For a Queen's Love: The Stories of the Royal Wives of Philip II (41 page)

He spoke quietly then, as though to himself: “She was mine, and you took her from me, but do not think it will always be thus. You are old … and she is young … and I am young, and I shall always be between you … because she is mine … mine …”

Philip turned abruptly and left him. His son was quite mad, but what an unhealthy situation was this! Carlos and … Isabella! It made him shudder. Carlos did not see himself as others saw him.

Yet Philip was deeply disturbed. He knew that Isabella did not really love him as he wished to be loved. He was fully aware of the restraint between them. He wanted the love of Isabella—the complete love of Isabella—more than he had ever wanted anything in his life.

Carlos … between them! That was ridiculous! But it was a disturbing thought.

After that visit
from his father, Carlos’s fury broke out more wildly than ever. He began to seek opportunities of offending the most important men.

The Inquisitor-General, Cardinal Espinosa, had banished an actor from Madrid. Carlos discovered this and, because he was beginning to hate all men in authority, he declared that the banished man was his favorite actor, and he wanted to know what right a priest had to oppose the son of the King. At the very first opportunity he sought out the Cardinal and, in the presence of the officials of the church and the court, he taxed him with deliberately seeking to oppose and annoy the Prince.

The Cardinal defended himself in as dignified a manner as possible, but Carlos was out for revenge and blood. He drew his sword, shouting: “Miserable priest who dares oppose a prince! Miserable torturer of heretics!”

None dared strike the Prince, but it was essential to save the Cardinal, and his friends, ranging themselves about him, hustled him from the room, leaving Carlos foaming at the lips, waving his sword and flashing his wild eyes menacingly at those who remained. Garcia Osorio was fortunately present and managed to soothe him.

But the great Cardinal Espinosa could not allow such an attack on his dignity as well as his person to pass without protest. He presented himself to Philip.

Philip was full of remorse and, as was so often the case when his
subjects brought complaints of his son, the interview ended with the Cardinal’s kneeling before the King and swearing to endure even the insults of the Prince for the sake of Philip.

One night Carlos tried to throw one of his servants out of a window because he did not obey his summons quickly enough. On another occasion when riding he pursued Don Garcia de Toledo, the brother of the great Duke of Alba, with his riding whip. Don Garcia had no alternative but to fly before him for fear that he might be forced into an affray in which the Prince might suffer.

It was becoming increasingly clear that Carlos was now nothing less that a violent madman.

Isabella was again pregnant, and Philip therefore decided that he would not go in person to the Netherlands. There was one whom he could trust and whom his Council agreed would be the very man to put down revolt in that troublesome country—a man of ruthless methods, of great personal courage, a fervent Catholic—the great Duke of Alba himself.

When the news of the Duke’s appointment was brought to Carlos he fell into a mood of melancholy and would eat nothing for three days. He was growing very thin through lack of food, and when his frenzies were on him they would exhaust him.

He would lie in his bed and refuse to see anyone, and as he lay there he would talk to himself of death and hate, blood and murder.

Alba, ready to leave for the Netherlands, had occasion to visit the Prince, and when he saw him Carlos completely lost control.

He came out of his silent melancholy and shouted: “Who are you who dares to come here and mock me? How dare you take the governorship of the Netherlands when you know that it belongs to me?”

Alba, seeing the condition of the Prince, sought to placate him. “Your Highness is too precious to his Majesty to be exposed to the dangers of the Netherlands.”

“Do you suggest that I am a coward, sir?”

“Indeed not, your Highness. We know you long to go and fight Spain’s battles. It is solely …”

“You know that, and you consent to go in my place! You take from me that which is mine?”

“Your Highness, as heir to the throne …”

“Ah! Remember it, villain!” Carlos, laughing horribly, showed Alba the dagger he had been hiding in his sleeve. “This is for you, sir. This is for you, Lord Duke. We will send the corpse of a noble Duke to the Netherlands … that we will!”

Carlos’s maniacal laughter rang out as he lunged at the Duke; but Alba was ready; he caught Carlos’s arm and twisted it so that the dagger fell to the ground.

Carlos, impotent to continue his attack, screamed, and attendants came running in.

“Take this man. Set him in irons. Bring me a sword and I will pierce him to the heart. I will kill him … kill him …”

He glared at the cold face of the Duke, and he hated him in that moment almost as much as he hated his father.

Alba said contemptuously: “Take him. Give him some soothing medicine. His Highness is very excited this day.”

Then, almost throwing the Prince into the arms of his attendants, he strode from the apartment.

Isabella was aware
of the rapidly increasing tension between father and son.

She longed to comfort Carlos, but she was again pregnant, and each successive pregnancy left her less able to contend with the next.

She was praying urgently for a son.

Ruy, whom she looked upon as one of her greatest friends, knew of her anxiety. She was aware that he shared it. He, more than anyone, seemed to fear the growing menace of Carlos.

Once he said to her: “If your Majesty should have a son, he would be the heir to the throne.”

“And Carlos?” she asked.

“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.

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.”