more fortunate than in her first, for now she was a woman and her new husband, Ottavio Farnese, was only twelve years old. The union was naturally not a very happy one, although it brought Margaret her son Alexander. Charles, aware of her capabilities and that character which was more masculine than feminine, bestowed on her the Governorship of the Netherlands, and this Philip had allowed her to retain.
He was considering now whether it might not be expedient to have the two sons of Maximilian and Maria brought to Spain, for the same reason as he had brought Alexander: ostensibly to be companions for Carlos, but actually as hostages for their parents’ good behavior.
With so much to occupy his mind, and so many problems to be faced, it was small wonder that Philip had little thought to spare for his bride.
She was now riding into the town on a white palfrey; on one side of her was the Duke of Infantado and on the other the Cardinal of Burgos. In the streets the people were shouting their pleasure; and here, in the ducal palace, everything was in readiness, for the actual marriage ceremony must take place as soon as the bride arrived.
Philip stood on the dais. Carlos was beside him. How he fidgeted! Could not the boy show some dignity? There was Juana, looking more as though she were at a funeral than at a wedding. Philip was uneasy suddenly. Would Juana’s melancholy lead to trouble one day? And here was Ruy, standing close to him—surely closer than was necessary—as though he were preparing to face a host of enemies rather than his sovereign’s bride. Philip wanted to say: “My dear friend, there is no need for uneasiness. I feel none. I do not believe this Princess of France will be very formidable.” Lightly he wondered how Ruy fared in his own married life with the stormy, one-eyed Ana.
Glancing at Carlos, Philip saw that his lips were moving. Hastily Philip turned away from his son.
What would the new Queen think of her stepson? She must surely congratulate herself when she contemplated what she had escaped. Whatever she thought of her own bridegroom, he would certainly seem preferable to Carlos.
Meanwhile, Carlos was saying to himself: “She is mine. This was to have been my wedding day. But he takes everything from me.”
He did not know what he would do when she entered. Could she really be as beautiful as they said she was? When he saw her, he believed, he might be so jealous that his hatred of his father would compell him to kill him. He might try to seize Philip’s sword and run it through his heart.
Those who had seen her had said of Isabella: “She is so attractive that no cavalier durst look at her for fear of losing his heart to her; and should the King see this it might cost a man his life!”
And she is mine! thought Carlos. Mine … not his.
Outside the procession had halted before the ducal palace and the doors were thrown wide open that the little Queen might enter.
She stepped into the hall, and she was the most beautiful creature Carlos had ever seen. She was far more charming than any picture could show.
Carlos, watching her as she was led to the spot where the King stood, wanted to shout: “Do not be afraid of him, Isabella!” He loved her the more because of that fear he sensed in her. “You are mine, Isabella, and together we will plan to kill him.”
He was aware of a hand on his shoulder and, turning, he looked into the eyes of Ruy Gomez da Silva. Carlos quailed slightly, for he knew that he had betrayed to this man the burning hatred he felt for his father.
The King was now greeting the French Princess, and she was answering falteringly in Castilian.
Then Juana knelt and kissed the Princess’s ermine-edged robe. Elisabeth smiled at her; she had pleasant smiles for all except Philip; for him she had only fearful glances.
Now it was Carlos’s turn. He knelt. He kissed the edge of her robe; he lifted his eyes, alight with adoration, to her face; and all the time the hammer-beats of his heart were declaring: “She is mine…mine!”
Her smile bewitched and maddened him; but almost immediately Philip had laid his hand on her arm and she was turning away that she might be presented to the members of his suite.
Carlos moved to his father. Now was the moment … now … here before them all.
The people would cry: “Philip is dead. Long live King Carlos!” This was to have been a marriage, and it will be the scene of murder. Never mind if the King is dead. Here is a new King. Never mind if the bride has lost her husband. Here is a new husband for her!
Again he felt the pressure on his shoulder. He turned sharply and looked up into the dark face of Ruy.
Words trembled on Carlos’s lips. “How … dare you?” … But he would not speak them. He would not betray himself to his father’s friend. This was not the time. It was not easy to murder a king. Careful planning was needed.
He felt calmer now—calm and sly.
The little bride was looking fearfully at Philip.
Philip said with a half-smile: “Why do you look at me so intently? Are you looking to see how many gray hairs I have?”
She grew pale and turned away. His unexpectedly cold voice had increased her fears.
Philip was unhappy; he was deeply conscious of having frightened her when his intention had been to set her at her ease.
He could not explain. The nobles and their ladies were coming forward to greet her.
Carlos continued to watch the King, but Ruy Gomez da Silva was constantly at the Prince’s side.
As he sat by her side through ceremony after ceremony, he was wondering how he might set her at ease, how he could explain to her that she must not be afraid of him. He could not behave as the French, because he was a
