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

But he was afraid as he said those words. He was a young man again in the bedroom of Maria Manoela; he was sitting by the bed of a young wife who was too near death to be conscious of his presence. He would be haunted all his life by a young bride whom he had loved briefly, and so tragically lost. It was alarming to think of this lovely young girl, facing the danger which had robbed him of Maria Manoela.

She saw the fear in his face and she said quickly: “Why are you afraid?”

He was silent, wondering how he could explain to her what she was beginning to mean to him. He could not say to her: “I had thought I was done with emotional entanglements. There were so many good reasons why we should marry and be content with our marriage; they are enough. I am dedicated to my destiny, and my greatest wish is that you should have a son; and if you fail in this and die in the attempt, why then, I must quickly get myself a new wife. Sons for Spain; an heir to take the place of Carlos. That is the very reason for our union.”

Yet he was beginning to suffer as once before he had suffered. He was beginning to dread the time when she would bear their child.

She could not understand his thoughts.

“I … I did not mean,” she said quickly, “that I was afraid of the pain of bearing a child. It was that … there might not be a child. Queens do not bear children as easily as commoners, it seems.”

“Is that all you fear, Isabella?” he asked.

Briefly she hesitated. Then she said: “I am afraid … that I …” But she could not go on, because it seemed that her mother was there, forbidding her.

“I would not have you afraid of anything,” he said gently.

“But it is my duty to have children, and if …”

“It is our duty,” he said with a return of his solemn manner. “Let us hope that before long we shall have a child.” He paused and said quickly: “You will not suffer in the ordeal more than I shall.”

Then she made one of her pretty gestures. She threw her arms about him.

“You are so good to me …” she said. “You are so kind.”

Her mother sent pictures from France. There was a beautiful one of Margot. The little girl, with her slanting, merry eyes and her gay little mouth with that expression of sauciness, was enchanting. There was also one of Catherine, her mother.

She read the accompanying letter:

“These pictures are for you, my dearest daughter. Show them to the Prince, particularly the one of little Marguerite. Is it not charming? Little Margot grows irresistible. Everyone loves her. Do not forget what you have to do for your sister. If your husband were to die, you would be the most unfortunate woman in the world, for what would your position be? There would be a new Queen of Spain, the wife of Don Carlos. If that wife were your sister Margot, why then your position would be assured. So you must bring about this match …”

She must. Of course she must. And what fun it would be if Mar-got were there with her! She tried to imagine the high-spirited Mar-got—who had already announced her intention of marrying her dear friend Henry of Guise—in this court, married to Carlos. Henry of Guise was the most handsome boy she had ever seen. And Carlos? Well, she was fond of him because he was so gentle with her, and if he was in one of his passions, she alone could bring him out of it; but what would Margot think of him?

She went along to the apartments of Carlos, taking the pictures with her. She came and went as she liked now. She had dispensed with much of the ceremony which it behooved the Queen of Spain to use. No one seemed to mind. This was the enchanting Isabella, the favored one. Everyone loved her, including the King; and they could see no harm in anything she did. She was just a charming child for all that she was the Queen of Spain.

“Carlos,” she cried. “I am here.”

He was with his companions, Alexander and Juan. They all stood up to greet her, and she joined them at the table. They sat around it like four children, only there was a look of passionate yearning in the eyes of Carlos which was unchildlike.

“I have brought some pictures to show Carlos.”

She put it in that way because she knew it would please him that the pictures were mainly for him to see. He must be the one she came to visit. If he thought she came to see any of the others, he would not reprove her, but he would sink into deep melancholy. She could, with a word, make him happy or sad. And she must please him; it was her duty to please him; those were her mother’s instructions.

So now she produced the pictures.

“They have just come. Look! There are two of them.”

“I am to see them,” said Carlos, elbowing the others away. “Isabella brought them for me, did not your Highness?”

“I brought them for you to see, Carlos. But the others may look if they wish. Which do you like better, Carlos? Tell me first and then I will tell you who they are.”

He was so happy to have Isabella there, so happy to be near her. He smiled first at her, to let her know that she was more interesting to him than any picture could be.

He said: “Ah, this chiquita … she is beautiful.”

“She is indeed. She is my sister; and the elder lady is my mother.”

“I do not like so well your mother,” said Carlos.

“No; indeed you would not, for she would seem so old to you.”

“And fat,” said Carlos. “But the little one is so pretty.”