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

would show the utmost tact in dealing with him. Carlos was relying more and more on his half-brother; he tolerated him because, although he was handsome and of lively intelligence, he was illegitimate, and that pleased Carlos, as it gave him a sense of superiority. Young Garcia was of great value in the household, since he could manage Carlos better than anyone except the Queen; and the King had ordered that the Queen should see her stepson but rarely.

It was a matter of continual grievance to Carlos that Isabella was kept from him.

Sometimes he would get together a band of young men—the most dissolute he could find—and they would roam the streets of Madrid, insulting women, pulling off their cloaks, forcing them against walls, and mishandling them. Rape was rarely committed, for Carlos forbade this; this fact set in circulation rumors that he was impotent, which in its turn enraged Carlos. But he did nothing to prove it was not, which supported the belief.

The whole world now knew that the heir of Spain was at least unbalanced. Yet many sought his hand. Catherine de Medici still wanted him for Margot, and sent urgent letters to the Queen of Spain. There was talk of his marrying his Aunt Juana, and Philip himself was not against this. It was said that Carlos and Juana would have made a strange pair—she with her melancholy madness, he with his wild insanity. Philip’s sister Maria and her husband Maximilian were very eager to secure him for their daughter Anne. They wrote to him and professed great affection for him.

Carlos liked to imagine himself as a husband—either of Margot or Anne. A favorite game of his was to imagine himself procuring horses and riding to France, where Catherine de Medici would receive him and marry him to her daughter Margot, or riding to Austria where he would be feted by his Uncle Max and Aunt Maria, and married to his cousin Anne.

But there was one who remained for him the most desirable in the world, the mere mention of whose name could soften his ugliest moods and bring him back to comparative sanity. That was Isabella—his father’s wife.

Although Isabella continued to wear her beautiful dresses and give them away with the utmost extravagance, she could no longer delight in these things. At times she felt homesick for France; but at others she felt she no longer had a part in what was happening in her old home. Margot’s letters were gay and inconsequential; they were all about Margot’s own adventures and the people who admired her, what she wore, what journeys she made, and how Henry of Guise grew more handsome than ever. But when Isabella thought of her native land nowadays, it was of terrible conflicts between Catholics and Huguenots. There had been such quarrels in the days of her youth, but it was only now, when she was living close to the mighty shadow of the Inquisition, that they seemed to have such horrible significance. The people she had known and loved were involved in wars against each other. There were the Guises against the Prince of Conde and Coligny. There was Jeanne of Navarre, whom she had known so well and with whose little son she had played, in terrible strife with her husband, Antoine, that kinsman with whom she had parted so piteously when she had been brought to Spain. And all these conflicts had their roots in religion. It was incongruous. Christians were supposed to love each other; yet these Christians were fighting … killing each other.

She was at length obliged to attend an auto-da-fe. She did not know how she would endure that ordeal. The memory of the hot square would live in her mind forever; she would never, she feared, forget the grim Inquisitors, the pomp of the royal gallery, the victims in their yellow garments dragging their tortured bodies to the stakes.

I am a Catholic, she told herself. I know the Catholic Faith to be the only true Faith, but I cannot bear to see these people suffer so. And when I see them I care not that they are heretics. I only want to save them. I find myself caring for nothing … not for God, not for religion if God and religion demand of us such action.

She felt a hatred toward the land of her adoption because it was the home of torture. She shrank with revulsion from the man who sat beside her in the royal gallery, his eyes intent, the fervor lighting his face. She wanted to cry out in protest when the people shouted with glee and the agonized screams of men and women filled the air while the flames licked their already mutilated bodies.

She wanted to live in a world of kindness and fun—not torture and misery.

One day Madame Clermont, one of the French ladies who had accompanied her into Spain, came to her and intimated that she had something important to say.

When they were alone, Madame Clermont could scarcely speak, she was so excited.

“Your Majesty, I have discovered a Frenchman in distress.”

“What is this?” asked Isabella indulgently, for poor Clermont was of a romantic nature and was constantly bewailing the lack of those adventures which had seemed to come about so naturally in France.

“He had an accident in the street close to one of the inns there … which was fortunate for him. It might have been on the mountain roads, and then Monsieur Dimanche would have said good-bye to this life.”

“You are incoherent, Clermont. Who is this Dimanche, and what is this all about?”

“It is very mysterious, dear Majesty; and that is what makes it so exciting. No one seems to know who he is or what his mission; and he, poor man, is too far gone in delirium to speak much sense. But he is handsome—very handsome—and he is a Frenchman. Spanish innkeepers are a grasping breed. Do you know, Highness, they do not wish to keep him in their miserable inn, for fear he should be unable to pay his bill? They do not like foreigners, they say. And that is a slight to your Majesty! They have put him in a barn close by; and he, poor man, is very sick indeed.”

“What is he doing here, I wonder?” said Isabella.

“That we shall doubtless discover later; but knowing how interested your Majesty is in our own countrymen, and women, I guessed you would not care to know that one of them was lodged in a barn, and a sick man at that!”

“Indeed I do not,” said Isabella. “It is most inhospitable.”

“One of the palace serving-women has a comfortable lodging not far from the inn—nor from the palace. If it should be your Majesty’s wish that this man be taken there, she is willing to have him, and to care for him until he has recovered.”

“Let it be done,” said Isabella. “I will send one of my own doctors to him. I should not like a Frenchman to return to France with tales of the ill-treatment he received in Spain.”

So the mysterious Frenchman was removed from the barn to the lodging of the serving-woman; and it was some days before Isabella knew what an important problem he was to bring into her life.

For the next day or so Isabella thought no more of the Frenchman. It was her custom to interest herself in her fellow countrymen, and if any visited Spain to do all in her power to see that their stay was enjoyable. It was not the first time she had helped people in distress. She herself would pay the servant in whose house Dimanche was lodged; she would reward her doctor for his services to the