The Complete Tudors: Nine Historical Novels

by Jean Plaidy

  With the passing weeks Philip’s love intensified. He had never been so happy, in spite of the troubles in his dominions. He felt young again. He faced the extraordinary fact that he was in love, even as he had been in the days of his first marriage with the pretty little Maria Manoela.

  But how much better this could be. Maria Manoela, charming as she was, had been an uneducated girl compared with Isabella. Isabella was young, it was true; she was very gay—with her French attendants; she loved fine clothes and jewels, but that was because she was French.

  She would mature. He remembered how he had thought thus of Maria Manoela. One day he would be able to explain his feelings to Isabella. Had he not assured himself that this would be the case with Maria Manoela? And when he had told her, it had been too late; she was by that time deaf to his eloquent explanations. But what had happened in the case of Maria Manoela would not happen with Isabella. History did not repeat itself as neatly as that.

  No! He had loved his first wife and lost her; he had hated his second marriage; he had suffered enough. And now he had come to the third, why should he not enjoy perfect happiness? He would. In time she would return his passionate love, but he must wait for that day. He must be patient; he felt that if only he could override that absurd fear she had of him, all would be well. He knew that there were times when she forgot he was the King of Spain; she forgot the stories she had heard of him and was spontaneously happy. Well, it would come. He could feel confident in the future.

  In the meantime there was Carlos to disturb his peace. If only Carlos had never been born, or had died at birth, what a lot of trouble would have been avoided!

  One day when he and Isabella had been riding together and returned to the palace, Philip discovered that Carlos was about to cause him even more anxiety than he had so far.

  Isabella had retired to her room when the Prince’s tutor presented himself to Philip. The tutor was distraught.

  There had been a particularly painful scene that morning. The Prince had looked from his window and seen the King and Queen riding out with their attendants; he had then seemed to go quite mad, and, picking up a knife, had rushed at the nearest person—who happened to be this tutor.

  “Sire, but for Don Juan and Don Alexander, I doubt I should have been here now to tell this to your Majesty.”

  “Where is he now?” asked Philip.

  “He fell into a fit almost immediately, your Majesty. He lashed out with feet and fists; but afterward grew calm and, as is usual after such experiences, he lay quiet and still, speaking to no one.”

  “What caused the trouble?”

  “We have no idea, your Highness.”

  But the man had some idea. Philip saw it in his face. He was on the point of demanding an explanation, but thought better of it, and decided to see his son for himself.

  He went along to Carlos’s apartments and there dismissed everyone. Carlos, white and shaken after the fit, stared sullenly at his father.

  “Why do you come here?” he snarled. “To taunt me?”

  “Carlos, I came to ask you what is the meaning of this outburst. I know you cannot control your actions when you are in such a state, but it is your own passion which brings on these unfortunate lapses.”

  “You know!” cried Carlos. “You know, do you not? I saw you. You know that she would have come to see me this morning. You knew it, and that is why you took her away from me. Was she not to have married me? She was mine…mine…and you took her. You took her from me. I had her picture and I learned to speak French for her. She was mine and you knew it, and you hated me. You wanted to hurt me as you always have. I love Isabella…and you have taken her from me.”

  Philip stared in horror at his son.

  Now he understood the horrible truth. Carlos was mad enough to fancy he was in love with Isabella.

  What horror could not grow out of such a situation, when a semi-maniac such as Carlos was involved? Who knew what tragedy lay ahead of them?

  Prompt action was needed as it never had been needed before.

  Philip turned and hurried from the room.

  Within an hour he had decided that Don Carlos was not being educated in accordance with his rank. He was to leave Toledo at once for Alcala del Henares, that he might have the benefit of the best teachers at the University there.

  Don Juan and Don Alexander should accompany him, and there should not be a day’s delay.

  Those were the King’s commands.

  THREE

  Philip was afraid, for Isabella was very ill, and he had a horror of childbirth.

  He must think of those days which had followed the death of his first wife, and he could not rid himself of the superstitious fear that in love he was doomed to frustration. First Maria Manoela had died. Was it now to be Isabella?

  Very little else seemed of any real importance to him now. His troops had suffered a great defeat at Tunis, and it seemed as if the Turks’ hold on the Mediterranean was becoming firmer. Here was a blow against the Faith itself. The Infidel was encroaching on Europe; and no Spaniard, remembering the tragic history of his country, could feel complacent. The Netherlands were clearly preparing to break into open revolt. Yet Philip could think of nothing but Isabella.

  In the first months of her pregnancy he had had a silver chair made for her so that she might not tire herself by walking. In it she had been carried everywhere. He had to face the truth; for all her vivacity, she was not strong and she seemed to droop and fade like a flower in the heat of the sun.

  Then had come the miscarriage. There was to be no child, and Isabella’s life was in danger.

  He went to her bedchamber and sat by her bed. Day and night he stayed there, hoping that she would open her eyes and smile at him.

  At times it seemed almost unbearably like that other occasion. But this was different. She was not going to die, and eventually she began to recover. She was very thin and her black hair seemed too heavy for her little head to carry; she wore it loose about her shoulders, for to have it piled on her head tired her so.

  His only pleasure at that time was in arranging for her convalescence. He himself decided how she should rest, what she should eat. The women about her marveled, for the King of Spain had become a more devoted nurse than any of them.

  The Queen was aware of this, and sometimes she would look at Philip with anxious puzzled eyes. One day she said to him: “It is a sad thing when a Queen cannot bear her husband sons.”

  “You are a child yourself,” answered Philip. “And I am not old. There are many years left to us, for which I daily thank God.”

  “What if I should never bear a child?”

  “My dear, you must not say such things. Of course you will. I know you will.”

  “It may be that I shall not.”

  “We will not think of such a thing.”

  “Is it not better to face facts, Philip?”

  “You have become solemn during your illness, Isabella.”

  “Nay. This thought has been with me often. The King of England put away his wives because they could not bear him sons.”

  “He cut off the head of one because he wanted another woman. Have no fear, Isabella. I am not the King of England.”

  “But you are the King of Spain; and the King of Spain needs sons even as did the King of England.”

  “I have one son.”

  “Carlos!”

  “Oh, I admit I should like to have others…yours and mine, my dear. That I should like more than anything. But it will happen yet. Shall we lose heart because of one failure?”

  “Philip, there is something you must know. You should have known before.”

  “Well, Isabella?”

  “The King of England could not get sons, and some say it was because his body was diseased. He suffered from La Malade Anglaise, some say.”

  “I have heard that.”

  “My grandfather suffered from that same disease. He died of it.”

  “What are you trying t
o tell me?”

  “Perhaps I am not the right wife for you.”

  Her eyes were blank; he could not read the thoughts behind them. Did some part of her long for escape? Words came to his lips—tender and pleading. But all he said was: “You are. Of course you are. You are my wife. Is that not enough?”

  She would not look at him. She said slowly: “But if I cannot give you sons…if I should be unable to give you sons…”

  “Have no fear. If God wishes us to have sons we shall have them. Everything that happens to us is due to the will of God.”

  “Philip, I am glad that you know of the rumors concerning my grandfather.”

  “I have always known of them.”

  She was thinking that her own brother Charles was wild, even as Carlos was wild, that François, the young King, suffered from many infirmities. It was God’s law that the children should suffer even unto the third and fourth generation for the sins of such fathers. If she was doomed to suffer for her grandfather’s excesses, she must accept God’s will as Philip would.

  She was comforted and relieved because he knew of these things. There he sat, at her bedside, and she was aware of the warmth of his feelings beneath that cold surface. During her illness she had been perpetually conscious of his devotion.

  He was a strange man, but he was good to her. She was more fond of him than she had ever been before; she put out her hand and he took it. She thought: If I were not afraid of him I could love him.

  She was grateful; he had helped her escape from the fear which had dominated her childhood. She was no longer afraid of her mother, because she was under the protection of the man who would dominate her life from now on, and whom she might one day love.

  There was bad news of Carlos. When was news of Carlos ever good?

  Messengers came to Philip, who was staying in the Valladolid Palace at that time. He had been enjoying a certain peaceful contentment. He felt that he would soon subdue the Netherlands, and had started work on that great monastery, the Escorial, which, when he had witnessed the desecration of St. Quentin, he had vowed to build. He intended to fill it with the art treasures which his father had taught him to love and revere, and when he was there he would live quietly as a monk. His father had repudiated his crown when he retired to the monastic life. But Philip intended to combine the two. He would spend half his time in fasting and in prayer that he might the better rule his country.

  Isabella’s health had improved considerably; her high-spirited temperament helped her. She was herself once more, and Philip felt that he had been foolish to have suffered so acutely. She was surely stronger than Maria Manoela had been. Soon there would be children born to them, and if he had a son—a healthy and intelligent boy—he would disinherit Carlos. He had discussed this possibility with Ruy, whose opinion it was that the disinheriting of Carlos—providing the Council agreed to it—could only be of advantage to Spain.

  Ruy was grave when he talked of Carlos. He was fully aware of the Prince’s feelings for the Queen, and that knowledge Philip knew, disturbed him deeply.

  Such were Philip’s thoughts when the news was brought to him.

  “There has been an accident, your Majesty,” said the messenger from Alcala. “The Prince lies nigh to death.”

  Ruy was with Philip at the time. Philip could not help but be aware of the sudden tension in his friend. Was it hope?

  Philip betrayed nothing of his feelings, and the messenger hurried on. “It was a few nights ago, your Highness. The night was very dark and the Prince, hurrying down a staircase in his establishment, slipped and fell from top to bottom. He received injuries to his head and spine…terrible injuries Highness.”

  “You came straight to me?” said Philip.

  “Yes, your Highness.”

  “And it is some days since the accident,” said Ruy. “We know not what may have happened in the meantime.”

  “I shall leave at once for Alcala,” said Philip.

  Ruy rode beside him when they left. Philip knew that Ruy regarded the accident in the light of a blessing. Carlos was no good to Spain, no good to Philip; therefore, Ruy’s thoughts would run, it is well to be rid of him.

  Philip knew, even as Ruy did, that while Carlos lived he would give trouble to all, and in particular to his father. Ruy worshipped logic, but Philip worshipped duty. However painful that duty, Philip would follow it. Ruy would have delayed on the journey so that the best physicians, who were with the court, might not reach Carlos in good time; but Philip saw nothing but the need to save his son, whatever misery that might bring to himself or to Carlos.

  With all urgency, the court proceeded to Alcala.

  Now the whole of Spain was in mourning. The heir to the throne was dying, wailed the people. They forgot the stories they had heard of his conduct. Don Carlos was the hero now. There were lamentations. There were pilgrimages to the shrines of the saints. Many sought to win Philip’s favor by having themselves publicly scourged in the hope, they said, of calling the saints’ attention to their sorrow, but actually in the hope of calling the King’s attention to their loyalty to the crown.

  At Alcala Philip found Carlos in a very low state. He did not recognize his father, and this many thought to be fortunate for it was generally believed that excitement at this time would surely kill the Prince.

  Dr. Olivares, the greatest physician in the world, whom Philip had brought with him from Valladolid, examined Carlos, and his verdict was that Carlos would die if nothing was done to save him; there was, he believed, a faint hope that the operation of trepanning might do this. If the King gave his permission for the operation, Dr. Olivares would see that it was carried out with all speed.

  With Isabella and Ruy beside him, and his courtiers and statesmen about him, Philip waited for the news; and as he looked at the faces of those gathered about him, he fancied that only in Isabella’s did he see any expression of real grief.

  Why should she care for the fate of this lame epileptic who was a source of anxiety to all those who came into contact with him? Why, of all these people, should Isabella be the only one who sincerely prayed for the recovery of Carlos?

  Philip could not shut out of his mind the memory of a distorted face, of eyes which stared madly into his while a harsh voice cried: “She is mine…mine!”

  How could he be jealous of a poor, half-mad creature like Carlos?

  At length Olivares presented himself to the King, and one look at the doctor’s face was enough to tell everyone present that the operation had been successful.

  But although Carlos had not died during the operation its results were far from satisfactory. The Prince’s head swelled to twice its usual size so that his eyes were completely buried in his flesh and he could not see. A rash broke out on his skin and he suffered agony.

  He was in constant delirium, calling perpetually for Isabella; but when she went to him he did not know her. He shouted threats against someone, but as he mentioned no name, those about him could only guess at whom the threats were directed.

  Philip prayed for guidance. Isabella knew that he was thinking what a blessing it would be if Carlos died, and she knew that he was fighting against such thoughts. To Philip, duty was all-important, and she was aware that if he believed it was his duty to go into the sickroom, put a cushion over Carlos’s face, and suffocate him, he would not hesitate to do so.

  Was he wondering even now whether he might hint to the doctors that the moment had come to rid Spain of Carlos?

  Her fear of this strange man who was her husband was growing. She would never be able to forget the fanatical light which had shone in his eyes when he had talked to her of the work of the Inquisition. She was dreading the day—for she knew that as Queen of Spain she could not escape it—when she would have to attend an auto-da-fé. She recalled with horror the executions her mother had forced her to witness at Amboise. She was a good Catholic, but cruelty horrified her. She could not look on calmly while men and women were tortured, no matter wh
at they believed. Now it seemed to her that she had escaped her mother’s tyranny for that of another. The last months had made a woman of a frivolous girl, and as that woman was a tender-hearted one, she could not love a man who thought it righteous and godly to torture men and women, even though he had been to her the kindest of husbands. She was becoming complicated, whereas she had been simple; she wanted to escape, but she knew not how.

  Philip decided that it was his duty to do everything in his power to save his son’s life.

  He explained to Isabella that in the Monastery of Jesu Maria were buried the bones of the Blessed Diego, a Franciscan lay brother, who had led a life of sanctity and was said to work miracles.

  “It is years since he died,” said Philip, “but his memory has never faded. If he saves the life of my son he shall be canonized.”

  “Let us pray to him,” said Isabella.

  “We will do more. I will have his bones dug up, and they shall be brought to Carlos and laid upon him.”

  Philip’s indecision was past. He had found the solution to his tormenting problem. If Carlos was saved through the intercession of the Blessed Diego, he would know that he, Philip, and Spain were not yet to be relieved of their burden.

  Carlos was tossing on his bed. Don Andrea Basilo and Dr. Olivares, the King’s most worthy physicians, stood by his bedside.

  Carlos was moaning in agony. The terrible swelling of his face made him unrecognizable.

  Philip arrived in the sick-room, and with him were two monks from the Monastery of Jesu Maria. They carried a box in which were the bones of the Blessed Diego.

  Philip said: “We will place them about the body of my son. Then we will kneel and pray to the saint to intercede for us. He is noted for his sympathy for the sick. Doubtless his intercession will succeed.”

  So the bones of the long-dead monk were placed about Carlos, and some pieces of the cerecloth, in which the body had been wrapped, were scraped off the bones and laid on Carlos’s face.