by Jean Plaidy
“Oh, speak it, Carlos, speak it! You do not know how happy that would make me! How I long to hear it!”
“You would laugh.”
“Only because I should be happy to hear it. Come then.”
Carlos laughed and blushed and said in French with a very strong Castilian accent: “Isabella, I am happy you are come. Carlos bids you welcome to Spain.”
And she did laugh, but so tenderly that he was happy. Then the tears came to her eyes and she said: “You learned that for me, Carlos. That is the nicest thing that has happened to me since I came to Spain.”
Then she put her hands on his shoulders and bent her head, for she was taller than he was, and she kissed him first on his right cheek, then on his left. That moment, Carlos was sure, was the happiest in his life.
He was showing her his books, and she was telling him about the court of France when the door opened and Alexander Farnese and Juan looked in.
Neither the Queen nor the Prince noticed them; and the two boys shut the door and looked at each other in astonishment, as they tiptoed away.
What had happened to Don Carlos? they wondered.
The court was in despair.
The young Queen was dangerously ill. She had danced the night before as gaily as any, though many had noticed that she seemed unusually flushed. They had thought at the time that this was due to excitement, but the next morning there was no doubt that she was in a high fever.
The Queen was suffering from that dread disease, the smallpox.
She had felt too sick to rise from her bed that day. Philip, who had spent the morning with his councillors, heard the news as he left the council chamber.
“The Queen is ill, your Highness.”
“Ill? Ill? But she was well last night.”
“Yes, but, your Majesty, when her ladies went to attend her rising this morning, they were alarmed; they called the physicians. We fear the smallpox.”
A sense of blank despair swept over Philip. He felt desolate. She had seemed to be a pleasant child, amusing with her foreign ways and very pleasing to the eye, but … just a child, a useful child who would cement French and Spanish friendship while she was young enough to give him the son he desired.
But was that all she meant to him? Now he thought of her piteous gratitude because he was not the monster she had expected; he was kind, she had said. Did she know that there were times when he had absented himself because he presumed that was what she wished? Did she realize that he, so utterly sensitive, having suffered marriage with an aging woman, could understand something of her dilemma? She was so charming; all agreed on that.
He knew in that moment, and the knowledge brought surprise with it, that if he lost her he would be a most unhappy man.
Could he be in love with this child? Was it possible? Surely he had done with emotional love affairs? So he had thought. He had dismissed Catherine Lenez; Isabel Osorio had retired to a convent. Now he was like that young man who had loved Maria Manoela. No, it could not be. He was sad because the charming creature was ill. He was merely disturbed because, if she died, he would have to make another marriage, and so much time would have been wasted and the bond with France slackened. He had decided there should be no emotional disturbances in his life. He was dedicated to God and his country.
But, more than anything, he wanted to see her.
As he made his way to her apartments he met the physicians.
“Your Majesty,” they cried, “it would be unwise to go into her chamber now. We are certain. It is the smallpox.”
“I should see her,” he answered. “She will expect to see me. I must reassure her that everything shall be done …”
“Your Majesty … the pox is highly contagious. It would be against our advice that you enter the chamber.”
He hesitated. They were right, of course; he was foolish and it was so rarely that he acted foolishly or even impulsively. What had happened to him when he had left the council chamber and had heard the news of her illness? He was unsure. He was so deeply disturbed.
But he must see her. She was so young and she would be afraid. He must reassure her as he had reassured her on their wedding night when she had been so terrified of facing marriage with the King of Spain. Poor little Princess, she had come through one ordeal and now must face another. The King of Spain or Death—which would be more terrifying to his little bride? Of course he must see her. He must reassure her. Remember, said his common sense, always at his elbow, you would jeopardize your life—that life which is devoted to the service of God and the country—you would sacrifice that to an emotional whim! It was folly. It was unworthy of Philip the King and God’s partner here on Earth.
Still he walked on. The physicians were staring after him in consternation, but he paid no attention to them.
A wild figure came running along the corridor. It was his son. “Carlos!” he cried.
Carlos’s face was blotched with weeping, and when Philip caught the boy by the arm he stared sullenly at his father.
“Where do you go?” asked Philip.
Carlos stammered: “She is ill. Isabella … She is dying. She will want to see me.”
“You are mad. She has the pox. You dare not go to her.”
“I will. She is sick and ill. She will wish to see me.”
“You shall not go!” said Philip sternly. “The risk is too great. Do you not know that?”
“Do you think I care for risks? I care only that she is ill. And I am her friend.”
“Go back to your apartments.”
“I will not.” Carlos scowled at his father. “Let me go. I will go to her.”
“Carlos, calm yourself.”
“You cannot forbid me … I … who am her friend.”
“I am her husband,” said Philip. He signed to two men-at-arms and bade them conduct Don Carlos back to his apartments and keep guard on him that he might not leave them.
Carlos, struggling, his heart filled with black hatred, was led away, while Philip opened the door and went into the sick-room.
She opened her eyes and smiled at him. He had sent everyone away. He wanted none to witness the emotional scene which he half feared might take place.
She was conscious enough to know what he risked by coming to her like this.
“You must go,” she said.
“Isabella,” he began almost shyly, “I wanted to tell you …”
She smiled, but her glance was vague; it was as though she looked beyond him to someone at the foot of her bed. So strong was the impression she gave him of seeing someone that he turned to look; but there was no one there.
“Isabella,” he went on, “you must not die. You must not.”
“No …” she whispered. “There is too much to do … for France.”
“Isabella, look at me. I have come to see you.”
Now her eyes were upon him. “You must not stay,” she cried. “It may be death.”
Nevertheless, he took her hand and kissed it.
“Do you know why I am here, Isabella?” he asked with passionate tenderness. “It is because I thought you would be the happier for seeing me.”
“You must not … Oh, you must not. But you are kind to me … you are very kind.”
“Please, Isabella, do all you can … to get well … not for France, but for me. And when you are well, little Isabella, we shall be happy … you and I!”
She did not seem to hear his words, and because of this he whispered: “Isabella, I believe I love you. I know I love you, little one.”
There was consternation at the Louvre. Couriers were galloping between France and Spain.
Catherine de Medici was terrified that her daughter would die and that she herself would lose contact with Spain; she was also afraid that even if Elisabeth recovered she would be so ravaged by the disease that she would lose all claim to beauty. Catherine, herself being in no way attractive, attached great importance to the power of feminine beauty. That was why she had, at home in Fra
nce, gathered about her a band of beauties, her Escadron Volant, to fascinate soldiers and statesmen whose secrets she wished to learn. She had hoped that her beautiful young daughter would so charm her husband that he would be ready to betray his state secrets to her; and that Elisabeth, like the dutiful daughter Catherine had brought her up to be, would pass on those secrets to her mother.
Catherine therefore sent for her magicians, René and the notorious brothers, Cosmo and Lorenzo Ruggieri; and with them she concocted lotions to preserve the skin. They decided that if the skin of a person suffering from smallpox were spread liberally with the white of eggs, disfigurement could be avoided. Accordingly she sent instructions to the French ladies of the young Queen’s retinue, at the same time demanding a constant flow of news concerning her daughter’s progress.
She had always been worried about Elisabeth’s health. There were certain irregularities which she had kept secret and had insisted on Elisabeth’s keeping secret, for she feared they indicated that her daughter—as she believed was the case with some of her other children—had inherited through her grandfather, François Premier, the ill effects of that disease of which he had died and which was called by the French La Malaie Anglaise.
As soon as she knew that her daughter would recover, Catherine wrote to her: “Remember, my child, what I told you before you left. You know quite well how important it is that none should know what malady you may have. If your husband knew of it, he would never come near you …”
Although she felt so much better, the little Queen was very uneasy when she received that letter. Her attendants could not understand her grief. They held up mirrors before her that she might see her pretty face with the skin as clear as it had been before her illness.
“You must thank your mother for this,” they said. “She sent so many lotions, but it was the egg remedy which saved your complexion.”
But thoughts of her mother, they noticed, could do little to soothe the Queen.
She was naturally glad to be well again and to see that her skin was smooth and beautiful; but she could not forget how Philip, at great risk to himself, had visited her daily; and, she reasoned with herself, if it was true that she was affected by a very terrible hereditary disease, it seemed even more wicked not to tell him now than it had before.
When he came to her, sat by her couch, held her hand, and brought her presents of rich jewels and fruit, she wanted to tell him; but she dared not, because she still felt the influence of her mother in the room.
She dared not disobey her mother.
Now she was well again and there were celebrations to mark her recovery.
Philip seemed almost young, kissing and caressing her when they were alone together. Nor did she object to those caresses; she felt it was rather wonderful that he, the most powerful King in the world, so stern and cold to others, should be almost gay when he was alone with her, taking an interest, it seemed, in the dresses and jewels she wore.
There were so many dresses—all richly embroidered and cut in the French style; she wore a new one every day, for once she had worn them she liked to give them away, especially to the Spanish ladies, who were delighted to possess a French dress, particularly one which had belonged to the Queen.
But the suspicion that she might be diseased haunted her.
One day she said: “Philip, I do so much hope that I shall have a child, but sometimes I fear …”
“Dear little Isabella, why should you fear? You shall have every care in the world when the time comes.”
But he was afraid as he said those words. He was a young man again in the bedroom of Maria Manoela; he was sitting by the bed of a young wife who was too near death to be conscious of his presence. He would be haunted all his life by a young bride whom he had loved briefly, and so tragically lost. It was alarming to think of this lovely young girl, facing the danger which had robbed him of Maria Manoela.
She saw the fear in his face and she said quickly: “Why are you afraid?”
He was silent, wondering how he could explain to her what she was beginning to mean to him. He could not say to her: “I had thought I was done with emotional entanglements. There were so many good reasons why we should marry and be content with our marriage; they are enough. I am dedicated to my destiny, and my greatest wish is that you should have a son; and if you fail in this and die in the attempt, why then, I must quickly get myself a new wife. Sons for Spain; an heir to take the place of Carlos. That is the very reason for our union.”
Yet he was beginning to suffer as once before he had suffered. He was beginning to dread the time when she would bear their child.
She could not understand his thoughts.
“I … I did not mean,” she said quickly, “that I was afraid of the pain of bearing a child. It was that … there might not be a child. Queens do not bear children as easily as commoners, it seems.”
“Is that all you fear, Isabella?” he asked.
Briefly she hesitated. Then she said: “I am afraid … that I …” But she could not go on, because it seemed that her mother was there, forbidding her.
“I would not have you afraid of anything,” he said gently.
“But it is my duty to have children, and if …”
“It is our duty,” he said with a return of his solemn manner. “Let us hope that before long we shall have a child.” He paused and said quickly: “You will not suffer in the ordeal more than I shall.”
Then she made one of her pretty gestures. She threw her arms about him.
“You are so good to me …” she said. “You are so kind.”
Her mother sent pictures from France. There was a beautiful one of Margot. The little girl, with her slanting, merry eyes and her gay little mouth with that expression of sauciness, was enchanting. There was also one of Catherine, her mother.
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.
