, but that was because she was French.
She would mature. He remembered how he had thought thus of Maria Manoela. One day he would be able to explain his feelings to Isabella. Had he not assured himself that this would be the case with Maria Manoela? And when he had told her, it had been too late; she was by that time deaf to his eloquent explanations. But what had happened in the case of Maria Manoela would not happen with Isabella. History did not repeat itself as neatly as that.
No! He had loved his first wife and lost her; he had hated his second marriage; he had suffered enough. And now he had come to the third, why should he not enjoy perfect happiness? He would. In time she would return his passionate love, but he must wait for that day. He must be patient; he felt that if only he could override that absurd fear she had of him, all would be well. He knew that there were times when she forgot he was the King of Spain; she forgot the stories she had heard of him and was spontaneously happy. Well, it would come. He could feel confident in the future.
In the meantime there was Carlos to disturb his peace. If only Carlos had never been born, or had died at birth, what a lot of trouble would have been avoided!
One day when he and Isabella had been riding together and returned to the palace, Philip discovered that Carlos was about to cause him even more anxiety than he had so far.
Isabella had retired to her room when the Prince’s tutor presented himself to Philip. The tutor was distraught.
There had been a particularly painful scene that morning. The Prince had looked from his window and seen the King and Queen riding out with their attendants; he had then seemed to go quite mad, and, picking up a knife, had rushed at the nearest person—who happened to be this tutor.
“Sire, but for Don Juan and Don Alexander, I doubt I should have been here now to tell this to your Majesty.”
“Where is he now?” asked Philip.
“He fell into a fit almost immediately, your Majesty. He lashed out with feet and fists; but afterward grew calm and, as is usual after such experiences, he lay quiet and still, speaking to no one.”
“What caused the trouble?”
“We have no idea, your Highness.”
But the man had some idea. Philip saw it in his face. He was on the point of demanding an explanation, but thought better of it, and decided to see his son for himself.
He went along to Carlos’s apartments and there dismissed everyone. Carlos, white and shaken after the fit, stared sullenly at his father.
“Why do you come here?” he snarled. “To taunt me?”
“Carlos, I came to ask you what is the meaning of this outburst. I know you cannot control your actions when you are in such a state, but it is your own passion which brings on these unfortunate lapses.”
“You know!” cried Carlos. “You know, do you not? I saw you. You know that she would have come to see me this morning. You knew it, and that is why you took her away from me. Was she not to have married me? She was mine … mine … and you took her. You took her from me. I had her picture and I learned to speak French for her. She was mine and you knew it, and you hated me. You wanted to hurt me as you always have. I love Isabella … and you have taken her from me.”
Philip stared in horror at his son.
Now he understood the horrible truth. Carlos was mad enough to fancy he was in love with Isabella.
What horror could not grow out of such a situation, when a semi-maniac such as Carlos was involved? Who knew what tragedy lay ahead of them?
Prompt action was needed as it never had been needed before.
Philip turned and hurried from the room.
Within an hour he had decided that Don Carlos was not being educated in accordance with his rank. He was to leave Toledo at once for Alcala del Henares, that he might have the benefit of the best teachers at the University there.
Don Juan and Don Alexander should accompany him, and there should not be a day’s delay.
Those were the King’s commands.
THREE
Philip was afraid, for Isabella was very ill, and he had a horror of childbirth.
He must think of those days which had followed the death of his first wife, and he could not rid himself of the superstitious fear that in love he was doomed to frustration. First Maria Manoela had died. Was it now to be Isabella?
Very little else seemed of any real importance to him now. His troops had suffered a great defeat at Tunis, and it seemed as if the Turks’ hold on the Mediterranean was becoming firmer. Here was a blow against the Faith itself. The Infidel was encroaching on Europe; and no Spaniard, remembering the tragic history of his country, could feel complacent. The Netherlands were clearly preparing to break into open revolt. Yet Philip could think of nothing but Isabella.
In the first months of her pregnancy he had had a silver chair made for her so that she might not tire herself by walking. In it she had been carried everywhere. He had to face the truth; for all her vivacity, she was not strong and she seemed to droop and fade like a flower in the heat of the sun.
