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

At length Olivares presented himself to the King, and one look at the doctor’s face was enough to tell everyone present that the operation had been successful.

But although Carlos had not died during the operation its results were far from satisfactory. The Prince’s head swelled to twice its usual size so that his eyes were completely buried in his flesh and he could not see. A rash broke out on his skin and he suffered agony.

He was in constant delirium, calling perpetually for Isabella; but when she went to him he did not know her. He shouted threats against someone, but as he mentioned no name, those about him could only guess at whom the threats were directed.

Philip prayed for guidance. Isabella knew that he was thinking what a blessing it would be if Carlos died, and she knew that he was fighting against such thoughts. To Philip, duty was all-important, and she was aware that if he believed it was his duty to go into the sickroom, put a cushion over Carlos’s face, and suffocate him, he would not hesitate to do so.

Was he wondering even now whether he might hint to the doctors that the moment had come to rid Spain of Carlos?

Her fear of this strange man who was her husband was growing. She would never be able to forget the fanatical light which had shone in his eyes when he had talked to her of the work of the Inquisition. She was dreading the day—for she knew that as Queen of Spain she could not escape it—when she would have to attend an auto-da-fe. She recalled with horror the executions her mother had forced her to witness at Amboise. She was a good Catholic, but cruelty horrified her. She could not look on calmly while men and women were tortured, no matter what they believed. Now it seemed to her that she had escaped her mother’s tyranny for that of another. The last months had made a woman of a frivolous girl, and as that woman was a tender-hearted one, she could not love a man who thought it righteous and godly to torture men and women, even though he had been to her the kindest of husbands. She was becoming complicated, whereas she had been simple; she wanted to escape, but she knew not how.

Philip decided that it was his duty to do everything in his power to save his son’s life.

He explained to Isabella that in the Monastery of Jesu Maria were buried the bones of the Blessed Diego, a Franciscan lay brother, who had led a life of sanctity and was said to work miracles.

“It is years since he died,” said Philip, “but his memory has never faded. If he saves the life of my son he shall be canonized.”

“Let us pray to him,” said Isabella.

“We will do more. I will have his bones dug up, and they shall be brought to Carlos and laid upon him.”

Philip’s indecision was past. He had found the solution to his tormenting problem. If Carlos was saved through the intercession of the Blessed Diego, he would know that he, Philip, and Spain were not yet to be relieved of their burden.

Carlos was tossing on his bed. Don Andrea Basilo and Dr. Olivares, the King’s most worthy physicians, stood by his bedside.

Carlos was moaning in agony. The terrible swelling of his face made him unrecognizable.

Philip arrived in the sick-room, and with him were two monks from the Monastery of Jesu Maria. They carried a box in which were the bones of the Blessed Diego.

Philip said: “We will place them about the body of my son. Then we will kneel and pray to the saint to intercede for us. He is noted for his sympathy for the sick. Doubtless his intercession will succeed.”

So the bones of the long-dead monk were placed about Carlos, and some pieces of the cerecloth, in which the body had been wrapped, were scraped off the bones and laid on Carlos’s face.

Carlos screamed. “What is this, then? You have come to kill me, I smell death. I smell decay. Is death here then?”

“We have brought the bones of the Blessed Diego,” said Olivares.

“You have brought death. I smell it. It fills the room. You have brought death to me. It is my father who has done this because he longs for my death.”

Dr. Olivares bent over the bed. “We are striving to save your life,” he said. “Pray with us. We have here the bones of the Blessed Diego, and to him we are directing our prayers. The King and the Queen are praying for you now. They pray for a miracle.”

“The Queen …” said Carlos in a whisper.

“Pray, your Highness. Pray to the Blessed Diego.”

Carlos was delirious. He dreamed that he saw a monk rise from his tomb, his body wrapped in cerecloth.

“You will recover, Carlos,” said the Holy Man.

In Carlos’s delirium, the cerecloth fell away from the body of the monk; and now it was clothed in a dress of the becoming French style, and the dress covered not the old bones, but the beautiful young body of Isabella.

“I am praying for you,” she said. “Carlos, I wish you to be well.”

When at last the delirium faded the swelling in his head began to subside. People in the palace and in the town and in all the country were saying: “Here is another miracle of the Blessed Diego.”

Carlos had recovered physically, but his mental sickness had taken a more violent turn. Yet he could not be kept at Alcala indefinitely; he was old enough now to take his place at court, and this the people would expect of him. So he came to Madrid where he had for company Don Juan, Alexander Farnese, and his two cousins, the sons of Maximilian and Maria of Austria, who were to be brought up at the Spanish court.

These lively, intelligent young people might have been excellent company for a normal boy; but poor Carlos was far from normal. He was sullen for days on end; he refused to eat for long periods, so that all feared he would starve to death; then he would decide to eat, and make himself ill because he would not do so in moderation. He would rise from his bed in the middle of the night and demand boiled capon; he would lash his attendants with a whip which he kept handy for the purpose, until the food was brought to him. All his attendants longed to be removed from his service, with the exception of his half-brother, Garcia Osorio, who seemed able to soothe him better than anyone else. This boy, perhaps out of gratitude to Philip, had made the Prince his special charge, and