For a Queen's Love: The Stories of the Royal Wives of Philip II

TWO

In The Palace of the Louvre, a frightened girl of fourteen was preparing herself for her marriage with the greatest monarch in the world.

She had wept so much that she could weep no more. She had confided her miseries to her young sister-in-law, Mary Stuart, herself a bride of less than a year. Mary was kind, for the two girls had been brought up together and were great friends, rivals in beauty and learning, and so happy until the news had come of this great honor which had fallen to Elisabeth.

“It is so different for you!” cried Elisabeth to Mary. “Such a marriage as yours could not but please all concerned. You married François, and you and François have loved each other ever since you came to live with us, and it is all as it was before, except that you are his wife; and when he is King of France you will be Queen. Your life is easy; you see whither it is leading. Whereas I must go away … right away from France to this land of Spain where they never laugh, and dance only in the most solemn manner. And I must marry an old man—nearly twenty years older than I. He is thirty-two, Mary. Think of that! And he has already had two wives. They say he is gloomy and that it is all prayers with him.”

“But think, dear Elisabeth,” said Mary. “You will be the most important Queen in the world … the Queen of Spain.”

“I would rather be Queen of France than of any country in the world.”

“But you will be Queen of Spain as soon as the ceremony is over. I can only be Queen of France if dear Papa dies, and that could do nothing but bring unhappiness to us all. And, Elisabeth, being Queen of France is not always so very pleasant. Think of Queen Catherine, your mother.”

Elisabeth glanced over her shoulder. She was always afraid of talking about her mother, who would come so silently into a room, watching and listening, so that one turned and found her there. It was said that she had strange powers, and Elisabeth often felt that she knew what was being said even when she was not there.

“She is not here,” said Mary now, following her gaze.

“No; but she might be.”

Mary was very bold, conscious of that beauty which attracted all at court. She had often been careless before the Queen, showing a lack of respect which she would not have dared show Diane, Duchesse de Valentinois, the King’s mistress, who ruled the court as Queen. Mary was careless, and Elisabeth feared that one day she would be sorry for behaving as she had toward Queen Catherine.

“Well,” went on Mary, “you have seen how a Queen may be humiliated. It is Madame Diane de Poitiers—I beg her pardon, Duchesse de Valentinois—who is the real Queen of France. But they say that King Philip would not keep a mistress to humiliate his wife. You may be sure that the Queen of Spain will be treated with more respect than your honored mother, the Queen of France.”

Elisabeth went to the window. “I hate it,” she said. “All these people … all these foreigners … all the ceremonies and the preparation. Oh, Mary, how wonderful it would be if we were all young again without thought of marriage!”

“There are always thoughts of marriage with people like us.”

“I mean if we were in the schoolroom. You remember? Vying with each other, trying to write better Latin verses than one another? And Papa’s coming in to see how we were progressing? …”

“Coming in with Diane; and we all had to kiss her hand, do you remember, and she would fuss over us as though she were our mother?”

“I remember.”

“And the Queen, your lady mother, would come in, and …”

“I remember that, too,” said Elisabeth. “And once you called her a merchant’s daughter. You should not have done that, Mary.”

“But I did, and she is …”

“I should not listen to you.”

“Elisabeth, you are afraid of life. That is your weakness. You are afraid of your mother, and now you are afraid of Philip. You are beautiful—almost as beautiful as I am! Never fear. You can enjoy life at the court of Spain … if you are wise.”

“I wish I were as gay as you. But it is so easy to be gay when you are married to dear François and may spend the rest of your life here … with Papa and all the family.”

Elisabeth looked down on the gardens, where her young sister Margot was walking arm in arm with her special playmate, young Henry of Guise. Margot was only six, yet self-assured; they were like a pair of lovers, those two. François and his young brother Charles came into the gardens; they were looking for Mary, Elisabeth knew, for they both adored her.

“Oh, why cannot I stay here!” cried Elisabeth. “This is my home. This is where I belong. Mary, François and Charles are looking for you.”

Mary came to the window and rapped on it; the boys looked up. Young Margot and Guise paid not the slightest attention; they were absorbed in each other.

“Go to them,” said Elisabeth. “Do not let them come here. I wish to be by myself for a while.”

Mary kissed her tenderly. “Do not fret so, little sister.”

When Mary had gone, Elisabeth sat down and covered her face with her hands. She was trying so hard not to think of what was before her. She had been given Philip’s picture. Such a cold face, she thought it; she did not know whether it was cruel or not. He had fair hair and blue eyes; and when the picture had been formally given to her she had had to kiss it.

Her father had said: “This is the greatest honor that could befall any Princess. The great Philip of Spain has chosen you for his wife.” Oh, why had he not married the Queen of England? Why could she not have stayed just a little longer with her family? Her sister Claude had been married recently, and Claude was even younger than she was; but Claude had been married to the Duke of Lorraine, and that meant that she would not go right away from her home; she could often come and see them all. What comfort that was! But Elisabeth knew that once she had crossed the borders to that gloomy land of Spain and entered the household of her gloomy husband, she would never return.

“Holy Virgin,” she prayed, “let something happen … anything … but let me stay with Mary, François, Charles, little Hercule, Margot, Papa, and Diane and … and my mother …”

Suddenly she knew that she was not alone in the room. Hastily she lowered her hands. Her mother had entered quietly, and was standing very still, leaning against the tapestry on the wall, watching her.

Elisabeth rose hastily. “Madame, I … I did not hear you enter.”

“Stay where you are, my child.”

The flat features betrayed nothing; only the dark eyes seemed alive in that heavy face.

“So,” went on Catherine de Medici, “you have been weeping and wailing and getting your sister-in-law to commiserate with you because you are to be the most important Queen in the world. That is so, is it not?”

How did she know such things? She knows everything, thought Elisabeth in a panic; she has some secret power which René or the Ruggieri brothers have given her.

“Mother …” she began. “Madame …”

“Yes, my child, you are sad because you must leave your home. My dear daughter, it is the fate of us all. I was no older than you when I left my home in Italy and came to France.”

“Yes, but …”

“But what?”

“That was to marry Papa.”

Catherine gave that loud burst of laughter which was familiar to them all. “He was a stranger to me.”

Elisabeth looked at her plump mother and thought how she would willingly change places with her, endure all the humiliations which any other woman would suffer—Catherine gave no signs of suffering them—from the dazzling Diane, who, although so much older than the King and the Queen, had had the King’s devotion ever since he was a boy.

Elisabeth would willingly change places with anybody who had not to go to Spain to marry Philip.

“Yes, but …” faltered Elisabeth.

“I was as alarmed as you are. But you see, I became the Queen of France and the mother of you all, and one day, my daughter, you will laugh at your fears even as I do now at mine.” Catherine came close to Elisabeth. “You will have much to occupy you in your new life. I shall write to you often and my letters will bring you something of myself. When you read them it will be as though I am speaking to you. You will remember that?”

Elisabeth tried to conquer the fear she had of her mother. She knew all the children had it—except young Henri, whom Catherine petted and adored. Even Margot, brazen and bold, trembled in the presence of her mother.

“You will be our little ambassadress at the court of King Philip, dearest child. You will not forget us all … your father and mother, your brothers and sisters.”

“I shall never forget you,” cried Elisabeth. “I shall long to be home with you.”

“Bah! When you are Queen, you will be content with your lot. You are young and very pretty, and I doubt not that your husband will wish to please you. That will depend on you. It is for you to make him wish to please you.”

Elisabeth wished her mother would not smile in that way. It frightened her even more than when her face was quite expressionless. The smile suggested distasteful things—caresses, love-making with a husband whom Elisabeth could only be happy in forgetting.

“There is a stepson, Elisabeth—Don Carlos, he who was to have been the bridegroom.” Catherine laughed again. “Never mind. You have the better one. A king on the throne is worth many an heir to the same throne. For we know what is, but how do any of us know what may be? Now, child, this will be your first mission at your husband’s court. You will arrange a match between your sister Margot and Don Carlos. That is what I wish you to do; and if you achieve it I shall be very proud of you. It will be almost as though I am there … so you will not be lonely.” She laughed again. “I shall write to you often. I shall give you the benefit of my advice and comfort. Dearest daughter, although you will be gone, we shall not really be parted. You believe that, do you not?”

“Yes, Madame.”

Catherine put her cold lips against her daughter’s forehead. Then she went silently from the room.

Elisabeth closed her eyes and began to pray for a miracle, something that could happen to prevent or even delay her journey to Spain.

She saw her father later. It was easier to talk to him although he was the King. It had always been thus. When he had come to the nursery, the little ones, unaware of his rank, had clambered over him, pulling his beard.

Now that beard was silver although he was only forty. He was a man slow of speech, a little taciturn in the company of adults, but at ease with children. He was Father first, King second, to his family.

She told him how she dreaded the ceremony, how she was afraid of the solemn Duke of Alba, who had come from Flanders to act as proxy for his master, since the Kings of Spain did not leave their country to bring home their brides; their brides came to them.

He was kind; he understood.

“It makes me sad to lose you,” he said, “although I shall be proud of my little Queen of Spain.”

“But to leave you all, Papa … all my brothers and sisters and you … dearest Papa … you most of all.”

He stroked her hair. “It is the fate of such as we are, dearest child,” he said. “We all have to face it. Princes and princesses all have their marriages made for them.”

“But, Papa, I cannot bear it. I cannot.”

“Dearest, you will. We all do. In a little while you will be happy there, and Spain will be your home instead of France.”

“But Spain is not France, and it is France I love.”

“It is your home you love, Elisabeth; and Spain will be your home, for your home will be where your husband is. You must not cry. You must not have red eyes for the ceremony or the King your husband will hear of it and feel slighted. He might even cancel the arrangements!”

“Papa, do you think he would?”

“Elisabeth, if it were not this marriage it would be another.”

“I have prayed, Papa, that something will happen so that I need not go.”

“I said earnest prayers at the time of my own marriage.”

“But you found happiness later.”

“Great happiness, dearest child.”

Then Diane came in and, smiling at the father and daughter, she lifted the hair from Elisabeth’s hot face and kissed her; for Diane behaved as a mother to the royal children, and that was how they thought of their father’s mistress.

She said: “The child is exhausted, and there are all the ceremonies before her! Come, Elisabeth, my dear one, you must go to bed and I will have a soothing draught made for you. I will bring it to you myself and sit with you until you are sleepy. When you are rested you will feel better. Will she not?”

“She will indeed,” said Henri; and as he looked from his daughter to his mistress, it was as though he were telling Elisabeth that even when life seemed very cruel to princes and princesses, it sometimes was very kind to them in unexpected ways.

The dreaded day came nearer and nothing happened to prevent the marriage. Emmanuel Philibert, the Duke of Savoy, was also in Paris, for he had come to marry Elisabeth’s Aunt Marguerite. With the two marriages the alliance between France and Spain would be very firm indeed, and England would be completely isolated, Elizabeth of England losing her two suitors by the marriages which were to take place in Paris that summer.

Little Elisabeth de Valois was formally betrothed to Philip by proxy in the great hall of the Louvre, and as she stood beside the Duke of Alba, with whom was the young Prince of Orange, who had accompanied Alba from the Netherlands, she felt that even Philip could not be more forbidding than his proxy. There was some small comfort in that.

The next day the actual ceremony was solemnized in Notre Dame to the delight of all except the bride, for the pomp and magnificence was equal to that which had enchanted Paris at the marriage of Mary Stuart and the Dauphin of France the year before.

Elisabeth clung to her father’s hand as he led her from the Bishop’s Palace to Notre Dame. Her dress was covered with beautiful pearls, her mantle was of blue velvet, and about her neck was hung a locket containing Philip’s portrait; there was also the huge pear-shaped pearl—the most valuable of all Spain’s crown jewels—a present from the bridegroom to the bride. She looked very small beside her glittering father, who whispered words of comfort to her as he acknowledged the applause of the onlookers. Behind her came her sister Claude to carry her train, with Mary Stuart, the Dauphine. This, thought Elisabeth, was one of the last occasions when she would be surrounded by the members of her beloved family. The Imperial crown which she must carry on her head weighed her down more by its significance than by the weight of gold and jewels.

Now she must stand beside the Duke of Alba, who was dressed in glittering cloth of gold, while the Cardinal of Bourbon proclaimed her the wife of the King of Spain.

The French, unlike the English, could outdo the Spaniards in courtesy and brilliance; and this they proceeded to do to the best of their ability. There was an inevitable undercurrent of uneasiness at such a time; the wedding had not increased the amity between the rival factions of France. The Catholic party, at the head of which were the Guises, was delighted, for the match was very much to their liking; the Protestant party, at the head of which were the Bourbons, was made uneasy by the new and close tie with Catholic Spain.

But, at the brilliant ceremonies that followed, the Guisards and the Bourbons veiled their antagonisms; and when, shortly afterward, the King’s sister was married to the Duke of Savoy, the wedding celebrations in recognition of the double wedding must, all had declared, be doubly magnificent.

As each day passed, the little bride’s uneasiness grew. Nightly she prayed for a miracle. She begged for a few more months, a few more days in France.

There were many interviews with her mother, when she was given instructions as to how she might bind Philip to her; she was continually told that she must remember that first she was a princess of France, and it was the interests of France and her family that she must further.

Ceremonies seemed endless. There were many jousts and tourneys, and always she, with the elder members of her family, must be present in a pavilion of honor to see Frenchmen tilt against Spaniards.

At length there came that day which she would never forget as long as she lived. How could such a day begin so ordinarily! There was nothing in the brilliant June sky to warn them all that this day would be different from any others spent in rejoicing. The crowds were as numerous as ever; the pavilion and dresses of men and women as glittering as was to be expected of the most brilliant court in the world.

The jousting was held close to the Bastille near the gate of St. Antoine. Elisabeth sat with her mother, her sister Claude, and that other bride, her aunt Marguerite. Above their heads the silken canopies kept off the rays of the sun. The crowd was expectant, for the King was to joust today.

Elisabeth was aware that her mother was uneasy. There was an affinity between them, and Elisabeth sometimes thought that she knew more about her mother than the others.

Catherine de Medici was known to be different from other women; no one could have borne as she did the constant humiliation of watching Diane take all the homage which was Catherine’s by right; she had special powers which were given to her by her magicians; she was quiet, and only her children feared her. For, thought Elisabeth, we are the only ones who know the Queen of France.

When the King rode into the arena he was wearing, as he always did, the black-and-white colors of his mistress Diane. It was not this habitual slight which made Catherine uneasy; but there she sat, tense, not missing a single movement made by the King.

She was clearly relieved when the joust was over and the King emerged victorious. Elisabeth wondered afresh at her mother’s love for her father. Not all the humiliation he inflicted on her could stifle that quiet, tense emotion. The King was the kindest person Elisabeth had ever known, yet she could not understand her mother’s devotion; for although he was always courteous to his wife, he so clearly did not love her, and that was apparent in the very tone of his voice when he spoke to her. Perhaps he believed, as so many people did, that she had poisoned his elder brother, so that he might be King and she the Queen. Moreover, he loved Diane so much that nothing could prevent his showing it. Diane to him was his Queen. In spite of that, Catherine loved him.

Now the King was declaring that he wished to tilt again, and Catherine had half risen in her seat. She wanted, Elisabeth knew, to beg him not to. Too much exercise was bad for him. He had had an unpleasant attack of giddiness after a game of tennis only yesterday; and now he had jousted enough.

But the King was like a boy, as proudly he bore his mistress’s colors. He declared that he was as fresh as when he had started; he would break one more lance before he retired from the field.

A young Franco-Scot came forward at his command—Montgomerie, the Sieur de L’Orge.

Catherine seemed to have communicated some of her uneasiness to this young man, for he begged the King to excuse him; but the King insisted.

It was all over in a few minutes. Had Catherine risen to protest before it happened? Elisabeth did not know.

Montgomerie’s lance, striking the King on the gorget, had splintered, and one of the splinters had entered the King’s eye. Henri fell to the ground, his face covered with blood.

Elisabeth was vaguely aware that her mother had risen and that on her face was an expression of dreadful understanding.

Elisabeth pressed her hands against her madly beating heart. She feared the worst of all tragedies had overtaken her. And so she had her wish. The journey was delayed. She was heartbroken during those last weeks in France.

The King must lie in state; he must be buried with the utmost ceremony.

Philip was impatient to receive his bride. The new King François and his lovely wife, Mary Stuart, were completely under the control of Mary’s uncles, the Guises, which was a comforting thought for Philip; he had heard rumors that the character of the Dowager Queen Catherine was not quite what people had believed during her husband’s lifetime. It was as though she was awakening, said his spies, and that her previous meekness had disguised her sinister character. There were some who had nicknamed her “Madame le Serpent,” and the name seemed to fit. Philip realized that his young wife would be much under the influence of such a mother, and his demands that she should be sent to Spain became more and more insistent.

Catherine de Medici had many excuses ready. The trousseau of the Queen of Spain was not yet prepared, and she was sure the King of Spain would not wish his bride to arrive like a little commoner. There were innumerable negotiations; there was an enormous quantity of baggage which had to be transported over the Pyrenees; and the Dowager Queen thought it only right that Elisabeth should remain behind to attend the coronation of her young brother, François.

Philip was growing uneasy. He was a husband, yet no husband. The French were defying him; it seemed to him that the Flemings were defying him also.

At the assembly of the States-General in Ghent which he had recently attended, there had been many bold speeches. The Flemings resented the Spanish soldiers Philip had brought to their shores, and they said so. One man had said that it would now be the simplest matter to set up the Inquisition in the Netherlands, and as the Netherlands was a free country, it would have no hospitality to offer a foreign institution.

Philip had grown pale with anger at the mention of the Inquisition. “That is not merely a revolt against me,” he said. “That is a revolt against God.”

He did not trust Orange. He knew the Prince was negotiating a marriage with a daughter of one of the Protestant princes.

The Flemings were turning against him; he was on bad terms with his Uncle Ferdinand; and his young wife was held from him and was doubtless being instructed by that artful Italian woman how to act as a spy in his court.

Clearly something must be done. He would put down revolt in the Netherlands; he would return to Spain in order to discuss this with his ministers, and at the same time to receive his bride there.

The Prince of Orange himself was at Flushing to bid Philip farewell before he embarked. Philip looked coldly at the young man and said: “I am well aware that you are responsible for your countrymen’s opposition to my wishes.”

Orange replied: “The opposition to your wishes, Sire, can only reflect the feelings and the views of the people.”

Philip turned impatiently away, muttering: “No, Orange; you cannot deceive me. You are to blame … with your heresy. You … and you alone.”

Orange realized that Philip’s utterance was tantamount to a declaration of war, and he was exultant. He determined in that moment to rescue the Netherlands from the yoke of Spain and all the cruelties of the Inquisition.

From the surrounding country, people were crowding into Valladolid; far beyond its walls the sound of tolling bells could be heard. This was no ordinary fiesta. It was a saint’s day, one of the holidays of Holy Church; best clothes were worn, expressions of sobriety were worn like masks to hide excitement. Water-carriers, who sold cool drinks to thirsty travelers, did good business along the dusty road that day; all those who had stood aside to watch the royal procession enter the town were now eagerly pressing forward, anxious to secure a place well to the fore in the Plaza Mayor.

There was about to take place the greatest auto-da-fé any had ever witnessed. The King would be present; the Prince Don Carlos with his Aunt Juana would sit in the state gallery; and more men and women would be burned alive—and many of them members of the nobility and the court itself—than had ever been burned on one occasion.

Who could resist such a spectacle? All those who witnessed it would talk of it for the rest of their lives. It would be more diverting even than the torturing of bulls. No wonder people were crowding into the town; no wonder men and women were trampled underfoot in their efforts to be first in the Plaza Mayor.

The terrible scene was set in the great square before the Church of St. Francis, and the Inquisitors were already seated on the sumptuously carpeted platform; and in the gallery were the members of the royal family with their attendants. Juana was heavily veiled, as she always was in public; Philip, his eyes aflame with fanaticism, presented a less cool facade to his subjects than usual; and Don Carlos, white-faced, magnificently dressed as he loved to be, was more deeply conscious of his father than of anyone else in the whole assembly.

Beside Philip sat his friends, Ruy Gomez da Silva, Gomez Suarez de Figeuroa, and the Count of Feria. Ruy glanced covertly at Philip. What was he thinking? wondered Ruy. But he, who had lived so near to Philip for so many years, could guess. Philip was thinking of God’s pleasure in the drama which was about to be enacted; he was thinking of the delight of God in maimed and tortured bodies, in the cries of agony.

Ruy shivered and turned his gaze upon the young Prince. Carlos was brooding. He was not thinking so much of the sights he was about to see; he was thinking of his father and the wife who would soon be coming to him.

As Secretary of State and chief adviser to the King, Ruy was fully conscious of the uneasy days which lay ahead. He would like to speak his mind to Philip concerning Carlos; he would like to explain to the King the thoughts which he could not suppress. He was deeply conscious of the Grand Inquisitor, Fernando Valdés, Cardinal-Archbishop of Seville, who was in charge of today’s spectacle. There was not one person in the crowd who could look at that man unmoved, and Ruy was no exception. The reputation of the Cardinal-Archbishop was second only to that of Torquemada. Since he had been in command of the dread Inquisition, he had determined to increase its power, and this he had done with marked success. He had enlisted new spies; they were everywhere, listening to unwary conversations, tempting the careless to betray themselves. Under Valdés, new instruments of torture had been devised. He was the man whom Philip had appointed to stamp out heresy in Spain; for, said Philip—and Valdés echoed his words—how could they hope to free the rest of the world from the Devil unless Spain herself was beyond reproach?

There was now a deep silence over the square; then it seemed as though all the church bells in the town were tolling.

The doors of the great prison would now be opening. Ruy knew this, because he had witnessed similar ceremonies. Out of the gates of the prison a wretched procession would now be filing and at any moment it would be possible to see their vanguard.

He watched a black-eyed gypsy girl cross herself as she touched her rosary; his eyes strayed to the water-carrier in tattered rags. In the slant of the man’s eyes Ruy recognized his Moorish ancestry. And beside that man was another, whose lips were moving in prayer; his features suggested Jewish blood. Had their ancestors taken part in such a spectacle—a more active part than these two would take? Perhaps they had been rich lords, rich merchants. Who could tell what one’s descendants would come to when the Holy Inquisition’s greedy claw seized a man and his property?

These were dangerous thoughts. As the King’s closest friend, holding a high position in the country, he should not be thinking them.

Here came the troops, resplendent in their uniforms. Ruy fixed his eyes upon them because he did not wish to look beyond them. He was weak today, weak and fanciful. He was unnerved, not only by the sights he knew from experience he would have to witness, but by the mad hatred which he sensed in Carlos. He knew now that he was a lover of peace. He hated cruelty in any form. There was not a man or woman present who would not condemn such thoughts, coming at this time. He should confess those thoughts. Dare he? Certainly not. Whom could one trust? One’s confessor today might be a familiar of the Inquisition tomorrow. Ruy might at times be a sentimental man, but he was a wise one. God alone should know his thoughts. God would punish him, if he deserved punishment. He was appalled suddenly to realize that for such thoughts he could be sentenced to join that group of men whom he did not wish to look upon. Another thought, swift as lightning, followed. The man beside him, the King and his friend, would not hesitate to destroy him if he knew what was passing through his mind.

What a fearful sight they presented!

“They are heretics. They are heretics!” Ruy repeated to himself. “Think of that. Heretics! Their sufferings may bring them salvation if they repent in time.”

But he found no real peace in those words. He must therefore delude himself. He must catch the exultation which he sensed about him. The sun was hot, but the royal gallery was shaded by the hangings which shut out the burning heat. Ruy could smell death and decay in the air. The wounds of some of these men and women who stumbled behind the soldiers were turning gangrenous.

Ruy assured himself: They would die in any case very soon.

They came, stumbling on; some had to be carried in chairs because their legs had been broken on the wheel or on the chevalet; the arms of some hung helpless at their sides. Those without eyes had to be led. There were some who lacked ears and noses.

Is this necessary? Could we not offer them easier death?

Ruy answered his own questions. The Inquisition in its mercy gives these people a foretaste of Hell that they may repent in time and save themselves from an eternity of suffering.

He was happier now; he was guiding his thoughts into the right channels.

These victims who had once been men and women—very like the men and women in the square, very like the people on the platform—all wore the symbol of their shame: the hideous, loose-fitting sanbenito and caps made of pasteboard with grotesque devils painted upon them.

There were three types of this coarse woollen gown, and the spectators could see at a glance what fate was intended for the wearers. Among the mournful procession were some whose garments were simply marked with a red cross: they were guilty of the venial sins, and penance, imprisonment, and confiscation of goods was to be their punishment; after their sentences were pronounced they would be taken back to the gloomy prison of the Inquisition to expiate their sins. There were others whose garments displayed busts of human beings in the act of being consumed by long red flames which were pointing downward; this indicated that although their bodies would be burned they would not feel the flames since, as they had recanted, they should first be accorded the mercy of strangulation. The third type of garment displayed busts and heads in the midst of flames which pointed upward, fanned by mocking devils; these were the unrepentant heretics who were condemned to be burned alive.

“Repent and be reconciled!” chanted the monks who walked on either side of the yellow-clad figures. “Repent and be reconciled!”

Following the prisoners came the jailors and more monks, the magistrates and the important officials of the Inquisition on mules, the trappings of which were so gorgeous that for a few moments the eyes of the crowd were fixed upon them instead of on the miserable victims.

Philip’s pale skin turned to coral as the sarcenet was held high. It was red—the color of blood—and embroidered with the heraldic arms of the Inquisition, the Papal arms and those of Ferdinand and Isabella.

The sermon of faith, preached that day by the Bishop of Zamora, was longer than usual; and after the sermon came that great moment when Philip endeared himself to his people as few other sovereigns ever had.

There was a great silence in the crowd as Valdés rose. He raised his hand, and all in the square—man, woman, and child—knelt and lifted their hands toward the skies as they chanted the Oath of Allegiance to the Holy Office. They would be faithful to the Holy Catholic Church and its Inquisition in life and in death; they would give their right eyes, their right hands in its service, and if necessary their lives.

And as they began to chant the Oath—which was not demanded of the King—Philip sprang suddenly to his feet; his Toledo blade flashed from its scabbard; and holding it before him, the King himself repeated with the people the Oath of Allegiance to the Inquisition.

When the chanting ceased and the people raised their eyes and saw their King standing there, his sword gleaming like silver, his pale face alight with fervor, there was a brief, awestruck silence before someone in the crowd shouted: “Long live the King! Long live Philip to reign over us!”

The tumult broke then; it lasted several minutes.

Ruy looked at Philip, standing beside him, the jeweled sword in his hands. He recognized the fanatic, and thought with love and pity of a small boy shivering and naked in the Cloister of St. Anne. Other pictures flashed in and out of Ruy’s mind. It was inevitable, he thought. It had to be. Everything which has happened to him has led to this moment.

Carlos was watching his father, and hatred had complete possession of him. If he but had the strength to take that gleaming sword and plunge it into the heart of the man who had become the husband of Isabella!

“My Isabella!” muttered Carlos piteously. “Mine!”

His hatred was so strong that it set a haze before his eyes; he could not see the square; the black-clad monks and the figures in their yellow garments of shame and despair were blurred before his eyes. Ordinarily the scene would have delighted him. What could be more exciting than to watch so much suffering and to do so under a cloak of piety? God himself, according to the King and the Cardinal-Archbishop, was looking down upon them, flashing His scornful hatred at the miserable victims, applauding the spectators and officials and all those who had taken the Oath.

But there was only one man whose suffering could bring Carlos complete satisfaction. Those broken men and women meant no more to him than the rabbits he might roast alive for a little fun.

Into the Quemadero—the place of fire—that space in the center of the square where the stakes had been set up, came the victims, and among them were two men, recently well-known at court. Don Carlos de Seso, a noble Florentine, had been a great friend of the Emperor; he had settled in Valladolid and there had become interested in Lutheran doctrines. He believed that it was his duty, as he had discovered the truth, to teach it to others. He had been a rich man, and such as he were the favorite prey of the Inquisition. With him in the square was Domingo de Roxas, who had himself been a Dominican monk.

With startling suddenness, de Roxas, as he stood there, his body broken, his arms hanging impotent at his sides, raised his voice and began to preach to the multitude. It was some minutes before he could be stopped, and then only by the painful wooden gag which was screwed into his mouth.

But even more startling was that moment when de Seso, fixing his eyes on the central figure in the gallery and raising his voice so that all could hear, cried: “Philip! I speak to Philip the King!”

There was about this man a dignity which even his torture and the hideous yellow robe and pasteboard cap could not take from him.

Philip, almost involuntarily, rose to his feet, and thus they faced each other: the King of Spain, his black velvet doublet a-glitter with diamonds, and the wretched man de Seso, his face, through long incarceration in the airless dungeons of the Inquisition, as yellow as his sanbenito.

“Is it thus then, Philip,” said de Seso, “that you allow your innocent subjects to be persecuted? Does it not fill you with shame to see our shame?”

Philip answered in ringing tones, for he had given his allegiance to the Inquisition, and in his eyes it was the work of God which he and his Inquisitors were doing on Earth:

“Shame? For you is the shame; for us is the glory. If you were my own son, I would fetch the wood to burn you. If my son had denied the true Faith as you have done, he should stand there with you.”

The crowd cheered madly: “God bless great Philip! Long live Philip our King!”

It was some time before the ceremony could go on. This was a day which all those present would remember while they lived. They had seen great Philip take the Oath of Allegiance to the Inquisition, which no other sovereign had done. It was significant. Philip had proclaimed himself: Catholic first, King second. Those present had heard him, with his son beside him, declare that that same son should suffer in the Quemadero as any other, should he prove false to the Faith. What man could have greater love for the Faith than he who was ready to lay down the life of his son for it?

The names of the prisoners were being read aloud with the lists of their crimes; they were sentenced; some were led away to prison. Those who had recanted were strangled before they were bound to their stakes. And now the great moment had come. The fires were lighted and the screams of the living filled the air.

But to have seen the King with his shining sword was more memorable than even the sight of flames that swirled about broken bodies; to have heard him speak the Oath, more wonderful than listening to the screams of heretics and the triumphant shouts of the servants of God.

But Carlos could not take his eyes from his father’s face; and Ruy, watching, could only think: The pity of it! The pity of it all!

A bitter wind was blowing as Elisabeth rode south. The journey was long, and she was thankful for that. With her rode her mother and the two Bourbon Princes—the Cardinal of Bourbon, who had officiated at the proxy marriage, and Antoine, the King of Navarre and Duke of Vendôme, who had married that Jeanne of Navarre whom Philip himself had once thought to marry.

No French lady could travel without an abundant supply of garments and, having been brought up in the French court, Elisabeth was very conscious of fashion. Mules, laden with her extravagant trousseau, traveled with the party, for her dresses must be of the French fashion, acknowledged to be the best in the world.

She wished she could recapture that excitement about her dresses which she had felt when she discussed them with Mary Stuart and even little Margot—who, though so young, was quite conscious of fashion—in the familiar apartments of the Louvre or at Blois.

At intervals along the road the peasants had come out to wave a sad farewell to the little Princess, to marvel at her beauty, and to wish her good luck in her married life.

At the town of Chatelleraut, Catherine de Medici gave her daughter a last embrace and uttered the final words of advice and warning. Antoine, with some French nobles and the Spaniards who had met the party, continued to accompany Elisabeth.

It was a journey of a hundred accidents. The weather was bad and they must at times travel through sleet and snow; some of the baggage was mislaid and the French ladies were in a panic, thinking they might not have dresses fine enough in which to face the Spaniards. The French were closely guarding French honor and carefully watching for slights; and the Spaniards were even more jealous of their dignity.

When it was time for Elisabeth to be formally handed over and to say good-bye to Antoine, whom she loved, she felt herself unable to bear the parting.

When Antoine made his speech, in which he said that he had brought the Princess from the house of the greatest King in the world to be delivered to the most illustrious sovereign on Earth, she broke down and wept; whereupon the emotional Antoine so far forgot his dignity as to break off his ceremonial speech, take her in his arms, and try to comfort her.

All the noble Spaniards—the greatest in the land assembled to represent their King in this important ceremony—were shocked by such conduct. Their glances implied that the Queen would have to learn to behave differently now that she was in Spain.

The Duke of Infantado, head of the great Mendoza family, whose duty it had been to receive her at this stage on behalf of the King, reproved her as he led her away.

“I beg your Highness to remember,” he said, “that you are now the Queen of Spain, and the Queen of Spain does not so condescend to the Duke of Vendôme—even though he may call himself the King of Navarre.”

Elisabeth’s grief subdued her fear. She said sharply: “The Duke of Infantado is greatly daring to speak thus to the Queen of Spain, who will say good-bye to those she loves in the manner of her own people, who do not seek to hide their genuine feelings if they wish to show them.”

The Duke was taken aback, but she was so beautiful, so young, so appealing that she blunted the edge of his Spanish dignity; moreover, he realized that she was not the frivolous girl he had imagined her to be. He could only bow his head and murmur: “I crave your Highness’s pardon.”

All along the road the Spaniards came out to see their new Queen. Her beauty enchanted them. She was typically French in poise and gesture, yet her features bore traces of her Italian ancestry.

She was calmer now that she had said good-bye to her relations. It was too late to hope for a miracle, and since the death of her father she had done with hoping for miracles. Her clothes were not only rich, they were becoming; and the Spaniards had never seen anything like them. She bowed and smiled at the people with French warmth which was so different from Spanish frigidity. She charmed these people as she rode among them. “Surely she is the most beautiful Queen in the world,” they said.

She had long since learned to read the Castilian language, and now she rapidly taught herself to speak it, and if her accent was that of a Frenchwoman, it merely added to her fascinating qualities.

Even the old members of the Spanish nobility were won over by her manners. Even grim Alba himself was attracted by her.

One grows up, thought Elisabeth. One cannot cry when one has no tears left. This is the fate which befalls all princesses.

But she knew that the greatest trial had yet to come. Each day brought her nearer to it, and every little fracas between French and Spaniards prepared her for it. There was still the meeting with Philip—and after that the life with him—to be faced.

Philip was waiting for her at Guadalajara. Juana and Carlos were with him.

Carlos was in a state of extreme tension, though no one but Ruy and Juana seemed to be aware of this. Carlos would have heard the reports regarding the bride; she seemed to have enchanted all those who had come into contact with her, and, although she was not yet fifteen, she had appeared to make even the grim Alba behave like a young man in love.

“Guard my little one,” muttered Juana. “I pray all the saints to guard him.”

Ruy was thinking: Is Philip blind? Does he not realize the effect of this on one so unbalanced as Carlos?

He must be prepared to go to the defense of Philip, for anything might happen. In such a moment Carlos’s mind might topple over into complete insanity. Ruy must be at hand to guard the King.

Philip seemed almost indifferent. He was worried about the Netherlands. The Prince of Orange was hatching evil plots; he knew it. His cousin Maximilian and his sister Maria were growing closer to the German princes; they must be watched. There was so much to occupy his mind, and he only had time to think that this Elisabeth of Valois would suit him because she was young and would bear him children. Marriage was a duty to be endured for the sake of his country.

He was facing a new phase of his career, and he was determined to be ready to meet it. He had said good-bye to Catherine Lenez; Isabel Osorio had gone into a convent, for she knew that, now he was the King, their life together was ended. All Isabel’s children would be provided for by Philip, and later would have good posts in his household or in his armies. Philip could be trusted to do his duty.

He had already sent for his half-brother Juan, in order that he might fulfill the promise he had made to their father, and Juan was being brought up and educated with Carlos.

There was another boy who shared their lessons. This was Philip’s cousin, Alexander Farnese, whom Philip had brought home with him from the Netherlands.

Alexander was the son of Margaret of Parma, who was herself one of the illegitimate daughters of the Emperor Charles. Charles had always made his children’s welfare a concern of his, and he had married Margaret to Alessandro, the illegitimate son of Pope Clement. Alessandro, who had been known as the Nero of Florence, had, fortunately for Florence and Margaret, died a violent death a year after the marriage. After Margaret had been a widow for some years Charles found another bridegroom for her; but in her second marriage Margaret was hardly more fortunate than in her first, for now she was a woman and her new husband, Ottavio Farnese, was only twelve years old. The union was naturally not a very happy one, although it brought Margaret her son Alexander. Charles, aware of her capabilities and that character which was more masculine than feminine, bestowed on her the Governorship of the Netherlands, and this Philip had allowed her to retain.

He was considering now whether it might not be expedient to have the two sons of Maximilian and Maria brought to Spain, for the same reason as he had brought Alexander: ostensibly to be companions for Carlos, but actually as hostages for their parents’ good behavior.

With so much to occupy his mind, and so many problems to be faced, it was small wonder that Philip had little thought to spare for his bride.

She was now riding into the town on a white palfrey; on one side of her was the Duke of Infantado and on the other the Cardinal of Burgos. In the streets the people were shouting their pleasure; and here, in the ducal palace, everything was in readiness, for the actual marriage ceremony must take place as soon as the bride arrived.

Philip stood on the dais. Carlos was beside him. How he fidgeted! Could not the boy show some dignity? There was Juana, looking more as though she were at a funeral than at a wedding. Philip was uneasy suddenly. Would Juana’s melancholy lead to trouble one day? And here was Ruy, standing close to him—surely closer than was necessary—as though he were preparing to face a host of enemies rather than his sovereign’s bride. Philip wanted to say: “My dear friend, there is no need for uneasiness. I feel none. I do not believe this Princess of France will be very formidable.” Lightly he wondered how Ruy fared in his own married life with the stormy, one-eyed Ana.

Glancing at Carlos, Philip saw that his lips were moving. Hastily Philip turned away from his son.

What would the new Queen think of her stepson? She must surely congratulate herself when she contemplated what she had escaped. Whatever she thought of her own bridegroom, he would certainly seem preferable to Carlos.

Meanwhile, Carlos was saying to himself: “She is mine. This was to have been my wedding day. But he takes everything from me.”

He did not know what he would do when she entered. Could she really be as beautiful as they said she was? When he saw her, he believed, he might be so jealous that his hatred of his father would compell him to kill him. He might try to seize Philip’s sword and run it through his heart.

Those who had seen her had said of Isabella: “She is so attractive that no cavalier durst look at her for fear of losing his heart to her; and should the King see this it might cost a man his life!”

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—handsome 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 halfbrother, 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; Isabel 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.

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 Malaie 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, forbidding 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 Mar-got were there with her! She tried to imagine the high-spirited Mar-got—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, indeed.”

“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.

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.