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

ONE

Entering the house of Isabel Osorio, Philip gave no sign of the anxiety he was feeling. Many knew of his love for his mistress, but he always behaved with the utmost discretion. Isabel did not come to court; he visited her whenever possible; and she lived in her house like any dignified Spanish matron.

He was anxious now because Isabel was in childbed. It would not be the first child she had borne him, but he could not escape the horror which came to him at such times.

He would always remember Maria Manoela. When she had died four years ago he himself had longed for death until he realized what an evil longing that was. He had shut himself away in a monastery and after much fasting and prayer he had come to the conclusion that only his faith could help him to live the life which had been ordained for him. He had clung to faith as the heretics clung to the crucifix when the flames consumed their bodies. He remembered that any trouble sent to him came through the will of God, and that to rail against misfortune was to rail against God.

He had decided that never again must he love a human being more than his faith. He had spent much time with priests, and the belief had come to him that it was his destiny not to look for happiness, but to purge his country of the heretic. In that must he find his greatest joy. He believed that it was his duty to inflict the cruellest suffering on heretics, not only because that was what his faith demanded of him, but for their good also. How many might he not turn from their evil ways with enough application of the rack, the wheel, and red-hot pincers? And if that were not possible, if the Devil had their souls so firmly in his possession, then was it not a good thing to prepare them for eternal torment? Members of the Inquisition had applauded his fervor. He was with them as his great father had never been. When Philip was eventually on the throne, they doubted not that the Holy Office would flourish as it had in the days of the great Isabella and Torquemada.

Isabel’s house was large and comfortable, yet it lacked that magnificence which might have proclaimed it to be the residence of a Prince’s mistress. He found great pleasure in entering this house, for to him it was home. He went swiftly through the door which opened on to the plazuela and through the great hall, where a servant was throwing lavender on the brasero. This servant immediately fell to her knees when she saw him, but Philip, deeply conscious of the dignity due to his rank, did not give her a glance. Another servant appeared from the estrado at the end of the hall; she also knelt, and he ignored her as he had the other.

He mounted the staircase. He found that he was praying softly under his breath: “Holy Mother of God, let it be over … let it be over …”

He was asking that he might never again be called upon to lose a beloved woman as he had lost Maria Manoela. “Holy Mother … Holy Mother … let all be safely over …”

Often he had wished that he might marry Isabel; that was clearly quite impossible. He was so fond of her; she had been the only one who could comfort him when he had lost Maria Manoela. She was so calm that she brought him back to calmness; she understood him as Maria Manoela never had. She had become the wife and the mistress he needed at such a time; and he loved her devotedly.

He had sent Leonor to the house that she might be with Isabel at this time. That was the most he could give her, he knew. And Leonor, knowing all that Isabel had done for her Philip, was glad to go.

How fortunate he was in Isabel! He would never cease to be grateful for her. She conducted their relationship in that manner which she knew would please him best. When the Prince came to this house he was no longer the Prince; he was a nobleman visiting his mistress. No. He was a husband returning to his wife after an enforced absence.

As he reached Isabel’s room, Leonor came hurrying out to him. He gave her his hand and she bent over it. He saw that she was smiling. So all was well.

“Well, Leonor?”

“A beautiful boy.”

“That is good. And … his mother?”

“Well too, Highness. She is tired, but I doubt not she would sleep better after a glimpse of you.”

How different this was from that other childbirth four years ago! He should have understood then; he should have been prepared.

As he entered the apartment, the women about the bed fell back. He did not look at them. His eyes went at once to the woman in the bed. She was very beautiful, although the signs of her ordeal were still upon her. He took her hand and kissed it.

“My dearest, I am relieved that it is over.”

“And pleased with the result, my Prince?”

“Pleased indeed. Another boy.”

Leonor was at his elbow. “A beautiful boy, if you please.”

“A beautiful boy,” repeated Philip, allowing himself to smile.

Isabel smiled. He wished then that he was not the Prince of the Asturias, that he might marry her and live with her, see her each day, laugh with her more than he could now permit himself to do, discuss all the domestic problems as humble people did.

Leonor tiptoed out and left them together.

When she had gone, he said: “And you, my love? That is what matters most.”

“I am well, Philip, and I feel strong and happy now that I have seen you. It was good of you to come.”

“If only …” he began; he stopped and shrugged his shoulders. It was wrong even to wish that his destiny had not been thrust upon him. She smiled, understanding him as she always understood him. He remembered afresh how in the days of his great grief, when he was cold and aloof, she had known how to comfort him … she alone.

“We have been very happy for three years,” she reminded him. “We shall be happy for many more.”

“No matter what happens,” he agreed, “I shall always love you.”

He meant that if ever he had to make a marriage for state reasons she must not think he had ceased to love her even if it should be necessary for them to give up their life together. He would remember her always as the rock to which he had clung when his grief on the death of Maria Manoela had threatened to submerge him; she was the woman, a little older than himself, to whom he could in their privacy be something of the man he might have been if he had been allowed to grow naturally, if he had not been bound by rigid, iron casings which had forced him to grow in a certain mold.

“I am glad the child is a boy,” she said. “You will see his brother before you go?”

“I will,” said Philip. “And I should go now, my dearest—though I have no wish to do so—for I see that you are tired and should be resting. I but came to assure myself that you had come safely through. Now … to rest.”

He smoothed the coverlet with the tenderness of a mother; he was like a devoted yet restrained husband, Isabel thought. He had been thus, even in the early days of their relationship. He had amused her then with his solemnity, and the more solemn he became, the more tender she felt toward him, for oddly enough, in her opinion, it made him seem younger than others of his age.

He insisted that she close her eyes before he went out of the room. He stood by the door watching her. The experience of being alone in a room without attendants never failed to stimulate him; and in this room he had known some of the happiest moments of his life because during them he had imagined himself to be an ordinary husband and father.

He went briskly out into the corridor, where Leonor was waiting for him.

“She sleeps, Highness?”

“I have commanded her to rest.”

“Your Highness is pleased, I see. Then come to the nursery and see the little one’s brother.”

Leonor walked with him to the nursery, where a beautiful boy of not quite three was sprawling on cushions, Moorish fashion, on the floor playing with colored balls. His nurse bowed and retired when she saw the Prince.

“Papa!” cried the boy and rising and running to Philip, he clasped him about the knees. Philip stood still until the door closed on the nurse; then he picked up the boy.

“And how is my son Garcia today?”

The boy put his hands on Philip’s lips and Philip wanted to hold him against him and kiss the smooth brown cheek. He glanced at Leonor before gratifying this wish.

“Hello, Papa,” said the boy. “Garcia is well.”

“And pleased to see me, eh?”

The boy smiled, while his chubby hand went to the jewel at Philip’s throat.

“You like that, eh, my little one?”

The boy nodded and tried to pull it off.

“Methinks you are more pleased with that jewel than with your Papa.”

“Nay, nay,” said Leonor. “He loves best to see his Papa. Do you not, Garcia?”

The boy had charming ways and his answer was to release the jewel and to put his arms about his father’s neck and make a soft, gurgling noise which was meant to express affection.

“You must show your Papa your beautiful toys, Garcia, my precious one,” said Leonor.

The boy wriggled and Philip set him down. Philip watched him as he ran about, noting his sturdy limbs, the look of health, the eyes which were neither blue nor brown, but a mixture of Philip’s blue ones and Isabel’s black ones. How he loved this child! How happy he would be if he might throw himself onto the floor and become absorbed in the things which delighted the boy!

“He is growing clever,” said Leonor. She went to a table and took up a book. “Here, Garcia. Now let us show Papa how we can read the little words. What is this now?”

The boy dimpled with great charm. “El niño,” he said, and pointed to himself.

“So you are the little one, you are the little baby?” asked Philip.

“Yes, Papa. Garcia is el niño now. But I will tell you something. May I, Leonor? It is a secret.”

“You may tell Papa, I am sure,” said Leonor.

“I am to have a brother or a sister. Then I shall not be the little one. Then I shall be the big one.”

Then Philip, aware of an intense emotion, took the jewel from his throat and gave it to the boy.

“Pretty!” he said, and he laughed with delight.

But Leonor took it from him as he would have put it into his mouth. She clucked her tongue and looked from Philip to Garcia with her own peculiar brand of indulgence.

“To give a baby such a thing! Why, he might swallow it. It is to look at, precious one, but not to eat. Leonor will put it away, and when you are a big one instead of a little one, you will remember that your father gave it to you, and you will wish to keep it forever.”

The child was looking at his father now. Philip stooped to pick him up. He held him against him in such a way that neither Leonor nor the child should see his emotion.

Philip could never shirk a duty. After an hour spent in that nursery with Garcia he must return to the palace and visit his legitimate son, the child of his brief union with Maria Manoela. These visits were becoming, alas!, more of a duty than a pleasure.

He went to the apartments that were occupied by the little Prince.

Carlos was nearly two years older than Garcia, and Philip never looked at Carlos without wishing that it was Garcia who was his eldest son, Garcia whose place was here at the palace.

They were prepared for him in the royal nursery when he arrived. Perhaps they knew that he had just left the house of Isabel Osorio and that he had spent an hour with her son.

As Philip entered the apartment he heard Carlos’s screaming. So they had warned him that his father was approaching; they had tried to comb his wild hair, to tidy his garments, to impress upon the boy the need to be on his best behavior.

Philip stood coldly surveying the scene. The two nurses were perturbed, desperately trying to quiet Carlos; the heralds and the courtiers were uncomfortable; Carlos had turned to peer over his shoulder and scowl at his father.

Philip said: “Leave me with my son.”

“No!” cried Carlos. “Do not go.”

He ran after them, but they had left quickly shutting the door after them. Carlos went to the door, but he was not big enough to open it, so he pounded on it with his fists, working himself into a rage.

“Come here, Carlos,” said Philip.

The boy ignored his father and continued to kick the door.

Philip strode across the room, and picking up Carlos, brought him to the chair, where he sat holding the boy.

Carlos was now silent. He glared at his father with his wild black eyes.

“Why do you behave thus?” demanded Philip.

Carlos did not answer.

“Is it becoming for a prince to treat his father thus?”

Carlos’s lower lip stuck out angrily. Philip looked at the big head that seemed enormous on the poor, stunted body; he noticed how the hair grew low on his forehead, almost reaching the eyebrows, the slight hump on the back, the left leg which was not quite as long as the right, the weak, full lips, the pallor of the skin; and all the time he was comparing Carlos with the boy whom he had just left. Why had God given him one handsome and intelligent son, and another—the heir to the throne—like Carlos? How had he and Maria Manoela produced a child like this one? He thought suddenly of the apartments of Juana with the food strewn about the room; he recalled the wild laughter which incongruously rose above the music and made the mad scene more unforgettably horrible. Whenever he looked at this boy he was reminded of Juana—his grandmother and Maria Manoela’s.

“Carlos,” he said severely, “you are growing up now.”

Carlos continued to scowl at him.

“One day you will be a king. Kings do not kick and scream.”

“Then they are silly,” muttered Carlos.

“Why do you say that, Carlos?”

“Because when this little one kicks he gets what he kicks and screams for.”

“Then you shall do so no longer.”

Carlos’s scowl became almost a smile. If he was not clever, he was cunning. Philip thought of Dr Siliceo, who had always been so ready to please him. There would be others as eager to please this little Prince.

“Kings have their duties,” said Philip. “They must set an example to the people. If they behave badly their subjects will not love them.”

Carlos was considering this, and it was obvious from the expression on his face that he did not care that people should love him; he only cared that they should give him what he wanted.

“Your grandfather,” said Philip, “is a great Emperor.”

“This little one shall be a great Emperor,” said Carlos.

“You will not if you do not behave in a manner such as will please the people. You will have to do your duty and learn your lessons. How are you getting on with your reading?”

“Don’t like it.”

“Have you not learned your letters yet?”

“Don’t like,” said Carlos with finality.

“But you must try to like them.”

Carlos’s scowl-smile deepened. “Won’t do,” he said; and he laughed suddenly, doubtless recalling his latest tantrum when his nurses had tried to enforce his father’s wishes.

“Do you not want to be a learned man when you grow up?”

Carlos considered this in his sly, secret way. He was thinking, Philip knew, that he could very well get what he wanted in his present state of ignorance. Kicking, screaming himself into a passion so that his attendants and nurses feared for his health, was, he was cunning enough to know, more effective in getting him what he wanted than anything he could learn from books.

“If you would be quieter, more gentle, do as you are told and learn your lessons, I should be able to love you,” said Philip gently.

Carlos’s indifference to his father’s regard was in his answer: “His Aunt Juana loves him.”

Juana! That name again. The reminder was at times more alarming than at others.

Philip put the boy down and, going to the door, asked the guard who stood outside to bring the Princess Juana to him.

Carlos had limped to the door, hoping to make his escape, but Philip held him firmly by the shoulder. Carlos looked at his father’s hand as he contemplated digging his teeth into it; but he was not insensible to his father’s power and the fear he inspired in others. Carlos, for all his wildness, was not a coward, but at the same time he was aware that a boy of four cannot easily pit himself against a man. So he contented himself with scowling, and allowed himself to be brought back to the chair.

“Why do you want to run away, my son?”

Carlos wriggled, but would not answer.

“Are you not pleased that your father should visit you?”

Carlos continued to stare at the hands which held him, and kept his face turned away from his father’s.

At that moment Philip’s young sister Juana entered. She was a quiet girl, with a serious expression, a little afraid now, as she always had been, of her brother. She came to him and knelt.

“Juana … Juana …” cried Carlos.

Philip told her to rise, and she stood up, looking timidly at him.

“You are with the boy more than anyone,” said Philip. “Yes, your Highness.”

“Juana … Juana …” The boy was fighting free of his father’s grasp, and Philip let him go. Carlos ran to his aunt, and, half laughing, half crying, he flung his arms about her knees.

“Make him stop that,” said Philip.

“Carlos, dearest baby, be silent. You must not act thus before your father. Little one … little one … all is well.”

Carlos kept his face hidden against her skirt. “He hurt the little one, Juana. He hurt el niño. He would not let Juana’s little one go with the others. He kept him here.”

“Hush. Hush. You must not cry before your father.”

“Little one will cry. He will stamp and cry.”

Little one! El niño. It was too reminiscent. Why had he punished himself by coming direct from one to the other? If he had waited, the contrast would have seemed less vivid.

“Enough! Enough!” he said.

Juana stood up, for she had knelt to comfort the boy. Philip looked at her coldly.

“You are not treating the boy as he should be treated.”

Carlos’s expression was cunning now. He said: “Juana loves him. Juana loves the little one.”

“Your Highness,” stammered Juana. “He is young yet …”

“I know it. He has told us. El niño! This pampering must be stopped. What of his lessons? I understand he cannot read his letters yet.”

“Your Highness …” Juana’s protective love for the child overcame her fear of her brother. “He is so young …”

Philip’s mouth was tight. “Others read before they are his age. He must pay more attention to his books. He must learn to read at once. How otherwise can he learn anything?” Philip softened. “It is not fair to blame you, Juana. He must have tutors.”

“He will not,” muttered Carlos.

“Do not touch him!” commanded Philip. “Do not soothe him. There has been too much soothing.”

Juana was pale. She was only a child herself. She had no mother; the boy had no mother; there was a bond between them. El niño, she had called him. Juana’s el niño; and it was from her he had learned his first words. It was to her he came when he wished to be soothed or petted, and she loved him as though she were the mother who had died giving birth to him. She was afraid now, for she was beginning to be almost as much afraid of wild Carlos as of calm Philip.

“He needs discipline,” said Philip.

“Little one won’t have it.”

“When you speak of yourself, please say ‘I.’ You are too old for childish talk.”

Carlos clutched Juana’s skirts and scowled at his father, and Philip felt suddenly that he must end this scene because he could bear no more. He had suffered too much tragedy. Was it not enough that he had seen Maria Manoela lying on her deathbed? Must he also have to look on this monstrous child with the heavy head, the low brow, the atavistic eyes?

“Tutors shall be appointed,” he said, “and in the meantime, Juana, I command you, do not pander to his whims. Treat him sternly. If you do not, I shall have no choice but to forbid you to see him.”

He strode past them. Juana sank to her knees.

As Philip left the apartment, he heard Carlos cry: “Juana loves him. Juana loves el niño.”

When Philip left his son’s apartment it was to discover that the Duke of Alba had arrived at the palace. The Duke had just come to Spain from Flanders and brought dispatches from the Emperor.

The dispatches, said Alba, were of the utmost secrecy, and the Emperor had entrusted them in no other hands but his. Moreover, his instructions were to hand them to no one but Philip.

Philip took the packet and, dismissing the Duke, shut himself into his small privy chamber and prepared to examine the documents. He was glad of the work. He was glad of anything which would enable him to forget that nursery scene in which he feared he had played a somewhat ignoble part.

The Emperor had written with his usual fullness and frankness. He recalled the past in order to explain how he and Philip came to be in their present position.

“Your great-grandfather Ferdinand, as you know, my dear Philip, favored my younger brother Ferdinand. Doubtless because he had the same name as himself, for people do favor their namesakes. It is a human weakness. My brother Ferdinand was educated as a Spaniard while I went the way of the Hapsburgs. It was your great-grandfather’s wish to make my brother Ferdinand King of Aragon, at one time, or even to create a kingdom for him in our dominions. He was to be Regent of Spain while I administered the Hapsburg inheritance in Germany and the Netherlands. But when old Ferdinand, your great-grandfather, died, I was the stronger. I was proclaimed King of Spain while I remained Emperor of my father’s dominions. But I could not ignore my brother Ferdinand. I had troubles enough on hand and I did not want another enemy. I made him King of the Romans, and I let him believe that on my death or retirement he would become Emperor.

“Naturally, my son, I have always wanted you to succeed me; and I plan, in order that I may ensure this as far as possible, to transfer to you the Imperial Vicariate in Italy and to attach Flanders and Holland to the Spanish crown. This would mean, of course, that my brother, as future Emperor, would have nothing but the Austrian territory. Naturally, he does not much like this arrangement, but after many conferences I have won him to my side.

“To do this, I have had to agree to the immediate marriage of your sister Maria with his son Maximilian, and to agree that on Ferdinand’s death, Maximilian—not you—shall succeed him as Emperor. Now, my son, you have traveled very little, and I should like to remedy that. Young Max has won the affection of the people whom he hopes one day to rule as Emperor. He is one of them. They follow him in the streets; they cheer him. They are a lusty people who will choose their own rulers.

“My dear Philip, it is time you visited your dominions. This is my proposal: Maximilian is on his way to Spain. When he arrives he shall be married to Maria. I have promised your Uncle Ferdinand that Maximilian and Maria shall have the regency while you are away. I believe this to be our safest move. Therefore, on receipt of this, make preparations for a journey, which will take you through Italy and Germany and Luxembourg to me here in Brussels. There is much that I wish to discuss with you in private …”

Philip stopped reading.

To leave Spain! To leave Carlos, who needed his discipline? To leave Doña Isabel and her two boys who gave him all the solace he needed when he escaped from his affairs of state, to face the Cortes and tell them that he was to follow his father abroad … he did not like it. And Spain would not like it either.

He guessed that one subject his father wished to discuss in private was another marriage for him. He had been a widower too long.

He did not want his life to be disturbed; yet if it was his duty to leave his country and to travel in foreign lands, to take a woman whom he did not want to be his wife, he would do that duty, as he always had.

Valladolid was preparing for fiesta. The marriage of the Emperor’s daughter Maria to her cousin Maximilian was to be celebrated with even more pomp and splendor than was usual on such occasions; the populace must be appeased. The Cortes had protested against the departure of the heir to the crown; its members had even written to the Emperor begging him not to take Philip from Spain. Some of the statesmen had been outspoken: they had declared that the Emperor was ruining Spain with his campaigns abroad, and they wished to be ruled by a king, not an emperor.

Philip had faced them, calm and resigned. He had no wish to leave Spain; but if it was his father’s desire that he should, then that must be fulfilled.

When he had left the Cortes he had gone to Isabel’s house. She was waiting for him. The baby was a fine child, growing up like his brother, and it was a great pleasure to be with them. There was peace in Isabel’s room; he could sit beside her, watching the children playing at their feet. If only he might enjoy domestic happiness! But even now, at this moment, he must break the news of his departure.

“My father has sent for me, Isabel, and I may be away from you for a long time.”

She turned to him and, as that control which she had taught herself broke suddenly, she laid her face against his shoulder and began to cry quietly.

Philip was deeply moved, as he always was by a display of affection toward himself. “Isabel,” he said. “Isabel … my love.”

She spoke fiercely against the Emperor. “But why should you go? You are needed here. Are you going to be away from us forever … as the Emperor has always been? The people will not endure that. You must not go, Philip. Oh, you must not go.”

He stroked her hair; he dared not speak for fear of showing her his distress.

Little Garcia came and stood before them, looking wonderingly at his mother. “What ails her, Father?” he asked.

Philip took the boy on to his knee. The baby stopped kicking as he lay on his cushions. When he saw their tears he let out a loud wail.

His mother went to him and picked him up; she sat with him on her knee, hiding her own grief in her effort to comfort the child.

“Father,” insisted Garcia, “what is wrong, then?”

His mother answered for Philip. “It is nothing to be sad about. But … your father has to go away for a time.”

“For a long time?”

“It will not be longer than I can help,” said Philip.

“You will come back soon,” said the boy.

They sat for a while in silence, the boy looking from the face of one parent to the other’s. The baby put out a fat hand and grasped at a bright ornament on his father’s doublet.

It seemed to Philip a scene of charming domesticity, saddened only by his impending departure. Oh, how happy he might have been had he not been born the Prince of Spain!

While the festivities which followed the wedding of Maximilian and Maria were still in progress, Philip left Valladolid on the first stage of his journey.

His departure took some of the merrymaking out of the revels, for even to the people in the streets he was the beloved Prince. The Emperor might be a foreigner, but Philip was one of themselves; they liked his quiet dignity, his Spanish haughtiness; they had never heard of any indiscretion on his part, and even his love affair with Isabel Osorio was conducted with decorum, and it was said—and all believed this—that Philip behaved like a respectably married man in his relationship with Doña Isabel, whereas his father’s love affairs were mainly with foreign women.

Still, if they loved their Prince, they also loved merrymaking, and what good could they do by grieving?

On that October day, as Philip left Valladolid followed by a magnificent retinue to ride through Aragon and Catalonia, the people lined the streets and cried Godspeed and a quick return.

One woman watched him from her window. She held up her elder son that he might see his father, for she knew, though she did not tell the boy this, that it would be a year or two before they saw Philip again.

Was Philip aware of them as he rode past Isabel’s house? She knew that he was, and she knew that he longed to turn and take one last look at the house in which he had known great happiness. But he did not turn his head to look. Not for one instant, however great the provocation, would he forget the decorum due to his rank.

Yet he had taken a public farewell of Carlos. He had lifted the sullen boy up that the crowds might see him, and he had solemnly kissed the unresponding lips. Carlos had enjoyed the ceremony, caring nothing for his father’s departure.

Philip had said to him when they were alone: “I shall not see you for a long time, Carlos. I want you to promise me to be good and try to learn your lessons.”

Carlos had said nothing; he merely gave his father that long, cunning stare.

“You must be good, my son, for, with your grandfather and your father away from Spain, you have a special duty to your people. You must show an example to all.”

The boy continued to scowl; he did not like this talk of being good.

“You must make the people love you. You must, by your behavior, win the respect of your grandfather and father.”

Then Carlos spoke. “Juana loves him. Juana loves the little one.”

Philip rode through Catalonia to the Bay of Rosas, where Admiral Doria met him with fifty-five galleys and many sailing ships; and Doria fell on his knees before the Prince and, with tears streaming down his cheeks, cried: “Now, O Lord, let thy servant depart in peace, for his eyes have seen Thy salvation.” Philip knew that the emotion of Doria was genuine; to him the Prince was like a god; and the Admiral reflected the mood of the entire Spanish nation.

This was gratifying indeed. His people—the Spanish—loved him; not as he craved to be loved, but as a ruler; his manners, which repelled in private, pleased in public. He had this devotion and he had the love of Isabel and their children to sustain him. Should he not be gratified?

But whatever he had, he would never forget that first he was a Prince, and, as he listened to the compliments that were showered upon him, as he heard the cheers of the people, he could not shut out of his mind the memory of that dark, lowering face; he could hear the peevishly triumphant whine: “Juana loves him. Juana loves the little one.”

And although he had given Spain his life to make of it what his people wished, he had also given them Don Carlos.

He passed through Genoa to Milan and Mantua.

The Italians did not like him. They were courteous, paying him the respect which was his due; but he, as much as any, was aware of the impression he made.

“He is serious, this Philip,” it was said. “Has he never learned to laugh and compliment the ladies?”

They talked of his father. There was a man! It was good to watch him at table and to mark his way with women. He was a man such as the Italians could understand.

Through the Tyrol and Germany to Luxembourg went the magnificent procession; and always it was the same story. “How solemn he is, this Prince!” They shook their heads gravely. They would not, if they could help it, further the chances of such a one. They wished to have a ruler who was a merrymaker. The Emperor Charles had a strength of his own, and that they applauded; young Maximilian, the Emperor’s nephew and now his son-in-law, was like his uncle. But this quiet, calm Spaniard? No! They did not like him. Their cheers and homage were lukewarm.

It was April when he made his entry into Brussels.

A great ceremony had been prepared for him at the Emperor’s instigation. Charles was perturbed; he had seen little of his son of late, but he was not unaware of the fact that Philip’s personality would not appeal to those robust, pleasure-loving people, who cared little for ceremony. He knew the Flemings well, and he believed that they would not welcome a future ruler whose tastes and manners did not accord with their own.

Charles was waiting for Philip at the palace in the company of his two widowed sisters—Mary of Hungary and Eleonore, who had been the second wife of Francis the First. Mary was practical and capable; Eleonore was warm and motherly. Both women were looking forward to Philip’s visit; Mary because she liked to have a say in family affairs and she saw a big storm blowing up concerning the inheritance of Philip and Maximilian; Eleonore because it was time Philip married and she had a suitable wife for him in the person of her own daughter by Manoel of Portugal, whom she, Eleonore, had married before she became the second wife of the King of France.

But neither of these ladies was more eager to see their nephew than Charles was to see his son.

The Emperor stood at a window of the palace, watching the crowds in the street, listening to the triumphant music. He saw the approach of the cavalcade; and at the head of all this pomp and magnificence rode Philip, the heir of Spain and as much of Europe as his father could snatch from the eager hands of his brother and nephew.

But this was not the way in which a future ruler should ride into a Flemish city! There, on his horse, he sat—a small man, too small for these people who liked their men to be large and lusty; too pale for a people who fancied the florid complexion; and worst of all, he did not smile; he stared sternly straight ahead. Maximilian, Charles conjectured, would have thrown kisses to the groups of pretty girls who were watching from the houses and that would have made them his slaves for the rest of their lives; he would have doffed his hat, waved his hand, bowed, smiled on everyone. But instead of that, Philip came on in stately dignity, a solemn Spaniard among the hearty men and women of Flanders.

The Emperor embraced his son with warmth, and he thought: You and I will have much to say, my son. But before I lay my plans before you, I shall have to implore you to discard this solemnity. When a man—and that man hoping to become a ruler here—is in Flanders, he must do as the Flemings do.

How Philip hated the life! How he longed for Spain!

He thought with particular sadness of the house of Doña Isabel with its hangings that were neither rich nor luxurious, but seemed the more beautiful to him because of their simplicity; he remembered her delight in the Flanders carpets he had given her; he longed to stride unceremoniously through the door which opened on to the plazuela, to walk into Isabel’s apartments and pick up the baby, to speak to young Garcia.

He noticed that Charles had aged considerably since they had last met. His florid complexion had become almost sallow, and the rich purple-red color was replaced by a crisscross of veins that showed up startlingly against the yellow pallor; he was less corpulent than he had been and the flesh of his face hung in folds; his hands were swollen with gout and he told Philip that his feet were affected in the same way. He was subject to a form of fever which attacked him now and then; his lips were cracked; his mouth was perpetually dry and there were times when he was so affected by the heat and dryness that he kept a green leaf in his mouth for the sake of its cool moisture.

“But enough of myself!” he cried. “It is of you we must talk, my son.”

“I am at your service, Father,” said Philip.

“The sight of you gives me pleasure. You are a son to be proud of. But you have come from Spain, and here things are different. These people will love you no less than the Spaniards do, but whereas the Spaniards wish you to be a demigod among them, the Flemings wish you to go among them as a man. They would like to know you are loving their women; they will wish to see you riding at the jousts, winning all the trophies. That is the sort of ruler they look for.”

“Then I fear they will not find me to their taste.”

“We’ll make them. We’ll show them at the joust tomorrow. I have ordered a special pavilion to be set up. It will be in your honor, and the great moment will be when you ride into the arena.”

“Is that wise? I was never a good horseman. Even Zuñiga could not make me that.”

“You’ll do well, I know.” He laughed, bringing his face close to Philip’s so that it was possible to smell the mingling odors of garlic and green leaves. “Why, none will dare beat you at the tourneys! They know my orders.”

“Perhaps all the people know of this,” said Philip. “Therefore it may be a waste of time to joust.”

“Ha! You have become a cynic. No! I want the people to see you triumph over all. You must do that, Philip. You know how my brother Ferdinand plagues me; and there is Maximilian to consider. There is one thing which you must understand: No matter what arrangements I am able to make for you, it is these people who will choose their ruler.”

“Then I do not think they will choose me.”

“They will. We’ll make them. You were rather formal during your entry, but you will learn to smile and joke, eat, drink, and make love to the women. You should have a mistress without delay. That will be expected of you.” Charles burst into hearty laughter so that some of the green juice ran down his beard. “You look not too pleased at the prospect.”

“Such matters should surely come about naturally.”

“Well, ’twill not be difficult, I am sure. The women are handsome here; and how long is it since you were a husband? Oh, I know of that very sober relationship with Isabel Osorio. Very creditable. But that is in Spain. Yes; you must have a mistress without delay.”

More than ever Philip was longing for home as he watched his father’s expression, which was one of affection mingling with approval and not a little exasperation.

“And there is one other problem of great moment which we must discuss,” went on Charles. “You have been a widower too long. You must have a wife.”

Philip’s Aunt Eleonore craved audience with him.

He felt bruised and humiliated. In the tourney he had not shone. Charles had evidently not given his instructions clearly enough and Philip did not break even one lance. The people had been silent, and it was clear that they did not think very highly of their Prince.

He was homesick and weary. He hated their rough horseplay, their practical jokes, their loud laughter, their preoccupation with eating, drinking, and amorous adventure.

His father was undoubtedly one of them; he saw that now. And he, Philip, was a Prince of Spain, and would never be anything else.

Eleonore had perhaps come to commiserate, for she was a kindly woman. She had been good to the little sons of Francis the First when they had been prisoners in Spain, and they had grown to love her; but that was a long time ago now. The elder of those boys was now dead; he had died, it was said, through drinking from the cup brought to him by his Italian cupbearer who was in the service of the Italian woman, now Queen of France; the second of those boys was himself King of France, with that Catherine de Medici as his Queen who, many Frenchmen believed, had been responsible for the death of the King’s elder brother.

Eleonore had been at today’s tourney and she would have witnessed his humiliation. It was always to women that Philip turned for compassion—to Leonor, to Maria Manoela, to Isabel, and now … perhaps to Eleonore.

She knelt before him.

“Have I your Highness’s permission to speak frankly?”

“You have, dear Aunt.”

He would have liked to embrace her, but he could not bring himself to do so. He could only sit straight in his chair, bid her rise, bid her be seated; and even while he longed for her compassion he could not behave otherwise than as the Prince of Spain.

“I wish to speak to you of my daughter.”

“The Princess of Portugal,” said Philip; and he felt excited, for Eleonore’s daughter was the aunt of Maria Manoela.

“She is a charming girl,” went on Eleonore, “and I am sure you would love her. She has already heard of you and talks of nothing else, so I hear. There would be a good dowry with her, and I doubt not that if you approved the match, the Emperor would also.”

“Maria …” He spoke the name so quietly that she scarcely heard. He was living it all again, seeing her ride into Spain with her Castilian cape about her shoulders, raising her frightened eyes to his—Maria Manoela who had gone and in her place had left him Carlos.

He rose and walked about the room, for he did not want his aunt to see his emotion. At length he stopped and looked at her.

“Have you spoken of the marriage to the Emperor?”

“No, your Highness; but I doubt not its possibilities have occurred to him.”

“I will consider them,” he said; and he bowed his head in a manner which told her the interview was at an end. She accepted dismissal and left him alone with his thoughts.

It seemed to Philip that life was ironical. He was required to have a wife; and he would, of course. When had he ever failed to do what was expected of him? It was almost as though he had reverted to his youth when his father had said to him: “Jeanne of Navarre is divorced from that fool of Clèves. What think you of taking her for a wife?”

He had thought of it. He remembered afresh his feelings for her. He recalled how she had gone to the Cathedral to present her protests to the bishops, how she had defied her mother and King Francis. At that time he had delighted in her bravery; now he saw her conduct in a different light. Such a flouter of authority was not a fit wife for him.

His Uncle Ferdinand was impressing on the Emperor that his, Ferdinand’s, daughter would make a suitable Queen of Spain. Ferdinand would be ready to make concessions regarding this complicated matter of settling the inheritance if, now that his son had married the Emperor’s daughter, the Emperor’s son Philip married his daughter.

Philip wanted neither Ferdinand’s daughter nor Jeanne of Navarre. Maria of Portugal roused memories, but he longed for the peace of Isabel’s home and his own children playing at his feet.

His thoughts were uneasy. He knew that soon he must take a wife, and he wanted none of them—not Maria who might bring too poignant memories of Maria Manoela, not Jeanne of Navarre, that strong-willed young woman, nor Ferdinand’s daughter, a union with whom would make the settlement so much easier. He wanted none of these women; he wanted only Isabel, whom he thought of as his wife.

He was melancholy, longing for home.

But, being Philip, he did his duty. He tilted in the tourneys; he accepted the prize as victor, although he disliked doing so, knowing that his victory had been arranged. The spectators knew it too; he was aware of their cynical glances.

He knew they whispered about him. “The solemn Spaniard was never able to break a lance in even combat. Lances have to be made soft when set against him, that he may wear the victor’s crown.”

The Emperor was uneasy, but he was too wise to arrange more jousts and tourneys with more faked victories for Philip.

In spite of his exasperation, he was full of affection for his son. Philip’s grasp of statecraft was as sure as ever; he was never brilliant, but always intelligent. While he had a plan to follow he would plod steadily on, but if he had to make a decision, as surely every leader must, he would take so long to reach it that valuable opportunities were lost. No flashing genius this, but what admirable determination, what power of control, what steady, plodding virtue. When he contemplated Philip, Charles was reminded of François Premier merely by the wide gulf between the two. François had been witty and brilliant, but where had that led him? Once it had taken him to Pavia; and some said that his love of pleasure had driven him earlier to his grave than he might otherwise have gone. And Henri Deux, the son of François, who now ruled France, was another such as Philip—slow, steady, almost completely faithful to his mistress, Diane de Poitiers. Henri was not unlike Philip, and he was proving that he could successfully rule a kingdom. It might be that there was no need to worry about Philip; but Philip must please these foreigners; Philip might rule Spain as well as Henri ruled France, but Philip had an additional task; he must ingratiate himself with strangers if he was to succeed to the position held by Charles.

Every day father and son spent hours together. Every lesson of government and statecraft which the Emperor had learned at great cost and bitter experience, he passed on to Philip, and Philip absorbed this instruction with that thoroughness which was a part of his nature.

There were family gatherings, with Mary of Hungary giving her views. Eleonore was trying hard to bring about a match between her daughter and Philip. There were festivities and entertainments, and always Charles was trying to show the Flemings that his son was becoming more and more like them. He selected the most comely women for his son’s approval, but while the Emperor was able to make his choice with the greatest ease, Philip hesitated.

There were titters in the court, and in the quietness of private apartments there was much bawdy chatter concerning the Prince of Spain.

This would not do, the Emperor decided. He knew that if he were to declare his son to be the future Emperor, the people of Brussels at least would rise against the judgment.

In desperation, Charles sent for a certain woman whom he knew well. She was by no means virtuous, but of what use to Philip at this stage was a virtuous woman! She was beautiful and there was about her a childishness combined with a motherliness which was very appealing. The Emperor looked at her with some regret as he gave her his instructions, for he would have liked her for himself.

To this lady he said: “The Prince is a strange man. Few understand him. He seems cold, and so he is; but there is passion somewhere within him. His religion has kindled it; so could a woman. He loved his wife but she died. Appeal to his chivalry. He has plenty to spare for ladies in distress, and I doubt not that before long you will be his mistress.”

She turned her beautiful face to the Emperor and smiled. “Your Imperial Highness need have no fears. I will do this.”

“Fears!” cried the Emperor. “I have no fears, dear lady. I have only regrets.”

And so Philip had a Flemish mistress.

Strangely enough, he was in love, but this love was quite different from the emotion he had felt for Maria Manoela; nor was it in the least like the steady affection he had shared with Isabel. This was an intoxication, an introduction to the delights of the flesh such as he had never known existed. His new mistress was expert in the ways of love, and under her tuition Philip was slowly changing. There was, he discovered, a voluptuous side to his nature. He saw no reason why he should not indulge it since his father approved. Charles had said: “My son, you are becoming a man of the world, and that is a good thing to be.”

But Philip was no lecherous philanderer; he was faithful to his mistress, and when she had his child he was as delighted as he had been at the birth of Isabel’s children.

Meanwhile eighteen months had passed, and the Emperor had shown no inclination to part with him. There were continual negotiations, not only with regard to Philip’s marriage, but also with the division of the family inheritance.

At length it was decided that Charles’s brother Ferdinand should succeed Charles as Emperor, but, on the death of Ferdinand, Philip should be given the Imperial crown. Maximilian, Ferdinand’s son, should act as Regent in Austria while Philip governed Spain, although Philip was to remain supreme over the Italian States.

“It is not what I would have wished for you,” said Charles when he and Philip were alone together, “but it is the best we can get; and now, my son, it might be well if you returned to Spain, for you must not overlong neglect your Spanish subjects. There is one matter which all wish to see settled. Have you decided who your wife shall be?”

Charles looked up with some amusement at his son’s face. Philip could never make up his mind quickly.

At length he spoke: “I think … Maria of Portugal.”

“Wisely chosen!” cried Charles. “There is a big dowry there. I should dispatch Ruy Gomez da Silva into Portugal to discuss matters. Let us hope her brother, King John, will be as liberal with his sister’s dowry as he was with that of his daughter, your little Maria Manoela, whose dowry stood us in such good stead. Then after the Augsburg Diet is concluded you can start your journey back to Spain. It will not do to let Master Max rule too long in your stead.”

“No, Father.”

“I shall be very sorry to see you go. And I know at least one other who will be heart-broken. It was a pleasant little friendship, was it not? She has changed you. I envy your youth. Don’t forget, my son, to take your pleasures. You have responsibilities and anxieties before you. Leaven them with pleasure, as I have always done.”

Charles sighed and looked sadly at his gouty feet. He spat out the leaf he had been holding in his mouth and took a fresh one.

He was thinking that he himself had been rejuvenated by this change in Philip.

And in that mood they went to Augsburg for the Diet.

The days passed quickly in Augsburg, for Charles as well as for Philip. There were state matters to attend to every day; there were the Fiefs of the Empire to be received. Charles had at last settled affairs with his brother, and although neither was entirely satisfied, they both realized that they had come as near to satisfaction as could be expected.

Reviewing the last years, Charles considered he had good cause for satisfaction. His son Philip was a young man of whom he could be proud. Very soon he would be able to leave the responsibility of government in the hands of that worthy young man. It was folly to have wished for a gayer son. Yet how pleased he would have been to have begotten a son who combined Philip’s excellent qualities with charm, gaiety, and that bold manliness which the Flemings demanded of a leader.

Charles was in this meditative mood, sitting at his palace window, when he saw a beautiful girl below. Her fair thick hair was coiled about her head, and her costume proclaimed her to be a burgher’s daughter.

He watched her, wistfully admiring her youth. He could see the shape of her strong, firm legs and thighs beneath her skirts; her profile was clear-cut, and she walked with a modest unawareness of her beauty.

He wondered about her, and he could not dismiss thoughts of her from his mind. He forgot to put a fresh green leaf into his mouth, and indeed the fever had abated considerably. He had not felt so well for years, and the sight of the blonde girl, and perhaps the thoughts of a perfect son, had made him feel almost a young man again.

He saw the girl again on another occasion and he, keeping watch for her, discovered that she walked past the palace every day. He played with the idea (so beloved of kings) of walking through the streets disguised, of making her acquaintance, and, temporarily setting aside his imperial dignity, wooing her as a nobleman.

But Charles was a realist. He was nearly fifty; the girl could not be any more than twenty. How could an aging man, with cracked lips, with gout and fever, disguise himself as a young lover?

No, he thought; I cannot cast off my imperial dignity, for what else have I to attract a beautiful young girl?

So, being unable to play the old game of masque and disguise, he sent for her.

She came, shy and trembling, and her beauty together with her youth delighted him. She was afraid, he had been told, that she or her father or some member of her family had committed an offense of some kind.

He waved away all his attendants and spoke to her very gently.

“Do not be afraid. You have committed no crime, nor has your father, unless it is a crime to be beautiful or to beget a beautiful daughter. I have watched you passing in the streets, and it gave me great pleasure to know that you were one of my subjects.”

The girl was so frightened that she could not speak.

“Tell me your name,” he said. “Here! Sit on this stool … close to me that I may see you better. Now … what do they call you?”

“Barbara,” she whispered. “Barbara Blomberg.”

“Then I shall call you Barbara, my Flemish maid.”

She did not speak, and he went on: “I thought to come to woo you disguised as a nobleman. Then I realized that I was too old to play such games, so I sent for you as your Emperor, because I knew that there would be little in your sight to distinguish me from others apart from my Imperial crown, my palace, my servants.”

He did not make love to her then. He felt unusually abashed, longing above all things that she should come to him willingly.

The burgher’s young daughter had seen the mighty Emperor on other occasions; she had seen him surrounded by Imperial pomp. She had never in all her life imagined a humble Emperor.

And in a short while Charles—fifty, gouty, fever-racked—found that his wayward interest had grown to love, and he loved this girl with a passion he had never felt before, even in his youth. As for Barbara Blomberg, she was at first moved by the imperial humility, and eventually her feelings changed to love of him.

The Emperor, feeling young again, was eagerly devouring the fruit of passion’s burgeoning. He was happy during those days in Augsburg when Barbara Blomberg became his mistress; and before Philip left for Spain it was beyond doubt that she was to have a child.

The Emperor was delighted. He believed that his child would be a son and that he would combine the staid virtues of Philip with the beauty of his mother.

Those were charmed days for the Emperor; and meanwhile Philip made his way back to Spain.

The Indian summer of the Emperor’s life had changed abruptly to autumn, and he felt that winter was not far off. Gout and fever troubled him once more. He could no longer enjoy to the full his life with Barbara. A child was born; he was a bonny child and they called him Juan; he was of promising beauty and intelligence, but Charles realized that he would not live to see his hopes for the boy fulfilled.

The German Princes rose in sudden and unexpected revolt, joining with Henri of France against Charles. The cunning French King persuaded the Italians to turn against the Emperor and, being confronted with war on two fronts and finding he had not the means at his disposal to meet it, Charles saw nothing but disaster and defeat ahead.

He ceased to dally with his beloved mistress; he put himself at the head of his armies, but he was too late, too tired, too old. Defeat followed swiftly, and with it the peace which was dictated by Saxony. The French seized their opportunities and the Duke of Guise decimated Charles’s armies at Metz.

He was beaten and he knew it. He did not see how he could ever regain what he had lost, so heavy was his defeat, so humiliating the peace terms to which he was forced to agree.

With great agony of mind, he knew that he had lost a great deal of what he had hoped Philip would inherit, and it seemed now that his son would be Philip of Spain in very truth.

Was it because he was old that all the fight was going out of him?

He tried to raise money, but the Spaniards were only too glad to see his dominions slipping away from him. They wanted their King to be King of Spain, to stay with his people, to develop Spain from within. Charles could see little security in what was left of his Empire; he could only see a future given over to continual wars.

Often he thought of days and nights spent in Augsburg, of the child who was to be all that he had longed for in a son, of the Flemish girl who had been all that he had hoped for in a mistress.

“But,” he ruminated sadly, “Fortune is a strumpet who reserves her favors for the young.”

And so tired was he, so filled with pains, that he longed not so much for Barbara Blomberg as for the quiet of some monastery where he might relinquish responsibility and repent his sins, thereby resigning his interest in this world in his contemplation of the next.

Back in Spain, Philip resumed his relationship with Isabel. He confessed his infidelity; not that he felt it incumbent upon himself to do so, but because it seemed to him that Isabel would rather hear of it from him than from others; and there would certainly be others to pass on news of the Prince’s love affair in Brussels.

Although he was as kind and considerate as ever, Isabel noticed the change in him. His liaison with his Flemish mistress had broken down his previous reserve. The court began to whisper the name of Doña Catherine Lenez—a very beautiful woman of noble birth—in connection with Philip.

It was considered natural for a prince to have at least two mistresses. There was Isabel to provide the quiet, homey atmosphere which a wife of some years’ standing might give, and there was Catherine to supply more erotic entertainment.

Throughout Spain there was rejoicing in Philip’s return. Wherever he went people lined the streets to cheer him. News was bad from abroad. Let it be. The Prince was home.

And Philip continued to do what was expected of him. He summoned the Castilian Cortes in Madrid and asked for supplies which were so urgently required by his father. He pushed forward with negotiations which would bring him Maria of Portugal and her dowry. Philip was sorry to lose his beloved friend, Ruy Gomez da Silva, but he knew that Ruy with his suave diplomacy could lure more money from the coffers of King John of Portugal than anyone else could. So to Portugal went Ruy, and Philip prepared to receive his bride as soon as negotiations were brought to a conclusion.

But it seemed that King John was not prepared to be generous, and arrangements were delayed.

Philip was twenty-six; he had had a wife, and now he had two mistresses who completely satisfied him. For himself he did not need a wife. But he must not forget that although he had given his country an heir, that heir was Don Carlos.

Carlos was in the schoolroom; he was sprawling over the table, but he was not listening to his tutor. The tutor was afraid of him, as Carlos was beginning to realize most people were. They were not so much afraid that he would attack their persons—which he would do if the mood took him—but that he would attack their dignity. They did not know how to act when the Prince Don Carlos threw a boot at them. That made Carlos laugh so much that he would cry. To see them standing respectful, full of dignity, and then being forced suddenly to dodge in order to avoid a missile was, thought Carlos, the funniest thing imaginable.

They had taken his beloved Juana from him and married her to the Prince of Portugal. She had wept bitterly when she had gone, and she had told Carlos that she would continually think of him.

There had been only one matter which gave him pleasure at that time: his father was away from Spain. He had stayed for months which had grown to years, so that Carlos had forgotten what he looked like and remembered only that he hated him.

Maximilian and Maria hardly ever saw him; he was shut away from them because they were too busy to be bothered with him. Carlos alternated between bouts of anger and self-pity.

“Nobody loves the little one,” he would say to himself, although he was not so little now. “Nobody loves el niño.”

He was afraid of his Governor, Don Garcia de Toledo, who was the brother of the mighty Duke of Alba. Don Garcia would stride into the apartment and everyone would bow low as though he were the Emperor himself. Carlos would watch him from under lowered brows, his lip jutting out, his eyes sullen. One of these days he would put Don Garcia to the test; he would throw something at him; he would arrange a trap, something over the door to fall upon him and spoil his magnificent doublet, splash his white kid breeches; or perhaps he would put something on the floor so that Don Garcia slipped and turned head over heels. Then Carlos would see what became of his dignity.

For all these mighty dons must remember that Carlos was a prince of Spain and that one day he would be their King; and when that day came he would have their throats cut if they displeased him—not deeply, but just lightly, so that he could watch them bleed to death as he did the rabbits he caught.

At the moment, though, he was not ready. He planned these tricks he would play on Don Garcia, but when the nobleman appeared he would seem so much bigger than the man Carlos had imagined, so much more powerful; and the young Prince had to content himself with plotting for the future.

In the meantime he was helpless. He must leave his bed at seven to attend Mass, and after eating he must go to the schoolroom until eleven, when it was time for dinner. After dinner he must go out of doors into the courtyards, and sons of noblemen were sent to fence with him or play games. He would have liked to fence without foils; he would have liked to run a sharp sword through his opponent’s body. They were too quick for him. It seemed that all the boys with whom he played were stronger than he was, bigger than he was; they did not limp as he did; they could run fast and were never breathless.

He had cried to his tutors: “Let little boys be sent.” Little boys, he thought, whose arms he could twist until they screamed; little boys who did not know the tricks which would enable them to escape his sword, who did not beat him at billiards and quoits.

Don Garcia had said gravely: “Only those worthy to share your Highness’s leisure hours may be sent to you.”

“Why? Why?” demanded Carlos.

“Because those are the orders of his royal Highness, your father.”

His father was the source of all his misery. Well, there was one thing his father did not know. It was this: Whenever Carlos killed a rabbit or a dog, it was of his father that he thought. It was because of his father that he enjoyed taking a mole or a mouse in his hands and slowly squeezing it until it died, because then he imagined that it was his father’s neck which his fingers were pressing, just as he imagined that the blood which flowed was his father’s.

Hatred for his father was the greatest emotion in his life.

Everybody disliked Carlos; he was wise enough to know that. The only one who had loved him was Juana, and they had taken her away from him. She had cried so sadly when she went away. “Little one,” she had said, “if only I could stay with you!” He had put his arms about her neck, had let his hands rest on her soft skin, and although that well-known thrill had crept over him and part of him had wanted to press and squeeze as it did when he touched soft things, the other part of him had only wanted to stroke and caress, for he loved Juana because she was the only one who loved him.

“Little one will kill those who take you away from him,” he had snarled.

“It is no one’s fault, Carlos.”

“It is Prince Philip’s fault.”

“No … no.”

“Everything is his fault.”

He was sure of it; and everyone loved Philip, while only Juana loved Carlos. Carlos wanted so much to be loved. When he was King, he often told himself, he would have everyone killed who did not love him. But in the meantime he was merely a prince, a very young prince, who must perform all the irksome tasks which were set him.

Now that his father had returned to Spain there were more tasks. His father had found the bodies of rabbits in the schoolroom and had demanded to know who had put them there. The result of those inquiries was that Carlos was brought before his father.

“Why do you do such things?” asked Philip sadly.

“Little one does not know.”

“Please speak of yourself as a grown-up person. You are no longer a baby.”

Carlos was afraid because of the coldness of those pale eyes. Fiery anger he understood, but not cold anger.

He stammered: “I do not know.”

“You must know. Why do you take defenseless creatures and kill them without reason?”

Carlos was silent.

“These bad habits must cease,” went on Philip. “You are old enough now to come to some understanding of what your duties will one day be. Instead of occupying yourself with ill-treating defenseless animals, I wish you to develop a taste for reading. Nothing can improve your mind more than that. Understand that is what I expect of you, and if I hear further bad reports of your conduct I shall have to take measures which will not please you.”

Philip dismissed Carlos then; and never, felt the boy, had he hated him so much. He fled to his own apartments, flung himself on to the cushions which were on the floor and, in a rage, began to bite them, tearing the velvet so that soon the down was escaping and floating about him like a snowstorm.

One day, he promised himself, Little One will kill his father.

His tutor came in and found him in a state of emotional exhaustion.

“You shall have a soothing drink, Highness, and after a rest you will feel better.”

And while the tutor took the trembling body of his young master and helped him to his feet, he was wondering if he might ask to be excused the great honor of tutoring the heir. His duties were becoming more and more irksome, and he guessed that one day they would be more than irksome; they would be dangerous.

It was not long before Carlos was lashing himself to fresh fury and, as he did so, a cobbler arrived with a pair of shoes the Prince had ordered.

Carlos was glad to tear himself away from the fierce passion which beset him. “Send the cobbler in,” he commanded. “He brings the new shoes and Little One wishes to try them on.”

Carlos glowered at the cobbler because he was young and handsome. The cobbler knelt and held out the shoes, which were beautifully wrought. He was obviously proud of his work.

“Your royal Highness will see that I have carried out your instructions in every detail. Might your royal Highness like to try them on to assure yourself that the fit is as perfect as I know it to be?”

Carlos sat imperiously in his chair, ordering one of his attendants to kneel and take off his shoes. This was done, and the shoes were put on his feet.

Carlos rose. The cobbler watched in delight. But Carlos was determined to be angry. He could not forget the recent scene with his father. Hatred filled his heart—hatred for his father. Yet he dared not show that hatred. He had enough sense to know that he could not pit his puny strength against that of the calm, solemn man who had the whole of Spain behind him. Yet Carlos would be revenged on someone. He looked at the smiling face of the cobbler.

“They are ill-made!” he shrieked. “They do not fit. You have made them badly on purpose to provoke Don Carlos, and Don Carlos will not be provoked. Scoundrel! How dare you stand there smiling, so pleased, when you have caused the shoes of his royal Highness Don Carlos to pinch him?”

“Your Highness, is it so? Doubtless we can remedy the slight fault. Mayhap the shoes which were copied were a little too small for your royal Highness. The fault shall be rectified.”

“The fault shall indeed be rectified!” cried Carlos, his eyes flashing. “You … standing there … seize this man. Do you hear? Do you stand there refusing to obey Don Carlos!”

Two attendants came forward and took the bewildered cobbler uncertainly by the arms. “What … is your Highness’s pleasure?”

“Your Highness will tell you. Take him. But first let him pick up his shoes … his odious shoes … which he has made too small in order to hurt his Prince.”

“I assure your Highness …” began the cobbler.

“His Highness does not listen to you. His Highness thinks how he will punish you. You will soon wish that you had not dared to show your insolence to Don Carlos.”

Carlos broke into loud laughter. He had thought of a wonderful plan, and it amused him; it made him happy; he would be revenged on the insolent cobbler, for how could he be revenged on the one whom he really hated? For the time being the cobbler could take Philip’s place.

“March this man down to the kitchens. At once. Do not stand gaping there, or Don Carlos will have you whipped. He’ll have you whipped until the blood runs.” Carlos paused to contemplate that. Blood! He liked that. For a moment he forgot his amusing plans for the cobbler. Then he remembered and once more he shook with laughter.

“To the kitchens … your Highness?”

“You heard Don Carlos. At once. Now … march! You come too. And you … and you … and you. You will see how Don Carlos treats those who are insolent to him.”

Perturbed, they marched down to the kitchens, hoping that some person of authority would see them and have the cause of such strange conduct investigated.

In the kitchens below the great hall of the palace the cooks were busy. Joints of meat were turning on spits and a great cauldron over a wood fire was sending off savory steam.

The cobbler was now sweating with fear; he had heard of the wild ways of the Prince, but he had not believed he could arouse wrath such as this by presenting him with a pair of beautiful shoes.

Carlos called to the cooks: “Here! Here! Come here, you cooks. Stand there before Don Carlos. What are you cooking in the cauldron? Take it off and put another on the fire filled with hot water. Now take these shoes. Cut them into pieces.”

The cobbler gasped. In spite of his fear he protested: “Your Highness … such beautiful shoes!”

“Cut them! Cut them! Or do you want me to cut off your head instead? Here are sharp knives. They could cut heads as easily as shoes …” Carlos broke into mad laughter which terrified all those who heard it. “Here … you cook. Cut … Cut … Unless you want to be put in that cauldron and brought to the boil. What a dish that would make, eh! Ha … ha … ha …” His laughter seemed as if it would choke him, and there was not a person in the kitchens who did not hope that it would … choke him to death so that they need never give a thought to the mad schemes of Don Carlos, which might involve any member of the household in pain and disaster.

“Cut the leather into pieces …”

He watched the cook do this while he burst into peal after peal of laughter; and when the shoes were cut to pieces he ordered them to be put into the hot water. He peered into the cauldron of boiling water, while his mad laughter rang through the kitchens.

“This will show,” he cried. “This will teach those who wish to play tricks on Don Carlos that they would be wiser to leave him alone. Now take the leather out of the water. Set Master Cobbler at the table. Give him a platter. Now … set out his dish for him. Set out his shoes. By God and all the saints, Don Carlos swears he shall not leave these kitchens until he has eaten the shoes … every scrap of them.”

“Your Highness …” cried the cobbler.

Carlos lunged at the man with his fists, but the cobbler was strong and the Prince was puny. Carlos wanted to cry with anger because his blows had no effect on the stalwart young man. He was acutely aware of his own weakness, the deformities of his body, the hump on his back which his loose doublet could not quite conceal, his pallid face, his rolling eyes and his loose jaw, of those legs which were not the same length.

He wanted to cry: “Love Don Carlos. Love this little one and he will not hurt you.”

But there was disgust in the cobbler’s eyes, and Don Carlos recognized this. He knew that all the people who watched him despised him, and that if he had not been a prince they would have turned against him; they would have driven him out of the kitchens, out of the palace, sent him into that world where nobody loved him.

So he would revenge himself on all those who were powerless to act against him.

“Eat … Eat. You are commanded to eat.”

The bewildered man put a piece of leather into his mouth. He swallowed and choked. He began to cough and vomit while the Prince roared with glee.

“More! More! Don Carlos will call in the whippers if you do not. They will make you eat.”

And into his mouth the cobbler put another piece of leather. He choked, coughed, and was sick. His face was yellow now—yellower than that of Carlos. He looked ugly in his discomfort, uglier than Carlos. This was what the Prince liked; he was enjoying this. He must have more of such games.

There were still several pieces of leather on the platter, but it was clear that the cobbler would not be able to swallow them. He was writhing now in agony and Carlos was beside himself with mirth, commanding the onlookers to join with him in urging the cobbler to greater efforts.

There they stood, shocked into sullenness. Carlos would show them.

“Laugh! Laugh!” he screamed. “You there … You … cook! If you are sorry for this traitor, you may help him eat his tasty dish.” Carlos laughed until the tears spurted from his eyes and moisture dribbled from his lips, spattering the black velvet of his doublet. Thus he did not immediately see the messenger from his father’s suite who had entered the kitchen.

“Your Highness,” said the messenger. “On the instruction of his most royal Highness, Prince Philip, I ask you to go at once to your apartments.”

Carlos swung around, his face working with fury, the tears of laughter turning to tears of rage. He stammered: “You … you shall eat this. You … you … who dare to order Don Carlos.”

“I do not order your Highness. I but obey orders, the orders of his most royal Highness, Prince Philip.”

“They shall not be obeyed. Don Carlos is the Prince. Don Carlos shall not …”

The cobbler was lying unconscious on the floor; the cooks and kitchen workers stood very still, watching the conflict between the unbalanced Prince and the envoy from his father.

“Your Highness,” said the clear, calm voice, “I beg of you, accompany me. Your father’s guards await you. They will escort you to your apartments. So, I beg of you, let us go.”

Carlos knew that he was powerless. Someone had carried the tale of his sport to his father, and his father had sent men to put him under what was tantamount to arrest.

Even as Carlos hesitated, Philip’s physician came into the kitchens and went to attend to the unconscious man on the floor.

Carlos knew that he was beaten. He was a boy as yet and the whole of Spain was against him.

So, the men about him fell back, and while Philip’s own physician attended to the cobbler, Don Carlos was obliged to walk, most shamefully, out of the kitchens with his father’s messenger; and as he went along the corridors and up staircases to his own apartments, he could hear the steady footsteps of his father’s guards tramping behind him.

Of all the people in the world, Don Carlos hates him most, thought Carlos. One day Don Carlos will kill Don Philip.

So Philip knew that he must marry again; without delay he must have another heir. That young monster called Don Carlos must not be his only offering to Spain. He was about to send dispatches to Ruy Gomez in Portugal, telling him to complete the marriage negotiations as quickly as possible, when news came from the Emperor.

Charles was evidently excited.

“My son,” he wrote, “hold up the negotiations with Portugal. Something is happening in England which must command our close attention. We cannot afford to close our eyes to events in that island. Flanders is ours, but to keep it ours without the might of the Empire behind us will not be an easy matter. There are the French on one side, the Lutheran Princes on the other. The only way in which we can hold Flanders is to make England our ally. That is why we must earnestly consider what is happening there.

“For some years the young King Edward has been ailing. News has reached me that he is dying—some say of poison. By the time this reaches you Edward the Sixth of England will be no more. The Duke of Northumberland will try to put Lady Jane Grey on the throne. Our friends there inform me that this cannot succeed. The English will not have Lady Jane for their Queen; they are a determined people who will choose their own rulers. They are all behind our kinswoman, Mary Tudor, and I doubt not that in a short time the throne will be hers.

“You will readily see that if England and Spain were united in lasting union—and it must be lasting—we need no longer fear the French. With England beside her, the greatest power in the world today—in spite of all we have lost here in Europe—would be Spain.

“You see what I mean? Our kinswoman, Mary Tudor, is unmarried; and you, my beloved son, are unmarried. Philip and Mary could unite Spain and England. Not only would such a marriage restore the power of Spain; it could bring England back to Holy Church.

“Mary would make an excellent wife for you. She is only eleven years your senior; she is of the same stock, being a granddaughter of our own Queen Isabella the Catholic, your great-grandmother. She is a devout Catholic. My son, you are twenty-six years old; you are a man of sound judgment. I do not command you to this marriage, for I know full well that having considered it and seen it to be your duty to Spain, you will not hesitate.”

Philip stopped reading.

Mary Tudor! A woman of thirty-seven, a niece of mad Queen Juana, who was still living her frenzied existence in the Alcázar of Tordesillas.

No; certainly he would not have chosen Mary Tudor.

He would have to go to England—to that dark and dreary island which he had never seen, but of which he had heard much; he would have to spend a long time among a barbarian people whose tongue he could not speak; he would have to marry an aging woman whom he was sure he could never love.

He resumed the reading of his father’s dispatch. “I do not command … for I know full well that having considered it and seen it to be your duty to Spain, you will not hesitate …”

How well his father knew him!

He wanted to cry out against this suggested marriage; but there must be no question of his personal wishes.

He was the slave of his country.