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

FOUR

The memory of the part she played in saving Jeanne from the Inquisition never left Isabella. It was one of the most momentous things she had ever done, and marked a turning point in her life.

Philip never discovered the part she had played in foiling his plans. He knew that Jeanne had been warned of his intentions in time to enable her to escape, with her son, out of Navarre into the heart of France and safety. Isabella often wondered what his reactions would have been to her deception. There were times when she felt a little remorse, but she only had to recall the cruelty of the auto-da-fé to justify her actions; and she never doubted for a moment that if she were presented with a similar situation she would meet it in the same way.

Her feelings toward Philip had necessarily changed. How could she love a man who had been ready to send a noble woman like Jeanne—or any person, man or woman for that matter—to the flames? It was merely because Jeanne, a woman whom she had known and loved, was involved that this had been brought home to her. Even in his tenderest moments she would think: If I became a heretic, he would condemn me to the flames.

If that was piety she preferred human frailty.

He cares more for his soul than anything on Earth—his soul. He thinks he is doing his duty in a manner which will please God and win him eternal bliss. Is that noble? Is that selfless? Is it according to Christ?

She wished she could be young and frivolous again. She wished—more than ever since she had betrayed him—that she could give him a son. It seemed that was not to be. There had been another pregnancy which had ended in failure.

She sought to please him as much as she could. She would not spare herself. She made the long and arduous journey to Bayonne, as his deputy, with the Duke of Alba, that she might meet her mother and her brother Charles, who was now King of France, for a conference on the borders of France and Spain.

What joy it was to see young Charles again, yet how sadly he reminded her of Carlos, with his hysteria and his moods of strangeness. He was still devoted to her and so happy in their reunion.

When she met her mother, she knew how she had grown up, for Catherine no longer had the power to disturb her. Truly she had escaped from Catherine; one day she would escape from Philip.

Catherine showed her awareness of that escape, saying: “You have become a Spaniard!” There was bitter disappointment in her words; she knew well enough that her eldest daughter was no longer her thrall.

I am no more Spaniard than French, thought the young Queen: I am myself.

However, she followed Philip’s instructions in trying to persuade her mother to adopt a more Catholic policy in France; but she knew that Philip meant her inclusion in the mission to be merely a sign of his love for her, and to give her the pleasure of seeing her family. It was Alba and Catherine who paced the long galleries in endless converse, and discussed the future policies of France and Spain.

After she returned to Spain she became pregnant once more, and this time her child lived. Alas!, it was a daughter, and she named her Isabel Clara Eugenie. This child delighted her, but she was not released from the responsibility of giving Philip a son.

How tender was Philip at that time, superintending arrangements himself, making sure that everything should be done for the sake of his little Queen, seeming mutely to plead with her to give him that love which he needed from her and which she could not give! What could he do to please her? That was what he seemed to ask. And how could she answer: By not being Philip; by being just the kind and tender person you are to me without that grim shadow who is always beside you— Philip the fanatic, Philip the murderer of men and women, Philip the man who would have tortured Jeanne of Navarre and sat in the royal gallery with Queen Isabella beside him while that noble body was burned at the stake. How could she say that to him? And if she did, how could he change? He was Philip, the man his father, his Spanish upbringing, and life itself had made him.

Carlos was restive. He was a man now, and he considered it was ridiculous of his father to treat him as though he were a boy—and he the Prince of Spain.

His conduct became more riotous. If Isabella had been allowed to visit him more frequently he would have been quieter. But his father prevented those visits. Isabella herself would have come. Had she not come to him when she needed help? He wanted to shout that through the streets of Valladolid and Madrid. But he must not. It was a secret between them.

Many thoughts chased each other confusedly through his troubled mind.

Together they had saved the heretic Jeanne of Navarre. That pleased him, and because of it he would always have a fondness for heretics. He wanted to be a soldier like Alba, winning victories, and with all the people welcoming him when he returned from the wars. In his dreams he rode at the head of a cavalcade, and everyone was shouting for the conquering hero, Don Carlos, instead of the Duke of Alba.

He wanted to be a statesman like Ruy Gomez da Silva, bland and wise, always calm. He wanted to be King, but not like Philip—quiet, morose, who did not know how to enjoy himself. It was time such as he were out of the way.

In his saner moments he liked to know what was happening in the dominions to which he was heir. Since the trouble in the Netherlands, Philip had talked of going there himself to subdue his unruly subjects.

“I wish I could go!” cried Carlos. “I understand heretics.”

Now he began to talk of heretics with some affection. Why, he demanded, should they not be allowed to have their own thoughts? Why could they not have their own way of worshipping God? Why not? Why not? Carlos would scream at his attendants. Why could they not answer? Why not indeed? Should they disagree with Don Carlos and face his unaccountable wrath, or alternatively run the risk of incurring the displeasure of the dread Inquisition?

Carlos knew what he wanted now. He wanted to go to the Netherlands. He wanted to be the Governor. He shouted his desire to all who cared to listen. He spoke continually of his sympathy with the people of the Netherlands, and at length a deputation came from that country asking that the Prince should be the new Governor.

Philip was exasperated. He visited his son.

“You cannot go to the Netherlands,” he said coldly. “You do not know how to conduct yourself here. How could you hope to govern others when you cannot control yourself?”

Carlos’s fury broke loose. He screamed his defiance. Then suddenly he stopped and, remembering how he and Isabella had outwitted this man, a slow smile touched his lips.

He spoke clearly and coherently. “You hate me, do you not? You know that I wish to go to the Netherlands and that the Flemings wish to have me there; but you refuse my request and theirs. You do this because you hate me. You frustrate me, and I know why. It is because of Isabella.”

“You talk nonsense,” said Philip.

“Do I? Do I, your gracious Majesty!” He laughed. He was thinking of her standing before him, appealing to him so beautifully. “Carlos … you are the only one I can trust to help me …” And together they had worked against this Philip. They had saved the life of the Queen of Navarre … he and Isabella. Small wonder that he loved all heretics. The Queen of Navarre was a heretic, and she had brought him close to Isabella … and Isabella loved him. She had come to him that they might work together against Philip.

He spoke quietly then, as though to himself: “She was mine, and you took her from me, but do not think it will always be thus. You are old … and she is young … and I am young, and I shall always be between you … because she is mine … mine …”

Philip turned abruptly and left him. His son was quite mad, but what an unhealthy situation was this! Carlos and … Isabella! It made him shudder. Carlos did not see himself as others saw him.

Yet Philip was deeply disturbed. He knew that Isabella did not really love him as he wished to be loved. He was fully aware of the restraint between them. He wanted the love of Isabella—the complete love of Isabella—more than he had ever wanted anything in his life.

Carlos … between them! That was ridiculous! But it was a disturbing thought.

After that visit from his father, Carlos’s fury broke out more wildly than ever. He began to seek opportunities of offending the most important men.

The Inquisitor-General, Cardinal Espinosa, had banished an actor from Madrid. Carlos discovered this and, because he was beginning to hate all men in authority, he declared that the banished man was his favorite actor, and he wanted to know what right a priest had to oppose the son of the King. At the very first opportunity he sought out the Cardinal and, in the presence of the officials of the church and the court, he taxed him with deliberately seeking to oppose and annoy the Prince.

The Cardinal defended himself in as dignified a manner as possible, but Carlos was out for revenge and blood. He drew his sword, shouting: “Miserable priest who dares oppose a prince! Miserable torturer of heretics!”

None dared strike the Prince, but it was essential to save the Cardinal, and his friends, ranging themselves about him, hustled him from the room, leaving Carlos foaming at the lips, waving his sword and flashing his wild eyes menacingly at those who remained. Garcia Osorio was fortunately present and managed to soothe him.

But the great Cardinal Espinosa could not allow such an attack on his dignity as well as his person to pass without protest. He presented himself to Philip.

Philip was full of remorse and, as was so often the case when his subjects brought complaints of his son, the interview ended with the Cardinal’s kneeling before the King and swearing to endure even the insults of the Prince for the sake of Philip.

One night Carlos tried to throw one of his servants out of a window because he did not obey his summons quickly enough. On another occasion when riding he pursued Don Garcia de Toledo, the brother of the great Duke of Alba, with his riding whip. Don Garcia had no alternative but to fly before him for fear that he might be forced into an affray in which the Prince might suffer.

It was becoming increasingly clear that Carlos was now nothing less that a violent madman.

Isabella was again pregnant, and Philip therefore decided that he would not go in person to the Netherlands. There was one whom he could trust and whom his Council agreed would be the very man to put down revolt in that troublesome country—a man of ruthless methods, of great personal courage, a fervent Catholic—the great Duke of Alba himself.

When the news of the Duke’s appointment was brought to Carlos he fell into a mood of melancholy and would eat nothing for three days. He was growing very thin through lack of food, and when his frenzies were on him they would exhaust him.

He would lie in his bed and refuse to see anyone, and as he lay there he would talk to himself of death and hate, blood and murder.

Alba, ready to leave for the Netherlands, had occasion to visit the Prince, and when he saw him Carlos completely lost control.

He came out of his silent melancholy and shouted: “Who are you who dares to come here and mock me? How dare you take the governorship of the Netherlands when you know that it belongs to me?”

Alba, seeing the condition of the Prince, sought to placate him. “Your Highness is too precious to his Majesty to be exposed to the dangers of the Netherlands.”

“Do you suggest that I am a coward, sir?”

“Indeed not, your Highness. We know you long to go and fight Spain’s battles. It is solely …”

“You know that, and you consent to go in my place! You take from me that which is mine?”

“Your Highness, as heir to the throne …”

“Ah! Remember it, villain!” Carlos, laughing horribly, showed Alba the dagger he had been hiding in his sleeve. “This is for you, sir. This is for you, Lord Duke. We will send the corpse of a noble Duke to the Netherlands … that we will!”

Carlos’s maniacal laughter rang out as he lunged at the Duke; but Alba was ready; he caught Carlos’s arm and twisted it so that the dagger fell to the ground.

Carlos, impotent to continue his attack, screamed, and attendants came running in.

“Take this man. Set him in irons. Bring me a sword and I will pierce him to the heart. I will kill him … kill him …”

He glared at the cold face of the Duke, and he hated him in that moment almost as much as he hated his father.

Alba said contemptuously: “Take him. Give him some soothing medicine. His Highness is very excited this day.”

Then, almost throwing the Prince into the arms of his attendants, he strode from the apartment.

Isabella was aware of the rapidly increasing tension between father and son.

She longed to comfort Carlos, but she was again pregnant, and each successive pregnancy left her less able to contend with the next.

She was praying urgently for a son.

Ruy, whom she looked upon as one of her greatest friends, knew of her anxiety. She was aware that he shared it. He, more than anyone, seemed to fear the growing menace of Carlos.

Once he said to her: “If your Majesty should have a son, he would be the heir to the throne.”

“And Carlos?” she asked.

“The Council has agreed that in such circumstances Carlos would be declared unfit.”

“Poor Carlos. He would never forgive me.”

Ruy answered: “Carlos would forgive your Majesty anything.”

She was startled. Was he warning her, this good kind friend who seemed to see further than anyone else? Was he suggesting that Carlos was in love with her! She could not accept that. He was her friend; she was sorry for him; but that he should think of himself in the role of lover was incongruous.

Ruy said: “Sometimes I wonder what would happen if by some terrible mischance Philip should die and the crown pass to Carlos. Spain would be as Rome under Caligula.”

“I see,” she said, “that I must have a son … if not now … later.”

“Your Highness will. I beg of you not to be too anxious.”

But the child which was born to her, though healthy, was a girl.

“There is plenty of time,” said Philip and Ruy and all those to whom the birth of a male child was so important.

Then Carlos demanded their attention.

After the birth of her daughter, Isabella’s convalescence was a long one. She was subject to headaches and fits of dizziness; she had grown pale and thin. Yet such was her beauty that, although she had changed from the dazzling young girl who had first come to Spain nearly ten years ago, she was still possessed of great charm. If her eyes were less bright, her hair less lustrous, there was in her countenance an expression of such sweetness that those about her loved her more than they had when she had been a sparkling young girl.

In spite of her ill-health, she was still determined to give Philip a son.

Carlos was mad and must never be allowed to rule Spain. She traced this new and greater wildness in him to their adventure together when she had asked his help for Jeanne of Navarre, for again and again he would refer to his sympathy with heretics, and continually he spoke of her, the Queen.

Her secret weighed heavily upon her; she was remorseful, yet she knew that, could she have that time over again, she would act in exactly the same way.

Philip, absorbed in state duties, moodily occupied with thoughts of Carlos, did not notice the sad preoccupation of Isabella. Always with him she was the charming and obedient wife; and although he knew that he did not possess her passionate devotion, for which he longed, he still believed that one day it might be his.

Isabella spent much time at Pastrana in the Palace of the Prince and Princess of Eboli. She found great comfort in the companionship of Ruy and his wife. Ruy, in particular, understood something of the conflict within her and he knew that it concerned Carlos.

On one occasion he reminded her of the conversation they had had before the birth of her daughter. He knew, and the Princess his wife knew, that it would be unsafe for her to bear more children.

“This problem will have to be faced by Philip and the Council,” Ruy said to her. “Carlos cannot rule; but you and the King have two daughters. It may well be that Isabel Clara Eugenie will make as great a Queen as her forbear, the great Isabella.”

“What would Carlos feel if he were replaced by a girl?” she asked.

Ruy said: “Your Majesty must forgive my forwardness. If I speak to you as a father, that is because I am old enough to fill that role and because of my great regard for you. Let your task be to comfort Philip, to preserve your strength for this great work. You have given him two daughters. Let that suffice.”

She gave him her sweetest smile.

“I thank you, my Prince, for your advice, but I would not take it if I could. Very soon I hope my son will be born.”

Both Ruy and his wife were sad to hear this news that once again she was to have a child.

Carlos had decided to wait no longer. His father hated him. He had been born for one purpose, and he was now going to fulfill it. He was going to kill his father.

It had been such a wonderful dream: to raise the dagger and thrust it into the black velvet doublet, to watch the dull red stain on black velvet and diamonds, to see the pale eyes glaze in anguish—but not before Philip had looked into the face of the murderer and known him for his son.

Afterward he would ride away—perhaps to France, perhaps to Austria. But he would not long stay away from Spain; he would come back … for Isabella.

He kept his secret, planning cunningly. It would have to be a moment when he was alone with his father, for there must be none to protect Philip. He, Carlos, would be subdued; he would mislead Philip.

“Father,” he would say, “I will reform. I swear I will.”

And when Philip came close to lay a hand on his shoulder, to speak of his pleasure in his son’s calmness—then would come the quick uplift of the arm, the deep thrust, and blood … blood … the blood of Philip.

He had arranged for horses which would carry him away from the palace. He had told Juan and Garcia that he would need horses; he had ordered both of them to procure horses for him.

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.