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

She did not answer; she continued to tremble, wishing with all her heart that she were at home in the Louvre, and the sounds of Paris were outside instead of the loud rejoicing of the people of Guadalajara.

Philip took her hand and kissed it with tenderness. “Be of good cheer. I will show you that I am no monster. We had to marry because that was good for both our countries. I would like to disperse your fears. I would like to see you smile. I will show you how I long to please you. If you would rather that I did not disturb your rest this night, you have but to say so and … I will leave.”

She found that she could no longer hold back her tears. She sat very still while they flowed down her cheeks. He stood looking at her in dismay; suddenly she raised her eyes to his.

“I crave your … your Majesty’s pardon,” she stammered. “They said … I thought … I had not expected you to be so kind … and it is that which makes me weep.”

So life with His Most Catholic Majesty was not so frightening after all. She could not love him; he was too old and solemn; he was not even like the men of his own age whom she had known in her own country—men like Antoine and his brother the Prince of Condé; he was not like the great Duke of Guise. These men were gallant and charming, amusing and witty; they were always magnificently attired, playing the parts of romantic heroes as well as statesmen and soldiers. Philip was quite different, and it was hard to believe that he was more important than any of them. None would have thought it; the ceremonies in his honor seemed to bore him; he was so quiet, so dignified, so solemn. But for his kindness when they were alone he would have terrified her.

Yet if she was a little afraid of her husband, there was one other who frightened her even more, though a great distance separated them. It seemed to the young Queen of Spain that her mother was never really far away in spirit; Catherine de Medici seemed to be looking over her shoulder on those occasions when the little Queen committed some breach of Spanish etiquette. She seemed to be present even in the royal bed-chamber, admonishing her daughter so to charm this strange man that he would become her slave. The girl was continually mindful of her mother, and during those first months in Spain, although Catherine was far away, it seemed to Elisabeth that the bond between them did not grow less.

She could not forget those instructions she had received before she left home. She was to work for France; she was to tell her mother every little detail of what occurred; she must miss nothing and she must write with the utmost care, remembering that their letters might be intercepted.

Her mother’s first command had been that she must win the young Don Carlos to her side. She must make him her friend, and when he was she must show him the pictures of little Margot which would be sent to her in due course; and she must sing Margot’s praises to such an extent that the young Prince would be all eagerness to see her.

It was because of her mother that the Queen disregarded Spanish etiquette and sought out Carlos.

He was a strange boy, she knew. Ever since the marriage he had shut himself away, and she had heard that he had hardly spoken to anyone and would eat nothing. He had been coaxed and threatened, yet none knew what was wrong with him and he would not explain. He would open his door to no one but his two companions, his uncle Don Juan and his cousin Alexander Farnese.

The young bride of a few weeks could surely be forgiven if she made mistakes. In any case she did not greatly care if she were not. It was a lifetime habit to obey her mother and this she must continue to do.

So she chose a moment when she could slip away from her attendants unnoticed, and went along to those apartments which she knew belonged to her young stepson.

She entered an antechamber unperceived and quietly opening a door, she found herself in a schoolroom. A boy sat at a table. He was not Carlos, but a very handsome boy—handsome enough to be French, she thought. He stood up, and with a grace which might also have been French, bowed low.

Now she recognized him as Don Juan—her husband’s young halfbrother, who was a little younger than herself.

“Your gracious Majesty …” he began.

She answered in her charming Castilian. “Please … please … no ceremony. I should not be here, you know. Are you working?”

“Yes, your Majesty.”

“And the Prince, my stepson?”

“He should be here, your Highness, but he has just left in a passion.”

“In a passion?”

“He will not tell us what troubles him, but he is very angry.”

“I would I could see him.”

“He swears he will see no one, your Highness; but if that is a command …”

She laughed. “No … no. I would not command. I do not wish him to think that because I ask something he must obey me. I would rather he looked upon me as a friend.”

A door opened and Carlos stood on the threshold. He said: “Isabella!”

She smiled at him and his heart began to hammer that mad litany:

“Mine … Mine …”

She came toward him and her smile held all the charm of which he had dreamed. He knelt suddenly and kissed the hem of her robe; he remained on his knees looking up at her.

“I should not have come thus,” she said. “But I wished to see you.”

And still he continued to kneel and gaze up at her.

“You must tell me to go,” she said, “if that is what you wish. You must forget that I am the Queen. I would not dream of … commanding you to receive me … if you did not wish to do so.”

“Isabella,” he said slowly, “you would but have to command and I should obey.”

He rose to his feet, still looking at her, marveling at the beauty of her oval, childish face, the eyes that were deep-set and heavily lashed, the sweet, childish mouth. And her dress was beautiful. It was meant to be simple, but French simplicity was so much more becoming than Spanish grandeur.

He became aware of Juan, who was clearly marveling at the change in him, and he was angry that any should share this moment with him and Isabella.

He cried: “Begone! The Queen comes to visit me . You are dismissed.”

Juan, good-natured, easy-going, indifferent to his nephew’s whims, lifted a shoulder and, bowing to the Queen, retired. He wondered whether he ought to tell some responsible person that her Majesty was alone with the mad Prince.

“Carlos,” she said, “I wish us to be friends. I think we should be, do you not? For we are of an age and … do you remember … they once intended us to marry?”

“Yes,” he said, with smoldering passion. “I do indeed remember.”

“Well, ’twas not to be, and so you are my stepson. But we are friends … the best of friends.”

“You never had a friend like Carlos.”

“I am glad to hear you say that. I thought you might not like me.”

“How could that be?” he cried. “You are beautiful, Isabella.”

“Isabella!” she repeated. “I must get used to that. It is always Isabella now. I was Elisabeth at home.”

“Elisabeth is French, and you are Spanish now.”

“Yes. I am Spanish now.”

“Do you mind?”

Her face clouded a little. “It is hard … at first, but it is our lot. That is what my papa said. It was the fate of princes and princesses, he said, and although it was hard at first, sometimes we find great happiness.”

Carlos was fascinated. He watched her lips as she talked; her pronunciation of the familiar words made them so attractively unfamiliar. He was so moved that he wanted to put his arms about her and weep.

He saw that there were tears in her eyes. In her frank French way, she explained, “It is because of my father. I always cry when I think of him.”