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

He was in an agony of indecision. There were so many thoughts in his mind. He longed to rid himself of Carlos. He feared Carlos; and ridiculous as it seemed, Carlos was between him and Isabella.

What was she thinking as she lay there watching him? Of Carlos? She knew his thoughts. She must know the purpose of those secret meetings with Ruy and the Cardinal. She knew that the destruction of Carlos was being planned.

He could not speak of it. He was deeply conscious of that quality in him which did not allow frankness. Moreover she had set herself apart from him. Yet her eyes were pleading with him now. You cannot kill Carlos, Philip, they said. You cannot kill your own son.

And why should she plead? What was the meaning of Carlos’s secret smile? Only Isabella could calm Carlos. Only Isabella was fond of him. Was there some secret between them?

Why had Carlos looked so cunning … so pleased … so certain when he had said: “I shall always be between you!”

“Philip,” said Isabella, “you are tired and you have much on your mind.”

“So much,” he answered. “So many decisions to make.”

He longed to put his arms about her, to beg her to help him. He wanted to explain his feelings for his son, his disgust of him, the humiliation he suffered on his account, and above all that faint—and he was sure unfounded—jealousy.

But how could he talk of such things to Isabella? All through the night the agony of indecision continued.

Dr. Olivares sought out the King. He must speak to him in private.

“Your Highness, the Prince of Eboli has spoken to me concerning Don Carlos.”

“How do you find my son?”

“Sire, he is sick—very sick of the mind.”

“And of the body?”

“It is astonishing how he remains as well as he does in that respect. Your Highness, the Prince of Eboli has told me it is your Majesty’s wish that a certain medicine should be given to Don Carlos.”

“If the Prince of Eboli told you that, you may take it as a command from me.”

“Then I crave your Majesty’s pardon for the interruption. I did not care to administer such a medicine except at the express command of your Highness.”

“I have decided,” said Philip coolly, “that this medicine will be beneficial.”

“I understand your Highness.”

Dr. Olivares bowed and glided away.

Isabella said: “Why did Dr. Olivares come to see you this day? Has he news of the Prince?”

“Yes,” said Philip.

“He is better?” she asked eagerly.

“He will never be better. It is for us to hope that he will not be worse.”

Isabella, looking at her husband, saw in his face a calmness which, she knew, came from his having reached a solution to a problem which had given him much anxiety. She came to him and slipped her arm through his; it was a gesture from the old days when she had been more demonstrative in her affection.

“Philip,” she said, “you seem at peace. I am glad.”

Then he turned to her and gravely kissed her brow.

“Isabella,” he said, “let us pray as we have never prayed before. Let us implore God that this time it may be a son.”

Isabella felt suddenly cold as she looked into the inscrutable face of her husband.

Carlos was in a docile mood. He took the broth which had been specially prepared for him; but after drinking it he became very weak and could only lie still and speak in whispers.

He seemed not to know where he was, to be living in the past, calling himself the Little One, and asking for his locket.

His attendants sent for his Confessor.

Philip was called to him. He gave no sign of the emotion within him. He stood at one end of the bed, and as Carlos opened his eyes and looked at his father a faint smile touched the Prince’s lips.

Carlos knew . In those seconds his eyes told his father that he knew. There was no hatred now; he knew that soon he would have left this world in which his father had all that he, Carlos, had most desired: Dignity, the respect of men, and … Isabella.

Carlos tried to speak, but the death rattle was in his throat. His smile said: “I was to have killed you, and I made you kill me instead. You think you are the victor, Philip. But are you? You know, as I know, that it shall be as I said: I shall always be between you and Isabella.”

And for a moment, as he looked into the cold blue eyes, he saw Philip flinch, and he knew that in death the victory belonged to Carlos.

He had made a murderer of the man he hated; he had made him a murderer of his own son.

Isabella now knew that she would never give Philip the son for which they had fervently prayed. She was dying in the attempt to do so.

She had mourned Carlos deeply; she knew that his tragedy was interwoven with her own. She was weary of this harsh world in which she lived. From the Netherlands came terrible stories of the suffering under the cruelty of Alba … in the name of Spain. Her beloved France was torn in agony with its wars of religion. She did not wish to live amid such cruelty.

She had escaped from her mother, but she could never escape from Philip. She had been right to fear him as she had when she had first heard she was to marry him. Whenever he was near her now she saw him, not as Philip the King and tender husband, but as Philip the murderer of his own son.

She thought: If I had been a heretic, he would have carried the wood; he would have lighted it at my feet.

Always about him was an aura of horror. She could never think of that Philip who had been kind to her without seeing his other self, the gloomy fanatic, the man who had sought to bring Jeanne to the stake, the man who had taken his sword in his hand and sworn to serve the cruel Inquisition, who had sat tense and exultant while the bodies of men and women were burned in the flames, and the screams of martyrs rose to Heaven. Carlos was indeed between them, for she could never see her husband but as the man who had murdered his own son.

Yet she was sorry for him, this strange, frustrated man.

Now that her end was near she wanted to say to him: “Philip, you are failing to realize your dreams and the failure comes from yourself. Show kindness and tolerance to the Flemings and you will beat Orange yet.”

Kindness! Tolerance! But he had determined to set up the Inquisition all over the world; he believed the Inquisition to be an instrument of God. There was no kindness and tolerance there.

“Philip, Philip!” she wanted to cry. “How mistaken you are! You did not dream impossible dreams. You might have won the world and I might have loved you as you wished to be loved. With kindness and toleration the world could have been happy under your domination. I might have loved the man you could have been. But you do not understand, and the failure to make your dreams realities is due to yourself.”

But how could she say such things? And how could he ever understand them?

Her daughter was born to live but a few hours.

Philip sat by her bed. He knew that she was slipping away from him.

“Isabella!” he cried. “Come back to me. We will be happy yet.”

She smiled sadly. “It is too late, Philip,” she whispered. “Oh, do not grieve for me. You see me well on the way out of this unhappy world into a better one.”

“Isabella … Isabella … there is so much I have to tell you … so much I have to say. Life for us will be better yet.”

But he knew that he had lost her; and it seemed to him that he heard the mocking laughter of the son whom he had murdered.

an excerpt from

A

FAVORITE

OF THE

QUEEN

1

I t was hot, even for August; the foul odors from the river, carrying the threat of pestilence, hung in the sullen air that sultry day; but the crowds who were assembling on Tower Hill were oblivious of discomfort. Traders had left their shops or stalls in Candlewick Street, East Chepe, and the Poultry; horse-dealers were coming from Smithfield Square; the goldsmiths from Lombard Street, the mercers of Chepeside had deserted their houses, realizing that there could be little business at such a time. Apprentices, risking a whipping, crept out after their masters, determined to see what could be seen on Tower Hill that day.

Laughing and jesting they came. All men and women believed that the hardships of Henry VII’s reign were behind them and the days of plenty were at hand. No more cruel taxes would be wrung from them; no more fines; no more impositions. The old miser King was dead and in his place was a bonny golden boy who laughed loudly, who jested and made sport, and loved to show himself to the citizens of London.

It was he who had provided this day’s pleasure for them; and it clearly indicated what they might expect of him.

“God bless King Hal!’ they cried. “See how he pleases his people! He is the one for us.”

The cheers for the King mingled with the jeers for the traitors. Some apprentices had made two effigies which they held high above the crowd, to be mocked and pelted with refuse.

“Death to them! Death to the extortioners! Death to the misers, and long life to King Harry!”

Jostling, cursing, laughing, they surged about the hill. At the summit, close to the scaffold, members of the nobility were gathered. The bell of St. Peter ad Vincula had begun to toll.

At the edge of the crowd, not venturing into it, stood a boy. He was pale, soberly dressed, and was staring, mournful and bewildered, at the weather-washed walls of the great fortress which seemed to stand on guard like a stone giant. So grim, so cruel did it seem to the boy, that he turned his gaze from it to the green banks where the starry loosestrife flowers were blooming. He remembered a day—long ago it seemed to him now—when he had taken his little brother to the river’s edge to pick flowers. He remembered how they had strolled along, arms full of blossoms. The flower of the water betony was like the helmet a soldier would wear, and he was reminded that soldiers would soon be coming out of the great prison, and with them would be the men who were to die on Tower Hill that day.

“Death to the traitors!” shouted a man near him. “Death to the tax-gatherers! Death to Dudley and Empson!”

The little boy felt the blood rush to his face, for his name was John Dudley, and his father was one of those who would shortly lay their heads upon the block.

He would not look, this little John. He dared not. Why had he come? He knew not. Was it because he had hoped to see a miracle? His father had seemed to him the cleverest man in England; and not only did he seem so to John, but to others, for Edmund Dudley, a humble lawyer, had become chief adviser to the King. But kings die, and often favors die with them; and a friend to one king may be a traitor to another; and if that king is desirous of winning his people’s love, and those people demand a man’s head as a symbol of his love—then that head is given.

He was standing up there now, the father of the boy. Little John stared at the ground, but he knew what was happening, for he heard the shouts of the people. Then there was silence. He looked up at the sky; he looked at the river; but he dared not look at the scaffold.

His father was speaking. The well-remembered voice rose and fell, but the boy did not hear what he said.