The Complete Tudors: Nine Historical Novels

by Jean Plaidy

  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 several 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 worse.”

  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.

  She had escaped from her mother, but she could never escape from Philip. She had been right to fear him as she had when she had first heard she was to marry him. Whenever he was near her now she saw him, not as Philip the King and tender husband, but as Philip the murderer of his own son.

  She thought: If I had been a heretic, he would have carried the wood; he would have lighted it at my feet.

  Always about him was an aura of horror. She could never think of that Philip who had been kind to her without seeing his other self, the gloomy fanatic, the man who had sought to bring Jeanne to the stake, the man who had taken his sword in his hand and sworn to serve the cruel Inquisition, who had sat tense and exultant while the bodies of men and women were burned in the flames, and the screams of martyrs rose to Heaven. Carlos was indeed between them, for she could never see her husband but as the man who had murdered his own son.

  Yet she was sorry for him, this strange, frustrated man.

  Now that her end was near she wanted to say to him: “Philip, you are failing to realize your dreams and the failure comes from yourself. Show kindness and tolerance to the Flemings and you will beat Orange yet.”

  Kindness! Tolerance! But he had determined to set up the Inquisition all over the world; he believed the Inquisition to be an instrument of God. There was no kindness and tolerance there.

  “Philip, Philip!” she wanted to cry. “How mistaken you are! You did not dream impossible dreams. You might have won the world and I might have loved you as you wished to be loved. With kindness and toleration the world could have been happy under your domination. I might have loved the man you could have been. But you do not understand, and the failure to make your dreams realities is due to yourself.”

  But how could she say such things? And how could he ever understand them?

  Her daughter was born to live but a few hours.

  Philip sat by her bed. He knew that she was slipping away from him.

  “Isabella!” he cried. “Come back to me. We will be happy yet.”

  She smiled sadly. “It is too late, Philip,” she whispered. “Oh, do not grieve for me. You see me well on the way out of this unhappy world into a better one.”

  “Isabella…Isabella…there is so much I have to tell you…so much I have to say. Life for us will be better yet.”

  But he knew that he had lost her; and it seemed to him that he heard the mocking laughter of the son whom he had murdered.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Author’s Note

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Author’s Note

  In writing of what is undoubt
edly one of history’s most puzzling relationships, it is perhaps advisable to add a few remarks in order to justify the conclusions to which I have come. This is particularly the case with regard to the mysterious death of Amy Robsart.

  All that happened on that Sunday morning at Cumnor Place will never be known. Was Amy’s death due to accident, suicide, or murder? After studying available records my verdict cannot be anything but murder.

  Consider the facts: The Queen was being pressed by her ministers to marry. She could not bear to forgo the attentions of Robert Dudley, and Robert could not give up the hope of sharing the throne. Thus Robert’s wife Amy stood in the way of two ruthless personalities. The Queen, in politics the soul of caution, had always been reckless in love. Scandal was circulating throughout the country concerning the relationship of Elizabeth and Robert Dudley. People remembered Thomas Seymour. Before Amy died there was a strong rumor that her death was being planned; and when it was said that Amy was suffering from a fatal malady, many believed that to be a false rumor set in motion in order to explain the death which was to follow. So persistent were the rumors, that a physician refused to attend Amy, fearing to be accused of administering poison should she die. This was the state of affairs when her minister, Cecil, returning from Edinburgh, found the Queen strained and nervous, and, to his astonishment, heard from her lips that Amy would soon be dead. Cecil, appalled, hurried from the Queen, and was so distraught that, coming face to face with the Spanish ambassador, he could not keep his suspicions to himself. “The Queen and Lord Robert Dudley are scheming to put Lord Robert’s wife to death!” is what he said—according to the Spanish ambassador. And a few hours later Amy was found dead.

  Why should the Spanish ambassador have written those revealing dispatches if the contents were untrue? Spain was no enemy of Robert’s at that time, and Robert had won Philip’s approval at St. Quentin.

  An accident to Amy resulting in her death at such a time so convenient to Elizabeth and Robert is surely too incredible a coincidence to be accepted.

  As for the suggestion of suicide, if Amy had wished to kill herself would she have chosen a method which, she must have known, might not result in death, but merely add acute pain and misery to her remaining years? Would any woman destroy herself in such a painful way in order to avoid being murdered?