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

“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.

“And how is my son Garcia today?”

The boy put his hands on Philip’s lips and Philip wanted to hold him against him and kiss the smooth brown cheek. He glanced at Leonor before gratifying this wish.

“Hello, Papa,” said the boy. “Garcia is well.”

“And pleased to see me, eh?”

The boy smiled, while his chubby hand went to the jewel at Philip’s throat.

“You like that, eh, my little one?”

The boy nodded and tried to pull it off.

“Methinks you are more pleased with that jewel than with your Papa.”

“Nay, nay,” said Leonor. “He loves best to see his Papa. Do you not, Garcia?”

The boy had charming ways and his answer was to release the jewel and to put his arms about his father’s neck and make a soft, gurgling noise which was meant to express affection.

“You must show your Papa your beautiful toys, Garcia, my precious one,” said Leonor.

The boy wriggled and Philip set him down. Philip watched him as he ran about, noting his sturdy limbs, the look of health, the eyes which were neither blue nor brown, but a mixture of Philip’s blue ones and Isabel’s black ones. How he loved this child! How happy he would be if he might throw himself onto the floor and become absorbed in the things which delighted the boy!

“He is growing clever,” said Leonor. She went to a table and took up a book. “Here, Garcia. Now let us show Papa how we can read the little words. What is this now?”

The boy dimpled with great charm. “El niño,” he said, and pointed to himself.

“So you are the little one, you are the little baby?” asked Philip.

“Yes, Papa. Garcia is el niño now. But I will tell you something. May I, Leonor? It is a secret.”

“You may tell Papa, I am sure,” said Leonor.

“I am to have a brother or a sister. Then I shall not be the little one. Then I shall be the big one.”

Then Philip, aware of an intense emotion, took the jewel from his throat and gave it to the boy.

“Pretty!” he said, and he laughed with delight.

But Leonor took it from him as he would have put it into his mouth. She clucked her tongue and looked from Philip to Garcia with her own peculiar brand of indulgence.

“To give a baby such a thing! Why, he might swallow it. It is to look at, precious one, but not to eat. Leonor will put it away, and when you are a big one instead of a little one, you will remember that your father gave it to you, and you will wish to keep it forever.”

The child was looking at his father now. Philip stooped to pick him up. He held him against him in such a way that neither Leonor nor the child should see his emotion.

Philip could never shirk a duty. After an hour spent in that nursery with Garcia he must return to the palace and visit his legitimate son, the child of his brief union with Maria Manoela. These visits were becoming, alas!, more of a duty than a pleasure.

He went to the apartments that were occupied by the little Prince.

Carlos was nearly two years older than Garcia, and Philip never looked at Carlos without wishing that it was Garcia who was his eldest son, Garcia whose place was here at the palace.

They were prepared for him in the royal nursery when he arrived. Perhaps they knew that he had just left the house of Isabel Osorio and that he had spent an hour with her son.

As Philip entered the apartment he heard Carlos’s screaming. So they had warned him that his father was approaching; they had tried to comb his wild hair, to tidy his garments, to impress upon the boy the need to be on his best behavior.

Philip stood coldly surveying the scene. The two nurses were perturbed, desperately trying to quiet Carlos; the heralds and the courtiers were uncomfortable; Carlos had turned to peer over his shoulder and scowl at his father.

Philip said: “Leave me with my son.”

“No!” cried Carlos. “Do not go.”

He ran after them, but they had left quickly shutting the door after them. Carlos went to the door, but he was not big enough to open it, so he pounded on it with his fists, working himself into a rage.

“Come here, Carlos,” said Philip.

The boy ignored his father and continued to kick the door.

Philip strode across the room, and picking up Carlos, brought him to the chair, where he sat holding the boy.

Carlos was now silent. He glared at his father with his wild black eyes.

“Why do you behave thus?” demanded Philip.

Carlos did not answer.

“Is it becoming for a prince to treat his father thus?”

Carlos’s lower lip stuck out angrily. Philip looked at the big head that seemed enormous on the poor, stunted body; he noticed how the hair grew low on his forehead, almost reaching the eyebrows, the slight hump on the back, the left leg which was not quite as long as the right, the weak, full lips, the pallor of the skin; and all the time he was comparing Carlos with the boy whom he had just left. Why had God given him one handsome and intelligent son, and another—the heir to the throne—like Carlos? How had he and Maria Manoela produced a child like this one? He thought suddenly of the apartments of Juana with the food strewn about the room; he recalled the wild laughter which incongruously rose above the music and made the mad scene more unforgettably horrible. Whenever he looked at this boy he was reminded of Juana—his grandmother and Maria Manoela’s.

“Carlos,” he said severely, “you are growing up now.”

Carlos continued to scowl at him.

“One day you will be a king. Kings do not kick and scream.”

“Then they are silly,” muttered Carlos.

“Why do you say that, Carlos?”

“Because when this little one kicks he gets what he kicks and screams for.”

“Then you shall do so no longer.”

Carlos’s scowl became almost a smile. If he was not clever, he was cunning. Philip thought of Dr Siliceo, who had always been so ready to please him. There would be others as eager to please this little Prince.

“Kings have their duties,” said Philip. “They must set an example to the people. If they behave badly their subjects will not love them.”

Carlos was considering this, and it was obvious from the expression on his face that he did not care that people should love him; he only cared that they should give him what he wanted.

“Your grandfather,” said Philip, “is a great Emperor.”

“This little one shall be a great Emperor,” said Carlos.

“You will not if you do not behave in a manner such as will please the people. You will have to do your duty and learn your lessons. How are you getting on with your reading?”

“Don’t like it.”

“Have you not learned your letters yet?”

“Don’t like,” said Carlos with finality.

“But you must try to like them.”

Carlos’s scowl-smile deepened. “Won’t do,” he said; and he laughed suddenly, doubtless recalling his latest tantrum when his nurses had tried to enforce his father’s wishes.

“Do you not want to be a learned man when you grow up?”

Carlos considered this in his sly, secret way. He was thinking, Philip knew, that he could very well get what he wanted in his present state of ignorance. Kicking, screaming himself into a passion so that his attendants and nurses feared for his health, was, he was cunning enough to know, more effective in getting him what he wanted than anything he could learn from books.