He would tell her that she would not long need dwarfs and monkeys to cheer her. Soon he would show her that she had nothing to fear.
He wanted to press her hand, but he did not do so. He had been rehearsed in the solemn ceremony, and he was accustomed to doing exactly what was required of him. He was also afraid that if he did anything unexpected she might turn those wondering eyes upon him and ask what he meant. That would be embarrassing under the solemn eyes of the Duke and Duchess.
The ceremony was long. The little bride was fatigued. The bridegroom saw the sheen of tears in her eyes.
He could not contain his thoughts then. He whispered: “It will not be long now.” He had intended his voice to sound soft and comforting, but instead it seemed harsh. That was due to emotion, but how was she to know that! She would remember that she had heard how stern he was, how he never laughed. She flushed, concluding that in showing her tiredness she had been at fault.
Now she kept her eyes firmly fixed before her, and he knew that she was longing for her home in Lisbon.
After the ceremony was concluded the banquets and the entertainments began.
Would they never be alone? he wondered.
He did have a few words with her, whispered words, for how could he say what was in his heart, with all those people looking on?
“We are cousins,” he said.
“Yes.”
“And now … we are married.”
“Yes.”
She was straining to give the right answers. He is very serious, they had told her. Already, in spite of his youth—he is only a few months older than yourself—he has governed Spain in his father’s absence.
He knew that she was looking for some significance behind his words. How could he say to her, “I want to hear your pretty voice. I want to watch your pretty lips …”?
But there was time. They had the whole of their lives before them.
They danced together in the house of Christóbal Juarez.
“The Spanish manner is different from the Portuguese,” he said.
“I … I crave your Highness’s pardon. I … I shall quickly learn the Spanish ways.”
He wanted to say: “Yes … yes. But I like the Portuguese way. I like it because it is yours …”
But he could not say those words, and he wondered whether he would ever be able to tell her what he felt.
But there was time.
He said: “We have all our lives together.”
But again he sensed the fear in her. Did she think even that remark was a reproach?
Now they were truly married.
She was a little less frightened. He had not said all that he had meant to. He was too shy. It was, he had discovered, not possible to guard the feelings for sixteen years and then let them fly freely and naturally. They were like birds that had never learned to fly; and because their wings had been clipped they would never fly high and free.
Haltingly he had made love to her.
“You must not be frightened, Maria Manoela,” he had told her. “It … is expected of us.”
She seemed grateful for his gentleness. But she had expected that. Doubtless she had heard many stories of him. They would have said to her while she cried in her Lisbon home and begged them not to send her to Spain: “He will not be unkind. He is cold and stern, but never violent.”
She was ready to laugh—though not with him. She liked to lie on her couch with her attendants about her, eating sweet-meats while they talked of their home in Lisbon; she liked to watch the dwarfs; she liked to hear the Indian slaves speak in their strange language. Such things amused her.
But when Philip appeared she would be subdued, although she did not shiver when he caressed her, as she had at first. She grew plumper and complacent.
Once he said to her, after he had previously rehearsed the speech: “It is a good thing for a Prince to find that he can love the wife who has been chosen for him.” And she gave him great joy by laughing in her childish way and putting her arms about his neck, saying: “It is even better for a Princess to find that she loves the Prince they have chosen for her.”
Her words and gestures were so delightful that he wished to continue with such a happy conversation.
“Then you love me, Maria Manoela?”
“It is my duty to love you.”
“But apart from the duty?”
She laughed, showing her pretty teeth. “I was so frightened. They said that you did not laugh. And you do not much. But you are so kind to me and … I do not fret for Lisbon now.”
He must remember that she was still a child, even though the difference in their ages was so slight. She had not discussed matters of state with a great Emperor; she had never had to listen to the discourse of generals, archbishops, and statesmen.
He thought of the home in which she must have been the petted daughter. Little petting had come his way—except from Leonor. That was all to the good, for petting did not help a prince or a princess to face what it was necessary to face. What if this little girl had fallen into hands other than his? His cousin Maximilian would have been impatient with her childishness. What would the Emperor, who was so vigorous, have thought of her? Philip thought of the French King who would not bother to hide the mistresses he preferred; he thought of the lusty man in that far-off island kingdom, who had beheaded yet another wife. She was not so unfortunate, this little Maria Manoela, to have fallen to Philip of Spain.
“I want you to be happy,” he said. “I want you to love …” But it was difficult to talk of love. He finished lamely: “… to love Spain.”
One day, he thought, I shall tell her everything that is in my mind. There is time yet, for we have the whole of our lives before us.
But he could not dally with his wife for long. He was the Regent of Spain, for even such an important event as the wedding of his son could not keep Charles from his exploits abroad.
The Prince must return to Valladolid and state matters. So the long journey north began.
Now there were state duties to absorb him. Every day he must read his father’s dispatches and attend the meeting of the council; there were many problems to be solved, and such problems could never be settled quickly by one of Philip’s temperament.
And all the time he longed to be with his bride. Constantly he wished that they could ride off alone together, not as Infante and Infanta of Spain, but just as Philip and Maria Manoela, two ordinary, simple people. How happy that would have made him! Was he, like his father, longing to cast off his responsibilities? He would have denied it. He told himself that he merely wished to be alone with her for a time, to learn to speak to her freely, not to couch his thoughts in solemn words, not to be afraid of showing excitement and the tenderness she aroused in him.
Could he not for a few short months be a lover instead of a statesman? Perhaps when his father returned he could explain his feelings to him. No! While he was alone he could imagine himself explaining but when he tried to do so he could never speak but in the calmest terms, in tones unsuited to the passions about which he wished to speak.
He imagined his father’s loud laughter if he tried to tell him. “You have your nights with her. We do not intend to disturb that, you know. The sooner she gives you a family the better. You cannot start too soon. The country needs heirs.”
He would have shrunk from his father’s laughter. He would never be able to say: This love of mine is an ideal love. It is a state of companionship and understanding, not merely of physical love. That is but a part. She is my wife, and one day we will rule Spain together as Ferdinand and Isabella ruled. But I want more than that, Father. I want her to love me … me … Philip … not the Prince I am, not the King I shall one day be. I want to be tender to her so that she will come to me when she is afraid; I want her never to be afraid of me, and I want us to be happy as few people know happiness; and I think that because she is young, and because I am her husband and love her so much, I can build up that affection between us—strong and firm, so that it will make us happy all the days of our lives. But I must have time now to be with her. Now is the time to make her understand.