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

the sick-room.

She opened her eyes and smiled at him. He had sent everyone away. He wanted none to witness the emotional scene which he half feared might take place.

She was conscious enough to know what he risked by coming to her like this.

“You must go,” she said.

“Isabella,” he began almost shyly, “I wanted to tell you …”

She smiled, but her glance was vague; it was as though she looked beyond him to someone at the foot of her bed. So strong was the impression she gave him of seeing someone that he turned to look; but there was no one there.

“Isabella,” he went on, “you must not die. You must not.”

“No …” she whispered. “There is too much to do … for France.”

“Isabella, look at me. I have come to see you.”

Now her eyes were upon him. “You must not stay,” she cried. “It may be death.”

Nevertheless, he took her hand and kissed it.

“Do you know why I am here, Isabella?” he asked with passionate tenderness. “It is because I thought you would be the happier for seeing me.”

“You must not … Oh, you must not. But you are kind to me … you are very kind.”

“Please, Isabella, do all you can … to get well … not for France, but for me. And when you are well, little Isabella, we shall be happy … you and I!”

She did not seem to hear his words, and because of this he whispered: “Isabella, I believe I love you. I know I love you, little one.”

There was consternation at the Louvre. Couriers were galloping between France and Spain.

Catherine de Medici was terrified that her daughter would die and that she herself would lose contact with Spain; she was also afraid that even if Elisabeth recovered she would be so ravaged by the disease that she would lose all claim to beauty. Catherine, herself being in no way attractive, attached great importance to the power of feminine beauty. That was why she had, at home in France, gathered about her a band of beauties, her Escadron Volant, to fascinate soldiers and statesmen whose secrets she wished to learn. She had hoped that her beautiful young daughter would so charm her husband that he would be ready to betray his state secrets to her; and that Elisabeth, like the dutiful daughter Catherine had brought her up to be, would pass on those secrets to her mother.

Catherine therefore sent for her magicians, Rene and the notorious brothers, Cosmo and Lorenzo Ruggieri; and with them she concocted lotions to preserve the skin. They decided that if the skin of a person suffering from smallpox were spread liberally with the white of eggs, disfigurement could be avoided. Accordingly she sent instructions to the French ladies of the young Queen’s retinue, at the same time demanding a constant flow of news concerning her daughter’s progress.

She had always been worried about Elisabeth’s health. There were certain irregularities which she had kept secret and had insisted on Elisabeth’s keeping secret, for she feared they indicated that her daughter—as she believed was the case with some of her other children—had inherited through her grandfather, Francois Premier, the ill effects of that disease of which he had died and which was called by the French La Malaie Anglaise.

As soon as she knew that her daughter would recover, Catherine wrote to her: “Remember, my child, what I told you before you left. You know quite well how important it is that none should know what malady you may have. If your husband knew of it, he would never come near you …”

Although she felt so much better, the little Queen was very uneasy when she received that letter. Her attendants could not understand her grief. They held up mirrors before her that she might see her pretty face with the skin as clear as it had been before her illness.

“You must thank your mother for this,” they said. “She sent so many lotions, but it was the egg remedy which saved your complexion.”

But thoughts of her mother, they noticed, could do little to soothe the Queen.

She was naturally glad to be well again and to see that her skin was smooth and beautiful; but she could not forget how Philip, at great risk to himself, had visited her daily; and, she reasoned with herself, if it was true that she was affected by a very terrible hereditary disease, it seemed even more wicked not to tell him now than it had before.

When he came to her, sat by her couch, held her hand, and brought her presents of rich jewels and fruit, she wanted to tell him; but she dared not, because she still felt the influence of her mother in the room.

She dared not disobey her mother.

Now she was well again and there were celebrations to mark her recovery.

Philip seemed almost young, kissing and caressing her when they were alone together. Nor did she object to those caresses; she felt it was rather wonderful that he, the most powerful King in the world, so stern and cold to others, should be almost gay when he was alone with her, taking an interest, it seemed, in the dresses and jewels she wore.

There were so many dresses—all richly embroidered and cut in the French style; she wore a new one every day, for once she had worn them she liked to give them away, especially to the Spanish ladies, who were delighted to possess a French dress, particularly one which had belonged to the Queen.

But the suspicion that she might be diseased haunted her.

One day she said: “Philip, I do so much hope that I shall have a child, but sometimes I fear …”

“Dear little Isabella, why should you fear? You shall have every care in the world when the time comes.”