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

So he would demand absolution, and this poor priest would not dare deny him, nor would he dare betray him.

He said: “I am going to kill a man, and I wish for absolution.”

“My son! You plan murder and you ask forgiveness! You know that cannot be.”

“It must be!” screamed Carlos. “It must be.”

“Murder, my son, is a mortal sin. You plan to commit it, and ask for absolution beforehand. Think what you say.”

“It is possible. I am the Prince.”

“Sir, there is One higher than all the princes of this world.”

“Then He will forgive me when He knows what a wicked man I intend to kill.”

Fray Diego prayed that he would be able to deal adequately with this new phase of madness. He said: “What plot is this? I must know before I can grant absolution.”

“It is a person of very high rank whom I shall kill.”

“It would be necessary for me to know the name of this person and any of those who plot with you.”

“None plot with me. I plot alone. Come, man. Grant absolution or I will run my sword through your miserable body.”

“I must know the name of this person of high rank.”

“You shall. His name is Philip, and he is King of Spain!”

The excitement was too much for Carlos; he fell to the ground in a fit.

The priest called for help and dispatched a messenger to the King.

Carlos was in his apartments. He was sullen, would speak to no one, and all that day he had eaten nothing. He could not remember what he had said to the priest.

He lay on his bed. Beneath the coverlet he had hidden two swords. They were naked, ready for use. Beneath his pillow were two loaded pistols. He was trembling with excitement. But what had he said to the priest?

He heard voices in the antechamber. With one hand he grasped a sword; with his chin he felt for the pistols.

The door opened unceremoniously and several men entered the room. Among them Carlos recognized the Count of Feria.

He struggled up. “How dare you break in on me thus!” he cried. “Why do you come? Men-at-arms … here! The Prince commands you. Arrest these intruders.”

There were several men about his bed then, and with a sudden movement Feria had stepped forward and stripped off the coverlet. Before Carlos could cry out, he had seized the two swords. Carlos’s hands went at once to the pistols, but one of the men was quicker than he was. He seized the Prince’s wrists while another took the pistols from under his pillow.

“How … dare you!” sobbed Carlos. “You forget … I am the son of the King.”

At that moment there was a brief hush as Philip himself entered the chamber. He stood at the end of the bed, and in the candlelight father and son gazed at each other. Carlos thought he had never seen such a cruel face, never looked into such cold eyes. He was very frightened; for he knew that at last he had gone too far.

“What … what does your Majesty want?” he stammered.

“Close all doors,” said Philip.

This was done, and now Carlos saw that the room was filled with men and that the Count of Feria had taken up his stand on the King’s right hand.

Carlos was trembling. He knew that the doom which he had always dreaded was upon him.

The King did not speak to his son. He addressed the assembly. “I place the Prince, Don Carlos, in your hands,” he said. “Guard him well. Do nothing that he commands without first consulting me. Keep him a close prisoner.”

“Why?” cried Carlos. “What have I done? I have not killed you. I have been betrayed. You cannot treat me thus … You cannot.”

“I have nothing more to say,” answered Philip; and he turned away.

Carlos knelt on the bed. “Father,” he pleaded. “I beg of you … do not make me a prisoner. Let me go free. I shall kill myself if I am a prisoner.”

“Only madmen kill themselves,” said Philip sternly.

“I am not mad. I am only sad … sad and desperately unhappy. I always have been. Nobody loves me except … except … But those who love me are kept from me. But that does not alter their love. I am there … whether you wish it or not. I am there between you. I am young, King Philip, and you are old. I shall kill somebody … even if it is myself …”

Philip was at the door. He had made up his mind how he would act, and the councillors of state had agreed with his actions. The matter was finished.

Windows were fastened; doors were locked; and guards placed inside and outside the apartment.

Don Carlos was indeed his father’s prisoner.

Carlos lived in his own dark world, lying on his bed for days, speaking to no one, rising in sudden frenzy and throwing himself against the walls of his room, refusing to eat for days at a time, then demanding a feast and eating so ravenously that he was ill.