by Jean Plaidy
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 France, 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 Malade 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, forbiddi
ng 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 Margot were there with her! She tried to imagine the high-spirited Margot—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.
“But I am interrupting,” she said. “I came to show you the pictures which have arrived from Paris.”
“Everything that is charming would seem to come from Paris,” he said. “I pray you, let me see the pictures.”
She showed him the one of her mother first. The plump, inscrutable face looked back at him.
“And the other is my little sister. This is beautiful. Is she not charming? Do you like this picture, Philip?”
“Very much.”
“I wish you could see Margot.” She looked at him wistfully. “Oh, Philip, how I wish that I could see her.”
She sat, rather timidly, it was true, upon his knee. The French were so demonstrative, but he understood. She was going to ask some favor. It was a little childish of her, but then he loved her childishness. And this was a habit they would have taught her in the French court.
He looked at her quizzically yet indulgently, and she went on: “Carlos will have to have a wife. He grows old. Philip…would it not be wonderful if he could marry my sister Marguerite?”
Now it was all quite clear. So Madame le Serpent had set his own wife to cajole him. Catherine had made one of her daughters Queen of Spain, and she wished to make sure that the Queen who followed should be a daughter of hers. Catherine clearly set great store by Spanish friendship; but the woman was not so clever as she rated herself. Did she think he was a besotted fool to be persuaded on matters of state policy even by the most charming of wives?
He drew Isabella toward him and put his arm about her; and as he did so he looked at the plump, flat face of the woman in the picture.
He was thinking: Yes, Madame, you sent me your daughter and I made her my wife. From now on she shall be my wife entirely and cease to be your obedient daughter. If she is to act the spy and agent, it is better that she should act so for her husband than for her mother.
And he decided that he would mold her; he would make her completely his. He had won her friendship and affection with his gentleness; before long he would win her passionate devotion; then she would be free from her mother’s influence.
At length he answered: “My dearest, we must not think of marriage for Carlos at this stage. He does not enjoy good health; and I do not intend to allow him to marry until his health has greatly improved. If and when such a time should come, I will choose a wife for him. Until then, let us not think of his marrying.” Seeing her disappointment, he smiled wryly. “Why,” he went on, “your little sister looks so gay. The Louvre is the place for her. Do not brood on the marriages of others; think only of ours, which we are discovering to be a good one, are we not?”
“Yes, Philip, but…”
“Isabella,” he interrupted, “your mother writes often to you, does she not?”
“Why, yes, ind
eed.”
“You never show me her letters.”
“N…no. Was it your wish that I should?”
He saw the panic in her eyes and marveled at the power of a woman who could arouse it at such great distance. “Only if you wished to show them to me,” he said.
“I…I would, of course, do so if you wished it.”
He took her hand and kissed it tenderly. “There are times when I think you are afraid of your mother. Are you, my dear?”
“Afraid of her…but I love her. I love all my family.”
“Perhaps it is possible to love and fear. I would not have you afraid. There is nothing to fear. Why should the Queen of Spain fear the Queen Mother of France? Tell me that.”
“I do not know. But she is my mother and we always had to do what she wished.”
“Or be beaten? Tell me, did she beat you often?”
“There were times.”
He laughed, and permitted himself to show a little of the tenderness that surged through him. He held her fast against him and said: “No one shall beat you anymore, my Isabella. There is no need to fear anyone, particularly those who are far away and cannot reach you. If they should ask you to do what you do not wish to do, then you must refuse. And if you should be afraid—why, here is the King of Spain to defend you.”
He laughed, and his laughter was always pleasant to hear, because it was so rare; so she laughed with him.
“Then you will promise me not to be afraid anymore; and if you are, you will tell me all about it?”
“Yes,” she said with only the faintest trace of hesitancy. “I will.”
“Then take your pictures, and when I have finished with these papers I will join you. Perhaps we will ride together. Or shall I show you my new pictures and tapestries? Anything that you wish.”
“I should like to ride,” she said.
She picked up her pictures and went from the room. She was a little relieved, for he was right. It was rather silly to be frightened of someone living hundreds of miles away, when the most powerful monarch in the world was your husband who had sworn to protect you.
What Philip did not understand was—and how could she explain this?—that, while it was true she was afraid of her mother, she was also afraid of him.
