Her wild laughter had brought two men-at-arms to the door of the apartment. They stood motionless. The life of the heir and his wife must not be jeopardized, and Mad Juana, though so old, was strong when the moods of violence were upon her.
“What do you do there?” she called.
The men bowed. One of them said: “We thought we heard your Highness call.”
Philip said quickly: “Stay there. Her Majesty was about to give us her blessing.” He turned to Maria Manoela. “Come. Kneel,” he said firmly.
They knelt, and it seemed that something in the calm manner of young Philip soothed the old woman.
“My blessing on you both,” she said, laying her hands on their heads. “Philip … my blessing on you. May this child be fruitful … and bear many sons as handsome as
Maria Manoela was gripping Philip’s hand. He gave her a quick look of reassurance. “Rise now,” he whispered.
Juana was speaking quietly now. “As handsome as my Philip,” she repeated. “He put me away that he might spend more time with his women. If this Philip treats you thus … come to me, child. Come to me. I will teach you how to deal with harlots …”
“We thank you for your blessing, Grandmother,” said Philip. “We will now depart.”
“First you shall hear music,” she cried. She waved a hand to the men at the door. “You … slave … bring in the musicians. Let them play merry tunes for the Prince and the Princess.”
She insisted that the young pair sit on stools beside her while the musicians played. Juana sat dreamily tapping her fingers on the arms of her chair. She would have music which had been played when she was young and first married to her handsome Philip, in the days when she was a highly-strung girl, before she had gone violently mad through her love for the husband who had been chosen for her, through her jealousy of his many mistresses.
She called to Maria Manoela to come closer. She called her “Katharine!” She pointed out the dancers in that room in which none danced. Once she tottered to her feet. “I will kill her. Yes … you … No use hiding there in the hangings. I can see you. I will plunge a knife into those thick white thighs. When they are stained with blood, mayhap he will turn shuddering from them … perhaps when you are lying lifeless with your silly eyes staring at death and your red mouth gaping, he will turn shuddering from you and come to his lawful wife …”
The musicians played on. They were accustomed to such scenes.
Philip’s eyes met those of Maria Manoela. Please … please … said hers. Could we not go? I can bear no more.
Then Philip remembered that he was the Regent of Spain in the absence of his father, and, standing up, he imperiously waved to the musicians to stop. They obeyed at once.
“We must leave you now, Grandmother,” he said.
“Nay,” she cried. “Nay …”
But all his cold haughtiness was with him now. “I fear so. Our thanks for the entertainment and your blessing. We will come again before long. Come, Maria Manoela.”
The girl rose hastily and stood beside him. He was aware, amid all the strangeness, that she stood as close to him as she could. Philip took Maria Manoela’s hand in his.
Juana said piteously: “Have I said too much, then? … Have I said wild things? … Have I talked of love and lust, then? It reminded me … A young bride and her groom. I was a young bride once with a groom … the handsomest in the world …”
“We shall meet again soon,” said Philip firmly, and he walked purposefully toward the door.
Juana called after them: “So you would leave me, eh? You would go to your women. ’Twill not always be thus. You have lost your limp, Philip. You have grown young and I am old … old. Life is cruel to women …”
They heard her shrieking laughter as they went through the corridors.
The sentries and the guards bowed low before them; and in the courtyard the young pair mounted their mules, and their attendants gathered about them as they rode back to Valladolid.
Philip never forgot the night that followed. Maria Manoela had a nightmare and awoke in terror, crying out that Mad Juana was hiding behind the tapestry and that she was about to set fire to it.
Philip comforted her.
“Nothing can harm you while I am here,” he said. She clung to him, forgetting her fear of him in her fear of the shadows.
She put her plump arms about his neck and said: “Do not let me see her again. She frightens me so.”
Philip found joy in comforting her, speaking to her with more tenderness than he had ever before been able to show.
“Nothing shall ever frighten you again, my little one. Philip is here … here to protect you.”
And that night their child was conceived.
Leonor cosseted the mother-to-be, making her lie down for hours during the day, which Maria Manoela was quite happy to do.
The young husband was alternately proud and fearful, though he allowed none to guess how proud, how fearful. He thought of Maria Manoela continually, longing for her to be safely delivered as he had never longed for anything else.
