For a Queen's Love: The Stories of the Royal Wives of Philip II (12 page)

“And so you shall, my precious one.”

“You treat me now as though I am a child. Thus it was when I was small and you knew a child’s tragedy was pending.”

“You must not think the worst, dear one.”

“Leonor … do not try to hide the truth from me. I am no longer a child, you know.”

“Do you love her so much?” He was silent and she went on: “You did not show it.”

Then he began to laugh mirthlessly as Leonor had never heard him laugh before, and it seemed to her that his laughter was more heartrending than sad words.

The tears ran down her cheeks and, because she could not control them, she ran, with a complete absence of ceremony, from the room.

“Send the doctors!”
cried Philip. “I must see the doctors.”

They came and stood before him, their heads bowed, their hands clasped together.

“Something is not … as it should be,” he said.

“Your Highness, the Princess is resting. She needs rest after a difficult labor. The little Prince, Don Carlos, thrives, your Highness …”

“It is of the Princess that I wish to speak. Tell me the truth.” Philip was astonished by the calmness of his voice; he had thought it must betray the agony within him.

They kept their respectful attitudes.

“The Princess suffers from natural exhaustion, your Highness.”

Philip sighed. He was obsessed by agonizing thoughts. They are telling me what they know I wish to hear. My father said all men would
do that. They seek to please me, not to give me the truth. The truth! What is the truth?

He was afraid that he would break down before these men, and he was enough himself to remember that he must not do that.

He dismissed them.

He sat by
her bed. No one else was in the room, for he had sent them all away. Two days had passed, yet she lay there still and strange—remote, like another person.

He knelt by the bed and took her hand.

“Maria Manoela,” he begged. “Look at me. Do you not know me?”

Her eyes were turned toward him—those dark eyes of wonderful beauty—but he knew that she did not see him.

“Dearest,” he whispered, “you must get well. I cannot lose you now. That must not happen. Maria … Maria Manoela, I love you. Did you not know it? It was so difficult to speak of. In the apartments of our grandmother you turned to me … you turned to me when you were so much afraid. That made me happy. In the night … when the nightmares came … you turned to me. You put your dear arms about me and clung to me … to me … to Philip—not the Prince to whom they pay so much homage … but to Philip, your husband who loves you. I have planned so much for us … so much happiness. You and I together in a secret world of our own. Outside I seem cold and strict. I guard my feelings. It is necessary, my love, for that is the man they have made of me. I have to be a great ruler, as my father is, but I want to be happy too. I want to be happy with you. I will make you love me, Maria … Maria Manoela. I shall be tender to you … true to you. You must live, my dearest. You must live for me.”

He stopped speaking and looked at her tired, blank face. He saw the irony of this. Now he had said all that was in his heart … now … when she could not hear him. She lay limp, with the fever consuming her; and she did not know who this young man was who spoke to her so earnestly, whose eyes pleaded so desperately.

But at last she spoke, and he bent over her to catch her words.

“I … am … so thirsty. Please … please … bring me lemons.”

He called to the attendants.

“Lemons! At once! The Princess is asking for them.”

Leonor came running in to him. She threw herself into his arms.

“The saints be praised. She has asked for lemons. Our prayers are being answered. This is a sign.” Then she tore herself away from him; she began giving instructions. She held the cup of juice to the lips of Maria Manoela, and she was praying all the time while the tears ran down her cheeks.

Philip waited. He had told her of his feelings for her. Soon he would speak those words again, and this time she would hear.

The court was
mourning her. Poor little Maria Manoela—so young to die. She was just seventeen. She was just beginning life. It was tragic, and the Prince had lost his calmness and control.

He would see no one. He shut himself into his apartment. He lay on his bed and stared up at the canopy saying nothing, just alone with his misery.

There was anxiety for his health.

Leonor said: “He will recover. He knows too well what is expected of him. Leave him alone awhile … just for a little while with his grief. Let him at least have a short while to mourn as other men may mourn.”

“He will recover,” said the courtiers, the councillors, the grandees, and the statesmen. “He will remember that we have a child … a boy child … a future King of Spain. He will understand soon that the tragedy is not so great as he now thinks it. Don Carlos flourishes. It is not easy to get sons, but it is a simple matter to find brides for great princes.”

None knew this better than the Prince himself; but what consolation was it to a broken-hearted husband?

E
ntering the house of Isabel Osorio, Philip gave
no sign of the anxiety he was feeling. Many knew of his love for his mistress, but he always behaved with the utmost discretion. Isabel did not come to court; he visited her whenever possible; and she lived in her house like any dignified Spanish matron.

He was anxious now because Isabel was in childbed. It would not be the first child she had borne him, but he could not escape the horror which came to him at such times.

He would always remember Maria Manoela. When she had died four years ago he himself had longed for death until he realized what an evil longing that was. He had shut himself away in a monastery and after much fasting and prayer he had come to the conclusion that only his faith could help him to live the life which had been ordained for him. He had clung to faith as the heretics clung to the crucifix when the flames consumed their bodies. He remembered that any trouble sent to him came through the will of God, and that to rail against misfortune was to rail against God.

He had decided that never again must he love a human being more than his faith. He had spent much time with priests, and the belief had come to him that it was his destiny not to look for happiness, but to purge his country of the heretic. In that must he find his greatest joy. He believed that it was his duty to inflict the cruellest suffering on heretics, not only because that was what his faith demanded of him, but for their good also. How many might he not turn from their evil ways with enough application of the rack, the wheel, and red-hot pincers?
And if that were not possible, if the Devil had their souls so firmly in his possession, then was it not a good thing to prepare them for eternal torment? Members of the Inquisition had applauded his fervor. He was with them as his great father had never been. When Philip was eventually on the throne, they doubted not that the Holy Office would flourish as it had in the days of the great Isabella and Torquemada.

Isabel’s house was large and comfortable, yet it lacked that magnificence which might have proclaimed it to be the residence of a Prince’s mistress. He found great pleasure in entering this house, for to him it was home. He went swiftly through the door which opened on to the
plazuela
and through the great hall, where a servant was throwing lavender on the
brasero
. This servant immediately fell to her knees when she saw him, but Philip, deeply conscious of the dignity due to his rank, did not give her a glance. Another servant appeared from the
estrado
at the end of the hall; she also knelt, and he ignored her as he had the other.

He mounted the staircase. He found that he was praying softly under his breath: “Holy Mother of God, let it be over … let it be over …”

He was asking that he might never again be called upon to lose a beloved woman as he had lost Maria Manoela. “Holy Mother … Holy Mother … let all be safely over …”

Often he had wished that he might marry Isabel; that was clearly quite impossible. He was so fond of her; she had been the only one who could comfort him when he had lost Maria Manoela. She was so calm that she brought him back to calmness; she understood him as Maria Manoela never had. She had become the wife and the mistress he needed at such a time; and he loved her devotedly.

He had sent Leonor to the house that she might be with Isabel at this time. That was the most he could give her, he knew. And Leonor, knowing all that Isabel had done for her Philip, was glad to go.

How fortunate he was in Isabel! He would never cease to be grateful for her. She conducted their relationship in that manner which she knew would please him best. When the Prince came to this house he was no longer the Prince; he was a nobleman visiting his mistress. No. He was a husband returning to his wife after an enforced absence.

As he reached Isabel’s room, Leonor came hurrying out to him. He gave her his hand and she bent over it. He saw that she was smiling. So all was well.

“Well, Leonor?”

“A beautiful boy.”

“That is good. And … his mother?”

“Well too, Highness. She is tired, but I doubt not she would sleep better after a glimpse of you.”

How different this was from that other childbirth four years ago! He should have understood then; he should have been prepared.

As he entered the apartment, the women about the bed fell back. He did not look at them. His eyes went at once to the woman in the bed. She was very beautiful, although the signs of her ordeal were still upon her. He took her hand and kissed it.

“My dearest, I am relieved that it is over.”

“And pleased with the result, my Prince?”

“Pleased indeed. Another boy.”

Leonor was at his elbow. “A
beautiful
boy, if you please.”

“A beautiful boy,” repeated Philip, allowing himself to smile.

Isabel smiled. He wished then that he was not the Prince of the Asturias, that he might marry her and live with her, see her each day, laugh with her more than he could now permit himself to do, discuss all the domestic problems as humble people did.

Leonor tiptoed out and left them together.

When she had gone, he said: “And you, my love? That is what matters most.”

“I am well, Philip, and I feel strong and happy now that I have seen you. It was good of you to come.”

“If only …” he began; he stopped and shrugged his shoulders. It was wrong even to wish that his destiny had not been thrust upon him. She smiled, understanding him as she always understood him. He remembered afresh how in the days of his great grief, when he was cold and aloof, she had known how to comfort him … she alone.

“We have been very happy for three years,” she reminded him. “We shall be happy for many more.”

“No matter what happens,” he agreed, “I shall always love you.”

He meant that if ever he had to make a marriage for state reasons she must not think he had ceased to love her even if it should be necessary for them to give up their life together. He would remember her always as the rock to which he had clung when his grief on the death of Maria Manoela had threatened to submerge him; she was the woman, a little older than himself, to whom he could in their privacy be something of the man he might have been if he had been allowed to grow naturally, if he had not been bound by rigid, iron casings which had forced him to grow in a certain mold.

“I am glad the child is a boy,” she said. “You will see his brother before you go?”

“I will,” said Philip. “And I should go now, my dearest—though I have no wish to do so—for I see that you are tired and should be resting. I but came to assure myself that you had come safely through. Now … to rest.”

He smoothed the coverlet with the tenderness of a mother; he was like a devoted yet restrained husband, Isabel thought. He had been thus, even in the early days of their relationship. He had amused her then with his solemnity, and the more solemn he became, the more tender she felt toward him, for oddly enough, in her opinion, it made him seem younger than others of his age.

He insisted that she close her eyes before he went out of the room. He stood by the door watching her. The experience of being alone in a room without attendants never failed to stimulate him; and in this room he had known some of the happiest moments of his life because during them he had imagined himself to be an ordinary husband and father.

He went briskly out into the corridor, where Leonor was waiting for him.

“She sleeps, Highness?”

“I have commanded her to rest.”

“Your Highness is pleased, I see. Then come to the nursery and see the little one’s brother.”

Leonor walked with him to the nursery, where a beautiful boy of not quite three was sprawling on cushions, Moorish fashion, on the
floor playing with colored balls. His nurse bowed and retired when she saw the Prince.

“Papa!” cried the boy and rising and running to Philip, he clasped him about the knees. Philip stood still until the door closed on the nurse; then he picked up the boy.