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

His face puckered again. “But there will be a war … They will keep her from me.”

“There is no war, and as arrangements stand she will come to you in good time.”

“My father will never let her. He hates me. He hates me to be happy. It has always been so.”

“It is the bad mood that makes you think that. Your father will be glad of the link with France. Your father tries to make peace. That is why he arranged this marriage. Look at her picture again. There! You are right, Carlos. She is beautiful. And your own age too. That is charming.”

He was sobbing as he took the locket in his hands, and his tears fell on to it; but the sight of it calmed him, as it always did.

“I fear my father will not let me have this happiness.”

“Of a surety he will. He wants to see you happy, Carlos. He is pleased because we can truthfully tell him how much you try to be worthy of your bride.”

“I am learning now. I am trying to be clever.”

“And you are praying, Carlos?”

“Each day, each night. I pray that her coming will not be long delayed. Do you think the saints will intercede for me?”

“If it is good for you, they will.”

He stamped his foot. “Will they? Will they? It is good. I know it is good. She makes me good … because I learn my lessons. I am calm because I want her to love me.”

“Only they know if it is good for you, Carlos.”

“I know. I know!” cried Carlos.

“You must learn, dearest nephew. Something which is bad may happen, but that may be for our good. Those on high know best what is good for us.”

“If they do not let her come, I … I …” She flashed a glance of horror at him, for blasphemy terrified her. But he went on: “I shall hate all who keep her from me. Hate … hate …”

She had crossed herself and fallen to her knees, lifting her hands toward the ceiling. Her hood fell open, showing a face so strange that for a moment Carlos was silent.

He watched her moving lips; he listened to her words. She was praying for him; and something in the expression of her face filled him with sudden fear. He looked over his shoulder furtively. There were times when his Aunt Juana made him feel that, although the room was empty, they were not alone.

He began to whimper: “I pray every night, Juana. I only want to have her here … to love her …”

Juana rose from her knees. “If God wishes it, it will come to pass,” she said.

With trembling hands, he took the locket and looked at the picture. “Elisabeth,” he said. “I love your name, but it is hard to say it. It is French, is it not? Here we say Isabella. I shall call you Isabella. Isabella … little Isabella … are you praying that you will soon come to Spain?”

In the Old Palace of Brussels, the royal widower sat alone in deep concentration.

He had felt nothing but relief during the last few weeks. He knew that he could not continue in that state, for there was great work to be done, and his position as monarch was not made easier by the death of his wife; it was only the husband who had escaped from a particularly irksome situation.

On the table before him documents were neatly arranged; he could not endure untidiness, as all his secretaries knew. He was dressed this day in the plainest of black velvet garments; he might have been mistaken for one of his own secretaries but for his quiet dignity and that excessive cleanliness—so rare, even among Spaniards—which was accentuated by the pallor of his skin.

He had furnished this room in accordance with his own tastes, and they did not please the people of Brussels; he knew this, but he did not care. These people were going to need a firm hand. Already they were turning against him. He was appalled by the increasing number of heretics, and was planning harsh action against them; as soon as possible he would consult Alba, that fiery Catholic, and doubtless he would set him up as Governor of this land, with the Holy Inquisition to work with him.

Philip looked at the silver crucifix on the wall. There had been too little devotion to God in his father’s day. Charles’s bonhomie and his love of fleshy delights had pleased the people. But Philip believed that a ruler’s first duty was toward God, and if he jeopardized a hundred crowns in God’s service then must he count himself blessed to lose them all, if that was God’s will.

Philip remembered with shame that outburst of sensuality which had followed his departure from England. He remembered also the terrible sight of St. Quentin.

He had already found the site for his monastery. It was to be built on the unfertile Guadarrama steppes; there he would build his Palace of the Escorial, a home for a hermit king, a monastery where he could live a life of prayer and devotion while he ruled the world and brought it, through the blood and fire of the Inquisition, to the truth.

His cold eyes were suddenly like hot blue flames when he thought of the future; and as he sat there at the table, immersed in the relief of his escape from Mary Tudor, he vowed that he would wipe heresy from the world, that he would rule it in his own way, not that of his father, and he would dedicate himself in the future, not to ambition, not to love of power, but to the service of God. He saw himself as God’s vicar on Earth, the junior commander in the battle against the Devil.

Meanwhile, he must turn his attention to affairs of the world, and with the death of Mary and the accession of Elizabeth, England gave him much to think of.

He took up the dispatch Feria had sent from the English court. Feria was the most suitable ambassador at this time, for Feria was one of the handsomest of men, and the new Queen was very fond of handsome men; Feria was well versed in the art of flattery, and the new Queen was the vainest woman on Earth; moreover, Feria spoke fluent English and was affianced to Jane Dormer, so that he possessed many qualities which would enable him to fill the post satisfactorily.

But Feria was made uneasy by the new Queen.