For a Queen's Love: The Stories of the Royal Wives of Philip II

by Jean Plaidy

  He had cried to his tutors: “Let little boys be sent.” Little boys, he thought, whose arms he could twist until they screamed; little boys who did not know the tricks which would enable them to escape his sword, who did not beat him at billiards and quoits.

  Don Garcia had said gravely: “Only those worthy to share your Highness’s leisure hours may be sent to you.”

  “Why? Why?” demanded Carlos.

  “Because those are the orders of his royal Highness, your father.”

  His father was the source of all his misery. Well, there was one thing his father did not know. It was this: Whenever Carlos killed a rabbit or a dog, it was of his father that he thought. It was because of his father that he enjoyed taking a mole or a mouse in his hands and slowly squeezing it until it died, because then he imagined that it was his father’s neck which his fingers were pressing, just as he imagined that the blood which flowed was his father’s.

  Hatred for his father was the greatest emotion in his life.

  Everybody disliked Carlos; he was wise enough to know that. The only one who had loved him was Juana, and they had taken her away from him. She had cried so sadly when she went away. “Little one,” she had said, “if only I could stay with you!” He had put his arms about her neck, had let his hands rest on her soft skin, and although that well-known thrill had crept over him and part of him had wanted to press and squeeze as it did when he touched soft things, the other part of him had only wanted to stroke and caress, for he loved Juana because she was the only one who loved him.

  “Little one will kill those who take you away from him,” he had snarled.

  “It is no one’s fault, Carlos.”

  “It is Prince Philip’s fault.”

  “No … no.”

  “Everything is his fault.”

  He was sure of it; and everyone loved Philip, while only Juana loved Carlos. Carlos wanted so much to be loved. When he was King, he often told himself, he would have everyone killed who did not love him. But in the meantime he was merely a prince, a very young prince, who must perform all the irksome tasks which were set him.

  Now that his father had returned to Spain there were more tasks. His father had found the bodies of rabbits in the schoolroom and had demanded to know who had put them there. The result of those inquiries was that Carlos was brought before his father.

  “Why do you do such things?” asked Philip sadly.

  “Little one does not know.”

  “Please speak of yourself as a grown-up person. You are no longer a baby.”

  Carlos was afraid because of the coldness of those pale eyes. Fiery anger he understood, but not cold anger.

  He stammered: “I do not know.”

  “You must know. Why do you take defenseless creatures and kill them without reason?”

  Carlos was silent.

  “These bad habits must cease,” went on Philip. “You are old enough now to come to some understanding of what your duties will one day be. Instead of occupying yourself with ill-treating defenseless animals, I wish you to develop a taste for reading. Nothing can improve your mind more than that. Understand that is what I expect of you, and if I hear further bad reports of your conduct I shall have to take measures which will not please you.”

  Philip dismissed Carlos then; and never, felt the boy, had he hated him so much. He fled to his own apartments, flung himself on to the cushions which were on the floor and, in a rage, began to bite them, tearing the velvet so that soon the down was escaping and floating about him like a snowstorm.

  One day, he promised himself, Little One will kill his father.

  His tutor came in and found him in a state of emotional exhaustion.

  “You shall have a soothing drink, Highness, and after a rest you will feel better.”

  And while the tutor took the trembling body of his young master and helped him to his feet, he was wondering if he might ask to be excused the great honor of tutoring the heir. His duties were becoming more and more irksome, and he guessed that one day they would be more than irksome; they would be dangerous.

  It was not long before Carlos was lashing himself to fresh fury and, as he did so, a cobbler arrived with a pair of shoes the Prince had ordered.

  Carlos was glad to tear himself away from the fierce passion which beset him. “Send the cobbler in,” he commanded. “He brings the new shoes and Little One wishes to try them on.”

  Carlos glowered at the cobbler because he was young and handsome. The cobbler knelt and held out the shoes, which were beautifully wrought. He was obviously proud of his work.

  “Your royal Highness will see that I have carried out your instructions in every detail. Might your royal Highness like to try them on to assure yourself that the fit is as perfect as I know it to be?”

  Carlos sat imperiously in his chair, ordering one of his attendants to kneel and take off his shoes. This was done, and the shoes were put on his feet.

  Carlos rose. The cobbler watched in delight. But Carlos was determined to be angry. He could not forget the recent scene with his father. Hatred filled his heart—hatred for his father. Yet he dared not show that hatred. He had enough sense to know that he could not pit his puny strength against that of the calm, solemn man who had the whole of Spain behind him. Yet Carlos would be revenged on someone. He looked at the smiling face of the cobbler.

  “They are ill-made!” he shrieked. “They do not fit. You have made them badly on purpose to provoke Don Carlos, and Don Carlos will not be provoked. Scoundrel! How dare you stand there smiling, so pleased, when you have caused the shoes of his royal Highness Don Carlos to pinch him?”

  “Your Highness, is it so? Doubtless we can remedy the slight fault. Mayhap the shoes which were copied were a little too small for your royal Highness. The fault shall be rectified.”

  “The fault shall indeed be rectified!” cried Carlos, his eyes flashing. “You … standing there … seize this man. Do you hear? Do you stand there refusing to obey Don Carlos!”

  Two attendants came forward and took the bewildered cobbler uncertainly by the arms. “What … is your Highness’s pleasure?”

  “Your Highness will tell you. Take him. But first let him pick up his shoes … his odious shoes … which he has made too small in order to hurt his Prince.”

  “I assure your Highness …” began the cobbler.

  “His Highness does not listen to you. His Highness thinks how he will punish you. You will soon wish that you had not dared to show your insolence to Don Carlos.”

  Carlos broke into loud laughter. He had thought of a wonderful plan, and it amused him; it made him happy; he would be revenged on the insolent cobbler, for how could he be revenged on the one whom he really hated? For the time being the cobbler could take Philip’s place.

  “March this man down to the kitchens. At once. Do not stand gaping there, or Don Carlos will have you whipped. He’ll have you whipped until the blood runs.” Carlos paused to contemplate that. Blood! He liked that. For a moment he forgot his amusing plans for the cobbler. Then he remembered and once more he shook with laughter.

  “To the kitchens … your Highness?”

  “You heard Don Carlos. At once. Now … march! You come too. And you … and you … and you. You will see how Don Carlos treats those who are insolent to him.”

  Perturbed, they marched down to the kitchens, hoping that some person of authority would see them and have the cause of such strange conduct investigated.

  In the kitchens below the great hall of the palace the cooks were busy. Joints of meat were turning on spits and a great cauldron over a wood fire was sending off savory steam.

  The cobbler was now sweating with fear; he had heard of the wild ways of the Prince, but he had not believed he could arouse wrath such as this by presenting him with a pair of beautiful shoes.

  Carlos called to the cooks: “Here! Here! Come here, you cooks. Stand there before Don Carlos. What are you cooking in the cauldron? Take it off and put another on
the fire filled with hot water. Now take these shoes. Cut them into pieces.”

  The cobbler gasped. In spite of his fear he protested: “Your Highness … such beautiful shoes!”

  “Cut them! Cut them! Or do you want me to cut off your head instead? Here are sharp knives. They could cut heads as easily as shoes …” Carlos broke into mad laughter which terrified all those who heard it. “Here … you cook. Cut … Cut … Unless you want to be put in that cauldron and brought to the boil. What a dish that would make, eh! Ha … ha … ha …” His laughter seemed as if it would choke him, and there was not a person in the kitchens who did not hope that it would … choke him to death so that they need never give a thought to the mad schemes of Don Carlos, which might involve any member of the household in pain and disaster.

  “Cut the leather into pieces …”

  He watched the cook do this while he burst into peal after peal of laughter; and when the shoes were cut to pieces he ordered them to be put into the hot water. He peered into the cauldron of boiling water, while his mad laughter rang through the kitchens.

  “This will show,” he cried. “This will teach those who wish to play tricks on Don Carlos that they would be wiser to leave him alone. Now take the leather out of the water. Set Master Cobbler at the table. Give him a platter. Now … set out his dish for him. Set out his shoes. By God and all the saints, Don Carlos swears he shall not leave these kitchens until he has eaten the shoes … every scrap of them.”

  “Your Highness …” cried the cobbler.

  Carlos lunged at the man with his fists, but the cobbler was strong and the Prince was puny. Carlos wanted to cry with anger because his blows had no effect on the stalwart young man. He was acutely aware of his own weakness, the deformities of his body, the hump on his back which his loose doublet could not quite conceal, his pallid face, his rolling eyes and his loose jaw, of those legs which were not the same length.

  He wanted to cry: “Love Don Carlos. Love this little one and he will not hurt you.”

  But there was disgust in the cobbler’s eyes, and Don Carlos recognized this. He knew that all the people who watched him despised him, and that if he had not been a prince they would have turned against him; they would have driven him out of the kitchens, out of the palace, sent him into that world where nobody loved him.

  So he would revenge himself on all those who were powerless to act against him.

  “Eat … Eat. You are commanded to eat.”

  The bewildered man put a piece of leather into his mouth. He swallowed and choked. He began to cough and vomit while the Prince roared with glee.

  “More! More! Don Carlos will call in the whippers if you do not. They will make you eat.”

  And into his mouth the cobbler put another piece of leather. He choked, coughed, and was sick. His face was yellow now—yellower than that of Carlos. He looked ugly in his discomfort, uglier than Carlos. This was what the Prince liked; he was enjoying this. He must have more of such games.

  There were still several pieces of leather on the platter, but it was clear that the cobbler would not be able to swallow them. He was writhing now in agony and Carlos was beside himself with mirth, commanding the onlookers to join with him in urging the cobbler to greater efforts.

  There they stood, shocked into sullenness. Carlos would show them.

  “Laugh! Laugh!” he screamed. “You there … You … cook! If you are sorry for this traitor, you may help him eat his tasty dish.” Carlos laughed until the tears spurted from his eyes and moisture dribbled from his lips, spattering the black velvet of his doublet. Thus he did not immediately see the messenger from his father’s suite who had entered the kitchen.

  “Your Highness,” said the messenger. “On the instruction of his most royal Highness, Prince Philip, I ask you to go at once to your apartments.”

  Carlos swung around, his face working with fury, the tears of laughter turning to tears of rage. He stammered: “You … you shall eat this. You … you … who dare to order Don Carlos.”

  “I do not order your Highness. I but obey orders, the orders of his most royal Highness, Prince Philip.”

  “They shall not be obeyed. Don Carlos is the Prince. Don Carlos shall not …”

  The cobbler was lying unconscious on the floor; the cooks and kitchen workers stood very still, watching the conflict between the unbalanced Prince and the envoy from his father.

  “Your Highness,” said the clear, calm voice, “I beg of you, accompany me. Your father’s guards await you. They will escort you to your apartments. So, I beg of you, let us go.”

  Carlos knew that he was powerless. Someone had carried the tale of his sport to his father, and his father had sent men to put him under what was tantamount to arrest.

  Even as Carlos hesitated, Philip’s physician came into the kitchens and went to attend to the unconscious man on the floor.

  Carlos knew that he was beaten. He was a boy as yet and the whole of Spain was against him.

  So, the men about him fell back, and while Philip’s own physician attended to the cobbler, Don Carlos was obliged to walk, most shamefully, out of the kitchens with his father’s messenger; and as he went along the corridors and up staircases to his own apartments, he could hear the steady footsteps of his father’s guards tramping behind him.

  Of all the people in the world, Don Carlos hates him most, thought Carlos. One day Don Carlos will kill Don Philip.

  So Philip knew that he must marry again; without delay he must have another heir. That young monster called Don Carlos must not be his only offering to Spain. He was about to send dispatches to Ruy Gomez in Portugal, telling him to complete the marriage negotiations as quickly as possible, when news came from the Emperor.

  Charles was evidently excited.

  “My son,” he wrote, “hold up the negotiations with Portugal. Something is happening in England which must command our close attention. We cannot afford to close our eyes to events in that island. Flanders is ours, but to keep it ours without the might of the Empire behind us will not be an easy matter. There are the French on one side, the Lutheran Princes on the other. The only way in which we can hold Flanders is to make England our ally. That is why we must earnestly consider what is happening there.

  “For some years the young King Edward has been ailing. News has reached me that he is dying—some say of poison. By the time this reaches you Edward the Sixth of England will be no more. The Duke of Northumberland will try to put Lady Jane Grey on the throne. Our friends there inform me that this cannot succeed. The English will not have Lady Jane for their Queen; they are a determined people who will choose their own rulers. They are all behind our kinswoman, Mary Tudor, and I doubt not that in a short time the throne will be hers.

  “You will readily see that if England and Spain were united in lasting union—and it must be lasting—we need no longer fear the French. With England beside her, the greatest power in the world today—in spite of all we have lost here in Europe—would be Spain.

  “You see what I mean? Our kinswoman, Mary Tudor, is unmarried; and you, my beloved son, are unmarried. Philip and Mary could unite Spain and England. Not only would such a marriage restore the power of Spain; it could bring England back to Holy Church.

  “Mary would make an excellent wife for you. She is only eleven years your senior; she is of the same stock, being a granddaughter of our own Queen Isabella the Catholic, your great-grandmother. She is a devout Catholic. My son, you are twenty-six years old; you are a man of sound judgment. I do not command you to this marriage, for I know full well that having considered it and seen it to be your duty to Spain, you will not hesitate.”

  Philip stopped reading.

  Mary Tudor! A woman of thirty-seven, a niece of mad Queen Juana, who was still living her frenzied existence in the Alcázar of Tordesillas.

  No; certainly he would not have chosen Mary Tudor.

  He would have to go to England—to that dark and dreary island which he had never seen, bu
t of which he had heard much; he would have to spend a long time among a barbarian people whose tongue he could not speak; he would have to marry an aging woman whom he was sure he could never love.

  He resumed the reading of his father’s dispatch. “I do not command … for I know full well that having considered it and seen it to be your duty to Spain, you will not hesitate …”

  How well his father knew him!

  He wanted to cry out against this suggested marriage; but there must be no question of his personal wishes.

  He was the slave of his country.

  TWO

  In the city of Valladolid, flags of rich velvet and brocade fluttered from the windows. In the streets the people stood about to admire the decorations and see what they could of the bullfights, the sports, and the tourneys. This was a great day for Spain, it was said, for now Spaniards would see an end to continual wars. When they were allied with England none would dare attack them; and they would soon be allied with England through the strongest tie it was possible to make—that of the marriage of their own Philip with Mary Tudor.

  They would have to lose their Prince for a while, and that saddened them; but he, alas!, would feel the sadness more than they did. They had but to stay at home and await his return, while they reaped the benefit of the marriage; he had to marry the Queen of England. They had heard tales of her. She was a witch, it was said. She was ten … fifteen … twenty years older than Philip. She was eagerly awaiting him because she badly wanted a husband; she had been promised to so many and had never managed to get one. Their long-suffering Prince must make the sacrifice; he must make this marriage for the sake of Spain.

  Philip himself, sitting in the palace of Valladolid, yet again reading dispatches from his father, thought sadly of his departure.

  How glib the Emperor seemed: “Do this …”

  “Do that …” It was so easy to advise; to carry out the advice quite another matter.

  Such thoughts were rare with Philip, and he dismissed them immediately. His father was right when he said this should end their troubles, and Philip was stupid to dream of a beautiful young wife whom he could love as he had loved Maria Manoela.