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

“The Council has agreed that in such circumstances Carlos would be declared unfit.”

“Poor Carlos. He would never forgive me.”

Ruy answered: “Carlos would forgive your Majesty anything.”

She was startled. Was he warning her, this good kind friend who seemed to see further than anyone else? Was he suggesting that Carlos was in love with her! She could not accept that. He was her friend; she was sorry for him; but that he should think of himself in the role of lover was incongruous.

Ruy said: “Sometimes I wonder what would happen if by some terrible mischance Philip should die and the crown pass to Carlos. Spain would be as Rome under Caligula.”

“I see,” she said, “that I must have a son … if not now … later.”

“Your Highness will. I beg of you not to be too anxious.”

But the child which was born to her, though healthy, was a girl.

“There is plenty of time,” said Philip and Ruy and all those to whom the birth of a male child was so important.

Then Carlos demanded their attention.

After the birth of her daughter, Isabella’s convalescence was a long one. She was subject to headaches and fits of dizziness; she had grown pale and thin. Yet such was her beauty that, although she had changed from the dazzling young girl who had first come to Spain nearly ten years ago, she was still possessed of great charm. If her eyes were less bright, her hair less lustrous, there was in her countenance an expression of such sweetness that those about her loved her more than they had when she had been a sparkling young girl.

In spite of her ill-health, she was still determined to give Philip a son.

Carlos was mad and must never be allowed to rule Spain. She traced this new and greater wildness in him to their adventure together when she had asked his help for Jeanne of Navarre, for again and again he would refer to his sympathy with heretics, and continually he spoke of her, the Queen.

Her secret weighed heavily upon her; she was remorseful, yet she knew that, could she have that time over again, she would act in exactly the same way.

Philip, absorbed in state duties, moodily occupied with thoughts of Carlos, did not notice the sad preoccupation of Isabella. Always with him she was the charming and obedient wife; and although he knew that he did not possess her passionate devotion, for which he longed, he still believed that one day it might be his.

Isabella spent much time at Pastrana in the Palace of the Prince and Princess of Eboli. She found great comfort in the companionship of Ruy and his wife. Ruy, in particular, understood something of the conflict within her and he knew that it concerned Carlos.

On one occasion he reminded her of the conversation they had had before the birth of her daughter. He knew, and the Princess his wife knew, that it would be unsafe for her to bear more children.

“This problem will have to be faced by Philip and the Council,” Ruy said to her. “Carlos cannot rule; but you and the King have two daughters. It may well be that Isabel Clara Eugenie will make as great a Queen as her forbear, the great Isabella.”

“What would Carlos feel if he were replaced by a girl?” she asked.

Ruy said: “Your Majesty must forgive my forwardness. If I speak to you as a father, that is because I am old enough to fill that role and because of my great regard for you. Let your task be to comfort Philip, to preserve your strength for this great work. You have given him two daughters. Let that suffice.”

She gave him her sweetest smile.

“I thank you, my Prince, for your advice, but I would not take it if I could. Very soon I hope my son will be born.”

Both Ruy and his wife were sad to hear this news that once again she was to have a child.

Carlos had decided to wait no longer. His father hated him. He had been born for one purpose, and he was now going to fulfill it. He was going to kill his father.

It had been such a wonderful dream: to raise the dagger and thrust it into the black velvet doublet, to watch the dull red stain on black velvet and diamonds, to see the pale eyes glaze in anguish—but not before Philip had looked into the face of the murderer and known him for his son.

Afterward he would ride away—perhaps to France, perhaps to Austria. But he would not long stay away from Spain; he would come back … for Isabella.

He kept his secret, planning cunningly. It would have to be a moment when he was alone with his father, for there must be none to protect Philip. He, Carlos, would be subdued; he would mislead Philip.

“Father,” he would say, “I will reform. I swear I will.”

And when Philip came close to lay a hand on his shoulder, to speak of his pleasure in his son’s calmness—then would come the quick uplift of the arm, the deep thrust, and blood … blood … the blood of Philip.

He had arranged for horses which would carry him away from the palace. He had told Juan and Garcia that he would need horses; he had ordered both of them to procure horses for him.

The idea of confession occurred to him. He had taken great pleasure in the confessional, for when he confessed it was as though he lived through exciting experiences again.

He did not intend to confess his plan to murder, but there was that about Fray Diego de Chaves which drew his innermost thoughts from him.

When he said: “What have you to confess this day, my son?” Carlos’s hot tongue licked his lips. He was obsessed with the great sin of patricide, but in the solemnity of the confessional box he was suddenly afraid. He was going to commit murder, but he told himself that it was a judicial murder. He was going to do something which, all his life, he had longed to do. But he wanted absolution. He did not want to burn in hell for committing a murder which was no ordinary murder.