him at last.
As they rode the few miles between Valladolid and Tordesillas, Philip was wondering what effect Juana would have on Carlos. He would have preferred not to have his son accompany him, But how could it be arranged otherwise? Juana was a Queen, if living in retirement, and Carlos was her great-grandson.
Philip said as they came near to Tordesillas: “You will find your great-grandmother unlike other people whom you have known. You must be quiet in her presence and speak only when spoken to. Do not be alarmed by what may seem strange to you. I shall speak with your great-grandmother, and you will stand very still. You will receive her blessing.”
“Yes, Father.”
Was it imagination, thought Philip, or had the boy improved?
“You may hear me speak to your great-grandmother on religious matters,” went on Philip. “She is a little strange and needs guidance.”
“Father, is it true that she has offended the Holy Office?”
“You should not have heard such things. None has any right to say such things of a Queen.”
“But even Kings and Queens should not offend the Inquisition, should they, Father?”
“My son, one day, I hope, you will support the Inquisition with all your might … as I intend to do.”
Carlos seemed almost reverent. He was thinking of the torture chambers below the prisons of the Inquisition, where the walls were lined with heavy, quilted material so that the cries of the sufferers might be deadened. Carlos thought of blood and pain, but with less excitement than usual.
A few candles were burning, but they gave little light to such a vast room and the effect was one of gloom. On the floor food lay about in dishes on which flies had settled. The air seemed to hold the smell of decay.
Carlos thought it was a very strange room, and as his eyes grew accustomed to the dim light he became aware of the woman in the chair, and she was stranger than anything else in that room. She sat on a chair with ornate arms; she looked like a witch. Her mouth was toothless; her gown was tattered and splashed with food; her hair hung loose about her shoulders; her long thin hands lay on her lap, showing uncared-for nails, black and overgrown.
So this was Juana, the Queen, who might now be Queen of Spain had it not been decided that she was mad, and that it was best for her to live out her crazy life in solitude.
Carlos was filled with horror that held something of fascination.
Members of Philip’s entourage had followed him and Carlos into the apartment; they stopped at a respectful distance.
Carlos felt his father’s hand on his shoulder, forcing him to his knees. Obediently he knelt before the Queen in the chair.
Philip, conquering his repulsion, took Juana’s hand and kissed it.
“Your Highness,” he said, “I have brought your great-grandson to pay you homage and receive your blessing.”
“Who is that?” asked Juana, her eyes growing suddenly wilder yet alert. “Carlos! Where is Carlos?”
“Here, at your Highness’s feet.” Philip took one of the dirty hands and laid it on Carlos’s head.
“Carlos,” she muttered, leaning forward. Her hair fell over her face and she peered through it as though it were a curtain. “Carlos. Carlos. That’s not my Carlos. That’s not Caesar … ruling the world.”
“Not your son,” said Philip. “But my son. Your grandson’s son. You are thinking of my father, the Emperor.”
“Ah!” The eyes were cunning. “You are trying to deceive me. You bring him here … as Esau was brought to Isaac. I know. I know.”
“Give him your blessing, I beg of you, Grandmother.”
Carlos then lifted wondering eyes to her face. She laughed, and Philip was reminded of the laughter of Carlos. There was the same wild abandonment which he had heard his son display.
But the old woman was looking at Carlos, and she seemed to sense some bond between herself and the boy. “Bless you,” she said quietly. “May God and the saints preserve you … give you long life, little Carlos, great happiness and many to love you.”
“To your feet, my son,” commanded Philip. “Kiss your great-grandmother’s hand and thank her for her blessing.”
Carlos, still as though under a spell, obeyed. The woman and the boy kept their eyes fixed on each other; then slowly tears began to flow down Juana’s cheeks, making furrows through the dirt on her skin. This was comforting to Carlos, but to Philip quite horrible. He signed to one of his attendants.
“Escort Don Carlos to his apartments,” he said. “And leave me alone with the Queen and Father Borgia.”
Carlos was led out of the room, and Philip was alone with the priest and his grandmother.
“Grandmother,” said Philip, “I have heard sad stories of your state. I understand that you have once more spoken against Holy Church. Grandmother, cannot you see the folly of this?”
She shook her head, mumbling to herself: “We should not be forced to perform religious rites … We should worship as we please. I do not like these ceremonies … and if I do not like them I will not perform them … nor have them performed in my presence.”
“Grandmother, such words are in direct defiance of the Holy Inquisition itself.”
