by Jean Plaidy
Ruy, whom she looked upon as one of her greatest friends, knew of her anxiety. She was aware that he shared it. He, more than anyone, seemed to fear the growing menace of Carlos.
Once he said to her: “If your Majesty should have a son, he would be the heir to the throne.”
“And Carlos?” she asked.
“The Council has agreed that in such circumstances Carlos would be declared unfit.”
“Poor Carlos. He would never forgive me.”
Ruy answered: “Carlos would forgive your Majesty anything.”
She was startled. Was he warning her, this good kind friend who seemed to see further than anyone else? Was he suggesting that Carlos was in love with her! She could not accept that. He was her friend; she was sorry for him; but that he should think of himself in the role of lover was incongruous.
Ruy said: “Sometimes I wonder what would happen if by some terrible mischance Philip should die and the crown pass to Carlos. Spain would be as Rome under Caligula.”
“I see,” she said, “that I must have a son … if not now … later.”
“Your Highness will. I beg of you not to be too anxious.”
But the child which was born to her, though healthy, was a girl.
“There is plenty of time,” said Philip and Ruy and all those to whom the birth of a male child was so important.
Then Carlos demanded their attention.
After the birth of her daughter, Isabella’s convalescence was a long one. She was subject to headaches and fits of dizziness; she had grown pale and thin. Yet such was her beauty that, although she had changed from the dazzling young girl who had first come to Spain nearly ten years ago, she was still possessed of great charm. If her eyes were less bright, her hair less lustrous, there was in her countenance an expression of such sweetness that those about her loved her more than they had when she had been a sparkling young girl.
In spite of her ill-health, she was still determined to give Philip a son.
Carlos was mad and must never be allowed to rule Spain. She traced this new and greater wildness in him to their adventure together when she had asked his help for Jeanne of Navarre, for again and again he would refer to his sympathy with heretics, and continually he spoke of her, the Queen.
Her secret weighed heavily upon her; she was remorseful, yet she knew that, could she have that time over again, she would act in exactly the same way.
Philip, absorbed in state duties, moodily occupied with thoughts of Carlos, did not notice the sad preoccupation of Isabella. Always with him she was the charming and obedient wife; and although he knew that he did not possess her passionate devotion, for which he longed, he still believed that one day it might be his.
Isabella spent much time at Pastrana in the Palace of the Prince and Princess of Eboli. She found great comfort in the companionship of Ruy and his wife. Ruy, in particular, understood something of the conflict within her and he knew that it concerned Carlos.
On one occasion he reminded her of the conversation they had had before the birth of her daughter. He knew, and the Princess his wife knew, that it would be unsafe for her to bear more children.
“This problem will have to be faced by Philip and the Council,” Ruy said to her. “Carlos cannot rule; but you and the King have two daughters. It may well be that Isabel Clara Eugenie will make as great a Queen as her forbear, the great Isabella.”
“What would Carlos feel if he were replaced by a girl?” she asked.
Ruy said: “Your Majesty must forgive my forwardness. If I speak to you as a father, that is because I am old enough to fill that role and because of my great regard for you. Let your task be to comfort Philip, to preserve your strength for this great work. You have given him two daughters. Let that suffice.”
She gave him her sweetest smile.
“I thank you, my Prince, for your advice, but I would not take it if I could. Very soon I hope my son will be born.”
Both Ruy and his wife were sad to hear this news that once again she was to have a child.
Carlos had decided to wait no longer. His father hated him. He had been born for one purpose, and he was now going to fulfill it. He was going to kill his father.
It had been such a wonderful dream: to raise the dagger and thrust it into the black velvet doublet, to watch the dull red stain on black velvet and diamonds, to see the pale eyes glaze in anguish—but not before Philip had looked into the face of the murderer and known him for his son.
Afterward he would ride away—perhaps to France, perhaps to Austria. But he would not long stay away from Spain; he would come back … for Isabella.
He kept his secret, planning cunningly. It would have to be a moment when he was alone with his father, for there must be none to protect Philip. He, Carlos, would be subdued; he would mislead Philip.
“Father,” he would say, “I will reform. I swear I will.”
And when Philip came close to lay a hand on his shoulder, to speak of his pleasure in his son’s calmness—then would come the quick uplift of the arm, the deep thrust, and blood … blood … the blood of Philip.
He had arranged for horses which would carry him away from the palace. He had told Juan and Garcia that he would need horses; he had ordered both of them to procure horses for him.
The idea of confession occurred to him. He had taken great pleasure in the confessional, for when he confessed it was as though he lived through exciting experiences again.
He did not intend to confess his plan to murder, but there was that about Fray Diego de Chaves which drew his innermost thoughts from him.
When he said: “What have you to confess this day, my son?” Carlos’s hot tongue licked his lips. He was obsessed with the great sin of patricide, but in the solemnity of the confessional box he was suddenly afraid. He was going to commit murder, but he told himself that it was a judicial murder. He was going to do something which, all his life, he had longed to do. But he wanted absolution. He did not want to burn in hell for committing a murder which was no ordinary murder.
So he would demand absolution, and this poor priest would not dare deny him, nor would he dare betray him.
He said: “I am going to kill a man, and I wish for absolution.”
“My son! You plan murder and you ask forgiveness! You know that cannot be.”
“It must be!” screamed Carlos. “It must be.”
“Murder, my son, is a mortal sin. You plan to commit it, and ask for absolution beforehand. Think what you say.”
“It is possible. I am the Prince.”
“Sir, there is One higher than all the princes of this world.”
“Then He will forgive me when He knows what a wicked man I intend to kill.”
Fray Diego prayed that he would be able to deal adequately with this new phase of madness. He said: “What plot is this? I must know before I can grant absolution.”
“It is a person of very high rank whom I shall kill.”
“It would be necessary for me to know the name of this person and any of those who plot with you.”
“None plot with me. I plot alone. Come, man. Grant absolution or I will run my sword through your miserable body.”
“I must know the name of this person of high rank.”
“You shall. His name is Philip, and he is King of Spain!”
The excitement was too much for Carlos; he fell to the ground in a fit.
The priest called for help and dispatched a messenger to the King.
Carlos was in his apartments. He was sullen, would speak to no one, and all that day he had eaten nothing. He could not remember what he had said to the priest.
He lay on his bed. Beneath the coverlet he had hidden two swords. They were naked, ready for use. Beneath his pillow were two loaded pistols. He was trembling with excitement. But what had he said to the priest?
He heard voices in the antechamber. With one hand he grasped a sword; with his chin he felt for the pistols.
The door opened unceremoniously and severa
l men entered the room. Among them Carlos recognized the Count of Feria.
He struggled up. “How dare you break in on me thus!” he cried. “Why do you come? Men-at-arms … here! The Prince commands you. Arrest these intruders.”
There were several men about his bed then, and with a sudden movement Feria had stepped forward and stripped off the coverlet. Before Carlos could cry out, he had seized the two swords. Carlos’s hands went at once to the pistols, but one of the men was quicker than he was. He seized the Prince’s wrists while another took the pistols from under his pillow.
“How … dare you!” sobbed Carlos. “You forget … I am the son of the King.”
At that moment there was a brief hush as Philip himself entered the chamber. He stood at the end of the bed, and in the candlelight father and son gazed at each other. Carlos thought he had never seen such a cruel face, never looked into such cold eyes. He was very frightened; for he knew that at last he had gone too far.
“What … what does your Majesty want?” he stammered.
“Close all doors,” said Philip.
This was done, and now Carlos saw that the room was filled with men and that the Count of Feria had taken up his stand on the King’s right hand.
Carlos was trembling. He knew that the doom which he had always dreaded was upon him.
The King did not speak to his son. He addressed the assembly. “I place the Prince, Don Carlos, in your hands,” he said. “Guard him well. Do nothing that he commands without first consulting me. Keep him a close prisoner.”
“Why?” cried Carlos. “What have I done? I have not killed you. I have been betrayed. You cannot treat me thus … You cannot.”
“I have nothing more to say,” answered Philip; and he turned away.
Carlos knelt on the bed. “Father,” he pleaded. “I beg of you … do not make me a prisoner. Let me go free. I shall kill myself if I am a prisoner.”
“Only madmen kill themselves,” said Philip sternly.
“I am not mad. I am only sad … sad and desperately unhappy. I always have been. Nobody loves me except … except … But those who love me are kept from me. But that does not alter their love. I am there … whether you wish it or not. I am there between you. I am young, King Philip, and you are old. I shall kill somebody … even if it is myself …”
Philip was at the door. He had made up his mind how he would act, and the councillors of state had agreed with his actions. The matter was finished.
Windows were fastened; doors were locked; and guards placed inside and outside the apartment.
Don Carlos was indeed his father’s prisoner.
Carlos lived in his own dark world, lying on his bed for days, speaking to no one, rising in sudden frenzy and throwing himself against the walls of his room, refusing to eat for days at a time, then demanding a feast and eating so ravenously that he was ill.
What was to become of Carlos?
While Carlos lived there could be no peace of mind for Philip. The Prince was well guarded, but escape from a prison such as his was not impossible. What if he found his way to Philip and committed the crime he had planned? What if, Philip dead, he called himself King of Spain? Who could deny his right to the title?
Philip thought: I, who would give my life to my country, have given it a monster.
To whom could he speak of such a matter? To Isabella? She was frail, wraithlike; he trembled to look at her. She seemed aloof from him; he wondered what rumors she had heard.
“Philip,” she said, “could I not see Carlos?”
“Indeed not.”
“I might help him. He was fond of me.”
“I know it,” said Philip grimly. “What will become of Carlos?”
He did not answer. He knew she read certain thoughts which came into his mind, for her dark eyes grew darker with horror.
She wanted to cry: “Philip, you could not do that. You could not murder your own son.” She remembered what he had said at the auto-da-fé in Valladolid. She heard it repeated many times. “If my son were a heretic, I would carry the wood and light the fire at his feet.” But he could not murder his own son.
She could not speak her thoughts aloud, for outwardly he had made a Spaniard of her.
There was nothing they could say to one another. Carlos was between them.
Philip was closeted with Espinosa, the Inquisitor-General. Isabella believed they talked of Carlos.
She began to think of the excuses he would make: “Carlos spoke as a heretic, and those who speak as heretics are condemned to death.”
But not your own son, Philip! she wanted to cry. Not your own son!
Philip was closeted with Ruy.
And she knew that they all planned to rid themselves of Carlos.
They were alone in their bedchamber—the King and the Queen—but it seemed to them both that there was another there, a shadowy third. He would not let them rest. Both were thinking of him and his demoniacal laughter. The madness of him! thought Philip. The pity of him! thought Isabella.
Philip began to pace up and down. He had a decision to make. He must do this thing. But how could he? He is my own son, he mused. Then it seemed to him that he heard the stern voice of righteousness, of God perhaps: “What if your conscience is burdened with murder? What is your conscience compared with the good of Spain?”
He was in an agony of indecision. There were so many thoughts in his mind. He longed to rid himself of Carlos. He feared Carlos; and ridiculous as it seemed, Carlos was between him and Isabella.
What was she thinking as she lay there watching him? Of Carlos? She knew his thoughts. She must know the purpose of those secret meetings with Ruy and the Cardinal. She knew that the destruction of Carlos was being planned.
He could not speak of it. He was deeply conscious of that quality in him which did not allow frankness. Moreover she had set herself apart from him. Yet her eyes were pleading with him now. You cannot kill Carlos, Philip, they said. You cannot kill your own son.
And why should she plead? What was the meaning of Carlos’s secret smile? Only Isabella could calm Carlos. Only Isabella was fond of him. Was there some secret between them?
Why had Carlos looked so cunning … so pleased … so certain when he had said: “I shall always be between you!”
“Philip,” said Isabella, “you are tired and you have much on your mind.”
“So much,” he answered. “So many decisions to make.”
He longed to put his arms about her, to beg her to help him. He wanted to explain his feelings for his son, his disgust of him, the humiliation he suffered on his account, and above all that faint—and he was sure unfounded—jealousy.
But how could he talk of such things to Isabella? All through the night the agony of indecision continued.
Dr. Olivares sought out the King. He must speak to him in private.
“Your Highness, the Prince of Eboli has spoken to me concerning Don Carlos.”
“How do you find my son?”
“Sire, he is sick—very sick of the mind.”
“And of the body?”
“It is astonishing how he remains as well as he does in that respect. Your Highness, the Prince of Eboli has told me it is your Majesty’s wish that a certain medicine should be given to Don Carlos.”
“If the Prince of Eboli told you that, you may take it as a command from me.”
“Then I crave your Majesty’s pardon for the interruption. I did not care to administer such a medicine except at the express command of your Highness.”
“I have decided,” said Philip coolly, “that this medicine will be beneficial.”
“I understand your Highness.”
Dr. Olivares bowed and glided away.
Isabella said: “Why did Dr. Olivares come to see you this day? Has he news of the Prince?”
“Yes,” said Philip.
“He is better?” she asked eagerly.
“He will never be better. It is for us to hope that he will not be wors
e.”
Isabella, looking at her husband, saw in his face a calmness which, she knew, came from his having reached a solution to a problem which had given him much anxiety. She came to him and slipped her arm through his; it was a gesture from the old days when she had been more demonstrative in her affection.
“Philip,” she said, “you seem at peace. I am glad.”
Then he turned to her and gravely kissed her brow.
“Isabella,” he said, “let us pray as we have never prayed before. Let us implore God that this time it may be a son.”
Isabella felt suddenly cold as she looked into the inscrutable face of her husband.
Carlos was in a docile mood. He took the broth which had been specially prepared for him; but after drinking it he became very weak and could only lie still and speak in whispers.
He seemed not to know where he was, to be living in the past, calling himself the Little One, and asking for his locket.
His attendants sent for his Confessor.
Philip was called to him. He gave no sign of the emotion within him. He stood at one end of the bed, and as Carlos opened his eyes and looked at his father a faint smile touched the Prince’s lips.
Carlos knew. In those seconds his eyes told his father that he knew. There was no hatred now; he knew that soon he would have left this world in which his father had all that he, Carlos, had most desired: Dignity, the respect of men, and … Isabella.
Carlos tried to speak, but the death rattle was in his throat. His smile said: “I was to have killed you, and I made you kill me instead. You think you are the victor, Philip. But are you? You know, as I know, that it shall be as I said: I shall always be between you and Isabella.”
And for a moment, as he looked into the cold blue eyes, he saw Philip flinch, and he knew that in death the victory belonged to Carlos.
He had made a murderer of the man he hated; he had made him a murderer of his own son.
Isabella now knew that she would never give Philip the son for which they had fervently prayed. She was dying in the attempt to do so.
She had mourned Carlos deeply; she knew that his tragedy was interwoven with her own. She was weary of this harsh world in which she lived. From the Netherlands came terrible stories of the suffering under the cruelty of Alba … in the name of Spain. Her beloved France was torn in agony with its wars of religion. She did not wish to live amid such cruelty.
