by Jean Plaidy
The child was looking at his father now. Philip stooped to pick him up. He held him against him in such a way that neither Leonor nor the child should see his emotion.
Philip could never shirk a duty. After an hour spent in that nursery with Garcia he must return to the palace and visit his legitimate son, the child of his brief union with Maria Manoela. These visits were becoming, alas!, more of a duty than a pleasure.
He went to the apartments that were occupied by the little Prince.
Carlos was nearly two years older than Garcia, and Philip never looked at Carlos without wishing that it was Garcia who was his eldest son, Garcia whose place was here at the palace.
They were prepared for him in the royal nursery when he arrived. Perhaps they knew that he had just left the house of Isabel Osorio and that he had spent an hour with her son.
As Philip entered the apartment he heard Carlos’s screaming. So they had warned him that his father was approaching; they had tried to comb his wild hair, to tidy his garments, to impress upon the boy the need to be on his best behavior.
Philip stood coldly surveying the scene. The two nurses were perturbed, desperately trying to quiet Carlos; the heralds and the courtiers were uncomfortable; Carlos had turned to peer over his shoulder and scowl at his father.
Philip said: “Leave me with my son.”
“No!” cried Carlos. “Do not go.”
He ran after them, but they had left quickly shutting the door after them. Carlos went to the door, but he was not big enough to open it, so he pounded on it with his fists, working himself into a rage.
“Come here, Carlos,” said Philip.
The boy ignored his father and continued to kick the door.
Philip strode across the room, and picking up Carlos, brought him to the chair, where he sat holding the boy.
Carlos was now silent. He glared at his father with his wild black eyes.
“Why do you behave thus?” demanded Philip.
Carlos did not answer.
“Is it becoming for a prince to treat his father thus?”
Carlos’s lower lip stuck out angrily. Philip looked at the big head that seemed enormous on the poor, stunted body; he noticed how the hair grew low on his forehead, almost reaching the eyebrows, the slight hump on the back, the left leg which was not quite as long as the right, the weak, full lips, the pallor of the skin; and all the time he was comparing Carlos with the boy whom he had just left. Why had God given him one handsome and intelligent son, and another—the heir to the throne—like Carlos? How had he and Maria Manoela produced a child like this one? He thought suddenly of the apartments of Juana with the food strewn about the room; he recalled the wild laughter which incongruously rose above the music and made the mad scene more unforgettably horrible. Whenever he looked at this boy he was reminded of Juana—his grandmother and Maria Manoela’s.
“Carlos,” he said severely, “you are growing up now.”
Carlos continued to scowl at him.
“One day you will be a king. Kings do not kick and scream.”
“Then they are silly,” muttered Carlos.
“Why do you say that, Carlos?”
“Because when this little one kicks he gets what he kicks and screams for.”
“Then you shall do so no longer.”
Carlos’s scowl became almost a smile. If he was not clever, he was cunning. Philip thought of Dr Siliceo, who had always been so ready to please him. There would be others as eager to please this little Prince.
“Kings have their duties,” said Philip. “They must set an example to the people. If they behave badly their subjects will not love them.”
Carlos was considering this, and it was obvious from the expression on his face that he did not care that people should love him; he only cared that they should give him what he wanted.
“Your grandfather,” said Philip, “is a great Emperor.”
“This little one shall be a great Emperor,” said Carlos.
“You will not if you do not behave in a manner such as will please the people. You will have to do your duty and learn your lessons. How are you getting on with your reading?”
“Don’t like it.”
“Have you not learned your letters yet?”
“Don’t like,” said Carlos with finality.
“But you must try to like them.”
Carlos’s scowl-smile deepened. “Won’t do,” he said; and he laughed suddenly, doubtless recalling his latest tantrum when his nurses had tried to enforce his father’s wishes.
“Do you not want to be a learned man when you grow up?”
Carlos considered this in his sly, secret way. He was thinking, Philip knew, that he could very well get what he wanted in his present state of ignorance. Kicking, screaming himself into a passion so that his attendants and nurses feared for his health, was, he was cunning enough to know, more effective in getting him what he wanted than anything he could learn from books.
“If you would be quieter, more gentle, do as you are told and learn your lessons, I should be able to love you,” said Philip gently.
Carlos’s indifference to his father’s regard was in his answer: “His Aunt Juana loves him.”
Juana! That name again. The reminder was at times more alarming than at others.
Philip put the boy down and, going to the door, asked the guard who stood outside to bring the Princess Juana to him.
Carlos had limped to the door, hoping to make his escape, but Philip held him firmly by the shoulder. Carlos looked at his father’s hand as he contemplated digging his teeth into it; but he was not insensible to his father’s power and the fear he inspired in others. Carlos, for all his wildness, was not a coward, but at the same time he was aware that a boy of four cannot easily pit himself against a man. So he contented himself with scowling, and allowed himself to be brought back to the chair.
“Why do you want to run away, my son?”
Carlos wriggled, but would not answer.
“Are you not pleased that your father should visit you?”
Carlos continued to stare at the hands which held him, and kept his face turned away from his father’s.
At that moment Philip’s young sister Juana entered. She was a quiet girl, with a serious expression, a little afraid now, as she always had been, of her brother. She came to him and knelt.
“Juana…Juana…” cried Carlos.
Philip told her to rise, and she stood up, looking timidly at him.
“You are with the boy more than anyone,” said Philip. “Yes, your Highness.”
“Juana…Juana…” The boy was fighting free of his father’s grasp, and Philip let him go. Carlos ran to his aunt, and, half laughing, half crying, he flung his arms about her knees.
“Make him stop that,” said Philip.
“Carlos, dearest baby, be silent. You must not act thus before your father. Little one…little one…all is well.”
Carlos kept his face hidden against her skirt. “He hurt the little one, Juana. He hurt el niño. He would not let Juana’s little one go with the others. He kept him here.”
“Hush. Hush. You must not cry before your father.”
“Little one will cry. He will stamp and cry.”
Little one! El niño. It was too reminiscent. Why had he punished himself by coming direct from one to the other? If he had waited, the contrast would have seemed less vivid.
“Enough! Enough!” he said.
Juana stood up, for she had knelt to comfort the boy. Philip looked at her coldly.
“You are not treating the boy as he should be treated.”
Carlos’s expression was cunning now. He said: “Juana loves him. Juana loves the little one.”
“Your Highness,” stammered Juana. “He is young yet…”
“I know it. He has told us. El niño! This pampering must be stopped. What of his lessons? I understand he cannot read his letters yet.”
“Your Highness…” Juana’s protective lo
ve for the child overcame her fear of her brother. “He is so young…”
Philip’s mouth was tight. “Others read before they are his age. He must pay more attention to his books. He must learn to read at once. How otherwise can he learn anything?” Philip softened. “It is not fair to blame you, Juana. He must have tutors.”
“He will not,” muttered Carlos.
“Do not touch him!” commanded Philip. “Do not soothe him. There has been too much soothing.”
Juana was pale. She was only a child herself. She had no mother; the boy had no mother; there was a bond between them. El niño, she had called him. Juana’s el niño; and it was from her he had learned his first words. It was to her he came when he wished to be soothed or petted, and she loved him as though she were the mother who had died giving birth to him. She was afraid now, for she was beginning to be almost as much afraid of wild Carlos as of calm Philip.
“He needs discipline,” said Philip.
“Little one won’t have it.”
“When you speak of yourself, please say ‘I.’ You are too old for childish talk.”
Carlos clutched Juana’s skirts and scowled at his father, and Philip felt suddenly that he must end this scene because he could bear no more. He had suffered too much tragedy. Was it not enough that he had seen Maria Manoela lying on her deathbed? Must he also have to look on this monstrous child with the heavy head, the low brow, the atavistic eyes?
“Tutors shall be appointed,” he said, “and in the meantime, Juana, I command you, do not pander to his whims. Treat him sternly. If you do not, I shall have no choice but to forbid you to see him.”
He strode past them. Juana sank to her knees.
As Philip left the apartment, he heard Carlos cry: “Juana loves him. Juana loves el niño.”
When Philip left his son’s apartment it was to discover that the Duke of Alba had arrived at the palace. The Duke had just come to Spain from Flanders and brought dispatches from the Emperor.
The dispatches, said Alba, were of the utmost secrecy, and the Emperor had entrusted them in no other hands but his. Moreover, his instructions were to hand them to no one but Philip.
Philip took the packet and, dismissing the Duke, shut himself into his small privy chamber and prepared to examine the documents. He was glad of the work. He was glad of anything which would enable him to forget that nursery scene in which he feared he had played a somewhat ignoble part.
The Emperor had written with his usual fullness and frankness. He recalled the past in order to explain how he and Philip came to be in their present position.
“Your great-grandfather Ferdinand, as you know, my dear Philip, favored my younger brother Ferdinand. Doubtless because he had the same name as himself, for people do favor their namesakes. It is a human weakness. My brother Ferdinand was educated as a Spaniard while I went the way of the Hapsburgs. It was your great-grandfather’s wish to make my brother Ferdinand King of Aragon, at one time, or even to create a kingdom for him in our dominions. He was to be Regent of Spain while I administered the Hapsburg inheritance in Germany and the Netherlands. But when old Ferdinand, your great-grandfather, died, I was the stronger. I was proclaimed King of Spain while I remained Emperor of my father’s dominions. But I could not ignore my brother Ferdinand. I had troubles enough on hand and I did not want another enemy. I made him King of the Romans, and I let him believe that on my death or retirement he would become Emperor.
“Naturally, my son, I have always wanted you to succeed me; and I plan, in order that I may ensure this as far as possible, to transfer to you the Imperial Vicariate in Italy and to attach Flanders and Holland to the Spanish crown. This would mean, of course, that my brother, as future Emperor, would have nothing but the Austrian territory. Naturally, he does not much like this arrangement, but after many conferences I have won him to my side.
“To do this, I have had to agree to the immediate marriage of your sister Maria with his son Maximilian, and to agree that on Ferdinand’s death, Maximilian—not you—shall succeed him as Emperor. Now, my son, you have traveled very little, and I should like to remedy that. Young Max has won the affection of the people whom he hopes one day to rule as Emperor. He is one of them. They follow him in the streets; they cheer him. They are a lusty people who will choose their own rulers.
“My dear Philip, it is time you visited your dominions. This is my proposal: Maximilian is on his way to Spain. When he arrives he shall be married to Maria. I have promised your Uncle Ferdinand that Maximilian and Maria shall have the regency while you are away. I believe this to be our safest move. Therefore, on receipt of this, make preparations for a journey, which will take you through Italy and Germany and Luxembourg to me here in Brussels. There is much that I wish to discuss with you in private…”
Philip stopped reading.
To leave Spain! To leave Carlos, who needed his discipline? To leave Doña Isabel and her two boys who gave him all the solace he needed when he escaped from his affairs of state, to face the Cortes and tell them that he was to follow his father abroad…he did not like it. And Spain would not like it either.
He guessed that one subject his father wished to discuss in private was another marriage for him. He had been a widower too long.
He did not want his life to be disturbed; yet if it was his duty to leave his country and to travel in foreign lands, to take a woman whom he did not want to be his wife, he would do that duty, as he always had.
Valladolid was preparing for fiesta. The marriage of the Emperor’s daughter Maria to her cousin Maximilian was to be celebrated with even more pomp and splendor than was usual on such occasions; the populace must be appeased. The Cortes had protested against the departure of the heir to the crown; its members had even written to the Emperor begging him not to take Philip from Spain. Some of the statesmen had been outspoken: they had declared that the Emperor was ruining Spain with his campaigns abroad, and they wished to be ruled by a king, not an emperor.
Philip had faced them, calm and resigned. He had no wish to leave Spain; but if it was his father’s desire that he should, then that must be fulfilled.
When he had left the Cortes he had gone to Isabel’s house. She was waiting for him. The baby was a fine child, growing up like his brother, and it was a great pleasure to be with them. There was peace in Isabel’s room; he could sit beside her, watching the children playing at their feet. If only he might enjoy domestic happiness! But even now, at this moment, he must break the news of his departure.
“My father has sent for me, Isabel, and I may be away from you for a long time.”
She turned to him and, as that control which she had taught herself broke suddenly, she laid her face against his shoulder and began to cry quietly.
Philip was deeply moved, as he always was by a display of affection toward himself. “Isabel,” he said. “Isabel…my love.”
She spoke fiercely against the Emperor. “But why should you go? You are needed here. Are you going to be away from us forever…as the Emperor has always been? The people will not endure that. You must not go, Philip. Oh, you must not go.”
He stroked her hair; he dared not speak for fear of showing her his distress.
Little Garcia came and stood before them, looking wonderingly at his mother. “What ails her, Father?” he asked.
Philip took the boy on to his knee. The baby stopped kicking as he lay on his cushions. When he saw their tears he let out a loud wail.
His mother went to him and picked him up; she sat with him on her knee, hiding her own grief in her effort to comfort the child.
“Father,” insisted Garcia, “what is wrong, then?”
His mother answered for Philip. “It is nothing to be sad about. But…your father has to go away for a time.”
“For a long time?”
“It will not be longer than I can help,” said Philip.
“You will come back soon,” said the boy.
They sat for a while in silence, the boy
looking from the face of one parent to the other’s. The baby put out a fat hand and grasped at a bright ornament on his father’s doublet.
It seemed to Philip a scene of charming domesticity, saddened only by his impending departure. Oh, how happy he might have been had he not been born the Prince of Spain!
While the festivities which followed the wedding of Maximilian and Maria were still in progress, Philip left Valladolid on the first stage of his journey.
His departure took some of the merrymaking out of the revels, for even to the people in the streets he was the beloved Prince. The Emperor might be a foreigner, but Philip was one of themselves; they liked his quiet dignity, his Spanish haughtiness; they had never heard of any indiscretion on his part, and even his love affair with Isabel Osorio was conducted with decorum, and it was said—and all believed this—that Philip behaved like a respectably married man in his relationship with Doña Isabel, whereas his father’s love affairs were mainly with foreign women.
Still, if they loved their Prince, they also loved merrymaking, and what good could they do by grieving?
On that October day, as Philip left Valladolid followed by a magnificent retinue to ride through Aragon and Catalonia, the people lined the streets and cried Godspeed and a quick return.
One woman watched him from her window. She held up her elder son that he might see his father, for she knew, though she did not tell the boy this, that it would be a year or two before they saw Philip again.
Was Philip aware of them as he rode past Isabel’s house? She knew that he was, and she knew that he longed to turn and take one last look at the house in which he had known great happiness. But he did not turn his head to look. Not for one instant, however great the provocation, would he forget the decorum due to his rank.
Yet he had taken a public farewell of Carlos. He had lifted the sullen boy up that the crowds might see him, and he had solemnly kissed the unresponding lips. Carlos had enjoyed the ceremony, caring nothing for his father’s departure.
