by Jean Plaidy
And she is mine! thought Carlos. Mine…not his.
Outside the procession had halted before the ducal palace and the doors were thrown wide open that the little Queen might enter.
She stepped into the hall, and she was the most beautiful creature Carlos had ever seen. She was far more charming than any picture could show.
Carlos, watching her as she was led to the spot where the King stood, wanted to shout: “Do not be afraid of him, Isabella!” He loved her the more because of that fear he sensed in her. “You are mine, Isabella, and together we will plan to kill him.”
He was aware of a hand on his shoulder and, turning, he looked into the eyes of Ruy Gomez da Silva. Carlos quailed slightly, for he knew that he had betrayed to this man the burning hatred he felt for his father.
The King was now greeting the French Princess, and she was answering falteringly in Castilian.
Then Juana knelt and kissed the Princess’s ermine-edged robe. Elisabeth smiled at her; she had pleasant smiles for all except Philip; for him she had only fearful glances.
Now it was Carlos’s turn. He knelt. He kissed the edge of her robe; he lifted his eyes, alight with adoration, to her face; and all the time the hammer-beats of his heart were declaring: “She is mine…mine!”
Her smile bewitched and maddened him; but almost immediately Philip had laid his hand on her arm and she was turning away that she might be presented to the members of his suite.
Carlos moved to his father. Now was the moment…now…here before them all.
The people would cry: “Philip is dead. Long live King Carlos!” This was to have been a marriage, and it will be the scene of murder. Never mind if the King is dead. Here is a new King. Never mind if the bride has lost her husband. Here is a new husband for her!
Again he felt the pressure on his shoulder. He turned sharply and looked up into the dark face of Ruy.
Words trembled on Carlos’s lips. “How…dare you?”…But he would not speak them. He would not betray himself to his father’s friend. This was not the time. It was not easy to murder a king. Careful planning was needed.
He felt calmer now—calm and sly.
The little bride was looking fearfully at Philip.
Philip said with a half-smile: “Why do you look at me so intently? Are you looking to see how many gray hairs I have?”
She grew pale and turned away. His unexpectedly cold voice had increased her fears.
Philip was unhappy; he was deeply conscious of having frightened her when his intention had been to set her at her ease.
He could not explain. The nobles and their ladies were coming forward to greet her.
Carlos continued to watch the King, but Ruy Gomez da Silva was constantly at the Prince’s side.
The marriage ceremony had been performed; the feasting had begun. There must follow the tourneys, the bullfights; and, as ceremony demanded it, Philip must joust before his bride, an undertaking which did not please him, but, since he looked upon it as a duty, he would not shirk it.
As he sat by her side through ceremony after ceremony, he was wondering how he might set her at ease, how he could explain to her that she must not be afraid of him. He could not behave as the French, because he was a Spaniard; he knew that her people were volatile, expert at paying compliments, dancing, wearing fine clothes—everything, in fact, that he was not. But he wanted to explain to her that he would be kind, and all he would ask of her was that she should do her duty as his Queen.
It was when they were at last alone that he laid his hands on her shoulders, and, smiling down at her, said: “Do not be afraid of me. I want you to know that I am not the monster they represented me to be.”
“They did not,” she said.
“Then why be so afraid of me? Is it because I seem old to you?”
She was stung to truthfulness. “It might be so.”
Then he smiled, and the tenderness of his smile succeeded in disarming her, for he was at his best when he was alone with women. “Then,” he said, “remember this: because I am so much older than you are, I am more likely to have understanding and be more tender than a younger husband might be. Believe me, it is so.”
She did not answer; she continued to tremble, wishing with all her heart that she were at home in the Louvre, and the sounds of Paris were outside instead of the loud rejoicing of the people of Guadalajara.
Philip took her hand and kissed it with tenderness. “Be of good cheer. I will show you that I am no monster. We had to marry because that was good for both our countries. I would like to disperse your fears. I would like to see you smile. I will show you how I long to please you. If you would rather that I did not disturb your rest this night, you have but to say so and…I will leave.”
She found that she could no longer hold back her tears. She sat very still while they flowed down her cheeks. He stood looking at her in dismay; suddenly she raised her eyes to his.
“I crave your…your Majesty’s pardon,” she stammered. “They said…I thought…I had not expected you to be so kind…and it is that which makes me weep.”
So life with His Most Catholic Majesty was not so frightening after all. She could not love him; he was too old and solemn; he was not even like the men of his own age whom she had known in her own country—men like Antoine and his brother the Prince of Condé; he was not like the great Duke of Guise. These men were gallant and charming, amusing and witty; they were always magnificently attired, playing the parts of romantic heroes as well as statesmen and soldiers. Philip was quite different, and it was hard to believe that he was more important than any of them. None would have thought it; the ceremonies in his honor seemed to bore him; he was so quiet, so dignified, so solemn. But for his kindness when they were alone he would have terrified her.
Yet if she was a little afraid of her husband, there was one other who frightened her even more, though a great distance separated them. It seemed to the young Queen of Spain that her mother was never really far away in spirit; Catherine de Medici seemed to be looking over her shoulder on those occasions when the little Queen committed some breach of Spanish etiquette. She seemed to be present even in the royal bed-chamber, admonishing her daughter so to charm this strange man that he would become her slave. The girl was continually mindful of her mother, and during those first months in Spain, although Catherine was far away, it seemed to Elisabeth that the bond between them did not grow less.
She could not forget those instructions she had received before she left home. She was to work for France; she was to tell her mother every little detail of what occurred; she must miss nothing and she must write with the utmost care, remembering that their letters might be intercepted.
Her mother’s first command had been that she must win the young Don Carlos to her side. She must make him her friend, and when he was she must show him the pictures of little Margot which would be sent to her in due course; and she must sing Margot’s praises to such an extent that the young Prince would be all eagerness to see her.
It was because of her mother that the Queen disregarded Spanish etiquette and sought out Carlos.
He was a strange boy, she knew. Ever since the marriage he had shut himself away, and she had heard that he had hardly spoken to anyone and would eat nothing. He had been coaxed and threatened, yet none knew what was wrong with him and he would not explain. He would open his door to no one but his two companions, his uncle Don Juan and his cousin Alexander Farnese.
The young bride of a few weeks could surely be forgiven if she made mistakes. In any case she did not greatly care if she were not. It was a lifetime habit to obey her mother and this she must continue to do.
So she chose a moment when she could slip away from her attendants unnoticed, and went along to those apartments which she knew belonged to her young stepson.
She entered an antechamber unperceived and quietly opening a door, she found herself in a schoolroom. A boy sat at a table. He was not Carlos, but a very handsome boy—hands
ome enough to be French, she thought. He stood up, and with a grace which might also have been French, bowed low.
Now she recognized him as Don Juan—her husband’s young half-brother, who was a little younger than herself.
“Your gracious Majesty…” he began.
She answered in her charming Castilian. “Please…please…no ceremony. I should not be here, you know. Are you working?”
“Yes, your Majesty.”
“And the Prince, my stepson?”
“He should be here, your Highness, but he has just left in a passion.”
“In a passion?”
“He will not tell us what troubles him, but he is very angry.”
“I would I could see him.”
“He swears he will see no one, your Highness; but if that is a command…”
She laughed. “No…no. I would not command. I do not wish him to think that because I ask something he must obey me. I would rather he looked upon me as a friend.”
A door opened and Carlos stood on the threshold. He said: “Isabella!”
She smiled at him and his heart began to hammer that mad litany:
“Mine…Mine…”
She came toward him and her smile held all the charm of which he had dreamed. He knelt suddenly and kissed the hem of her robe; he remained on his knees looking up at her.
“I should not have come thus,” she said. “But I wished to see you.”
And still he continued to kneel and gaze up at her.
“You must tell me to go,” she said, “if that is what you wish. You must forget that I am the Queen. I would not dream of…commanding you to receive me…if you did not wish to do so.”
“Isabella,” he said slowly, “you would but have to command and I should obey.”
He rose to his feet, still looking at her, marveling at the beauty of her oval, childish face, the eyes that were deep-set and heavily lashed, the sweet, childish mouth. And her dress was beautiful. It was meant to be simple, but French simplicity was so much more becoming than Spanish grandeur.
He became aware of Juan, who was clearly marveling at the change in him, and he was angry that any should share this moment with him and Isabella.
He cried: “Begone! The Queen comes to visit me. You are dismissed.”
Juan, good-natured, easy-going, indifferent to his nephew’s whims, lifted a shoulder and, bowing to the Queen, retired. He wondered whether he ought to tell some responsible person that her Majesty was alone with the mad Prince.
“Carlos,” she said, “I wish us to be friends. I think we should be, do you not? For we are of an age and…do you remember…they once intended us to marry?”
“Yes,” he said, with smoldering passion. “I do indeed remember.”
“Well, ’twas not to be, and so you are my stepson. But we are friends…the best of friends.”
“You never had a friend like Carlos.”
“I am glad to hear you say that. I thought you might not like me.”
“How could that be?” he cried. “You are beautiful, Isabella.”
“Isabella!” she repeated. “I must get used to that. It is always Isabella now. I was Elisabeth at home.”
“Elisabeth is French, and you are Spanish now.”
“Yes. I am Spanish now.”
“Do you mind?”
Her face clouded a little. “It is hard…at first, but it is our lot. That is what my papa said. It was the fate of princes and princesses, he said, and although it was hard at first, sometimes we find great happiness.”
Carlos was fascinated. He watched her lips as she talked; her pronunciation of the familiar words made them so attractively unfamiliar. He was so moved that he wanted to put his arms about her and weep.
He saw that there were tears in her eyes. In her frank French way, she explained, “It is because of my father. I always cry when I think of him.”
“Did you not hate your father?”
“Hate him? How could I? He was the best father in the world.” She saw the hatred in his face and she cried out in alarm: “Carlos! What is it? You look so fierce.”
He could not yet tell her of the great passion in his life. He must not frighten her; perhaps she had not yet learned to hate Philip. Carlos was afraid that if he told her his thoughts he would frighten her, and if she were frightened she might run away.
“Nay,” he said. “I am not fierce. I am happy because you came to see me.”
“I thought I might offend you. You Spaniards stand on such ceremony, do you not? Oh, Carlos, I am glad you did not mind my coming to see you. I shall come again, Carlos, now that you and I are friends.”
“I shall never forget that you wanted to see me, Isabella. I shall never forget that you came like this.”
“You are so different, Carlos, from what I thought you would be. Then we are friends. Show me your books. Tell me how you live here. And I will tell you about France, shall I? That is if you wish to know.”
“I wish to know all about you. I have learned to read French because I wished to speak to you. But I should be afraid to speak it.”
“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; Isab
el 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.
