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

“I do not know. But she is my mother and we always had to do what she wished.”

“Or be beaten? Tell me, did she beat you often?”

“There were times.”

He laughed, and permitted himself to show a little of the tenderness that surged through him. He held her fast against him and said: “No one shall beat you anymore, my Isabella. There is no need to fear anyone, particularly those who are far away and cannot reach you. If they should ask you to do what you do not wish to do, then you must refuse. And if you should be afraid—why, here is the King of Spain to defend you.”

He laughed, and his laughter was always pleasant to hear, because it was so rare; so she laughed with him.

“Then you will promise me not to be afraid anymore; and if you are, you will tell me all about it?”

“Yes,” she said with only the faintest trace of hesitancy. “I will.”

“Then take your pictures, and when I have finished with these papers I will join you. Perhaps we will ride together. Or shall I show you my new pictures and tapestries? Anything that you wish.”

“I should like to ride,” she said.

She picked up her pictures and went from the room. She was a little relieved, for he was right. It was rather silly to be frightened of someone living hundreds of miles away, when the most powerful monarch in the world was your husband who had sworn to protect you.

What Philip did not understand was—and how could she explain this?—that, while it was true she was afraid of her mother, she was also afraid of him.

With the passing weeks Philip’s love intensified. He had never been so happy, in spite of the troubles in his dominions. He felt young again. He faced the extraordinary fact that he was in love, even as he had been in the days of his first marriage with the pretty little Maria Manoela.

But how much better this could be. Maria Manoela, charming as she was, had been an uneducated girl compared with Isabella. Isabella was young, it was true; she was very gay—with her French attendants; she loved fine clothes and jewels, but that was because she was French.

She would mature. He remembered how he had thought thus of Maria Manoela. One day he would be able to explain his feelings to Isabella. Had he not assured himself that this would be the case with Maria Manoela? And when he had told her, it had been too late; she was by that time deaf to his eloquent explanations. But what had happened in the case of Maria Manoela would not happen with Isabella. History did not repeat itself as neatly as that.

No! He had loved his first wife and lost her; he had hated his second marriage; he had suffered enough. And now he had come to the third, why should he not enjoy perfect happiness? He would. In time she would return his passionate love, but he must wait for that day. He must be patient; he felt that if only he could override that absurd fear she had of him, all would be well. He knew that there were times when she forgot he was the King of Spain; she forgot the stories she had heard of him and was spontaneously happy. Well, it would come. He could feel confident in the future.

In the meantime there was Carlos to disturb his peace. If only Carlos had never been born, or had died at birth, what a lot of trouble would have been avoided!

One day when he and Isabella had been riding together and returned to the palace, Philip discovered that Carlos was about to cause him even more anxiety than he had so far.

Isabella had retired to her room when the Prince’s tutor presented himself to Philip. The tutor was distraught.

There had been a particularly painful scene that morning. The Prince had looked from his window and seen the King and Queen riding out with their attendants; he had then seemed to go quite mad, and, picking up a knife, had rushed at the nearest person—who happened to be this tutor.

“Sire, but for Don Juan and Don Alexander, I doubt I should have been here now to tell this to your Majesty.”

“Where is he now?” asked Philip.

“He fell into a fit almost immediately, your Majesty. He lashed out with feet and fists; but afterward grew calm and, as is usual after such experiences, he lay quiet and still, speaking to no one.”

“What caused the trouble?”

“We have no idea, your Highness.”

But the man had some idea. Philip saw it in his face. He was on the point of demanding an explanation, but thought better of it, and decided to see his son for himself.

He went along to Carlos’s apartments and there dismissed everyone. Carlos, white and shaken after the fit, stared sullenly at his father.

“Why do you come here?” he snarled. “To taunt me?”

“Carlos, I came to ask you what is the meaning of this outburst. I know you cannot control your actions when you are in such a state, but it is your own passion which brings on these unfortunate lapses.”

“You know!” cried Carlos. “You know, do you not? I saw you. You know that she would have come to see me this morning. You knew it, and that is why you took her away from me. Was she not to have married me? She was mine … mine … and you took her. You took her from me. I had her picture and I learned to speak French for her. She was mine and you knew it, and you hated me. You wanted to hurt me as you always have. I love Isabella … and you have taken her from me.”

Philip stared in horror at his son.

Now he understood the horrible truth. Carlos was mad enough to fancy he was in love with Isabella.

What horror could not grow out of such a situation, when a semi-maniac such as Carlos was involved? Who knew what tragedy lay ahead of them?