was accustomed to doing exactly what was required of him. He was also afraid that if he did anything unexpected she might turn those wondering eyes upon him and ask what he meant. That would be embarrassing under the solemn eyes of the Duke and Duchess.
The ceremony was long. The little bride was fatigued. The bridegroom saw the sheen of tears in her eyes.
He could not contain his thoughts then. He whispered: “It will not be long now.” He had intended his voice to sound soft and comforting, but instead it seemed harsh. That was due to emotion, but how was she to know that! She would remember that she had heard how stern he was, how he never laughed. She flushed, concluding that in showing her tiredness she had been at fault.
Now she kept her eyes firmly fixed before her, and he knew that she was longing for her home in Lisbon.
After the ceremony was concluded the banquets and the entertainments began.
Would they never be alone? he wondered.
He did have a few words with her, whispered words, for how could he say what was in his heart, with all those people looking on?
“We are cousins,” he said.
“Yes.”
“And now … we are married.”
“Yes.”
She was straining to give the right answers. He is very serious, they had told her. Already, in spite of his youth—he is only a few months older than yourself—he has governed Spain in his father’s absence.
He knew that she was looking for some significance behind his words. How could he say to her, “I want to hear your pretty voice. I want to watch your pretty lips …”?
But there was time. They had the whole of their lives before them.
They danced together in the house of Christobal Juarez.
“The Spanish manner is different from the Portuguese,” he said.
“I … I crave your Highness’s pardon. I … I shall quickly learn the Spanish ways.”
He wanted to say: “Yes … yes. But I like the Portuguese way. I like it because it is yours …”
But he could not say those words, and he wondered whether he would ever be able to tell her what he felt.
But there was time.
He said: “We have all our lives together.”
But again he sensed the fear in her. Did she think even that remark was a reproach?
She was a little less frightened. He had not said all that he had meant to. He was too shy. It was, he had discovered, not possible to guard the feelings for sixteen years and then let them fly freely and naturally. They were like birds that had never learned to fly; and because their wings had been clipped they would never fly high and free.
Haltingly he had made love to her.
“You must not be frightened, Maria Manoela,” he had told her. “It … is expected of us.”
She seemed grateful for his gentleness. But she had expected that. Doubtless she had heard many stories of him. They would have said to her while she cried in her Lisbon home and begged them not to send her to Spain: “He will not be unkind. He is cold and stern, but never violent.”
She was ready to laugh—though not with him. She liked to lie on her couch with her attendants about her, eating sweet-meats while they talked of their home in Lisbon; she liked to watch the dwarfs; she liked to hear the Indian slaves speak in their strange language. Such things amused her.
But when Philip appeared she would be subdued, although she did not shiver when he caressed her, as she had at first. She grew plumper and complacent.
Once he said to her, after he had previously rehearsed the speech: “It is a good thing for a Prince to find that he can love the wife who has been chosen for him.” And she gave him great joy by laughing in her childish way and putting her arms about his neck, saying: “It is even better for a Princess to find that she loves the Prince they have chosen for her.”
Her words and gestures were so delightful that he wished to continue with such a happy conversation.
“Then you love me, Maria Manoela?”
“It is my duty to love you.”
“But apart from the duty?”
She laughed, showing her pretty teeth. “I was so frightened. They said that you did not laugh. And you do not much. But you are so kind to me and … I do not fret for Lisbon now.”
He must remember that she was still a child, even though the difference in their ages was so slight. She had not discussed matters of state with a great Emperor; she had never had to listen to the discourse of generals, archbishops, and statesmen.
He thought of the home in which she must have been the petted daughter. Little petting had come his way— except from Leonor. That was all to the good, for petting did not help a prince or a princess to face what it was necessary to face. What if this little girl had fallen into hands other than his? His cousin Maximilian would have been impatient with her childishness. What would the Emperor, who was so vigorous, have thought of her? Philip thought of the French King who would not bother to hide the mistresses he preferred; he thought of the lusty man in that
