There were so many reasons. Which was the most important of them all? Philip was not sure.
But the Queen of England was not overcome with joy by the proposal of the King of Spain. She flirted with Dudley and her Spanish suitor’s ambassador; she was absurdly coquettish, declaring that since Feria was her suitor by proxy he must not have lodgings under the same roof, for that would be most improper (yet this, Feria wrote, was she who, rumor had it, had borne Seymour a child!). First she favored one, then another; she accepted the rich present of jewels which Philip had instructed Feria to give her—jewels which he had previously given to Mary—but she had accepted them with a speculative light in her eyes which had meant: What does he want for this? Philip would never give something for nothing!
At times she snubbed Feria; at others she petted him. She could not see him; she was too busy; she was not well. Then he must sit beside her; he was her very dear friend and she would have him know that he was always welcome.
Feria wrote to his master in exasperation: “She is the daughter of the Devil, surrounded by ministers who are heretics and scoundrels.”
The “courtship” dragged on. Elizabeth was favoring one suitor after another, behaving as though the humblest of them was as interesting to her as the most powerful.
Such a state of affairs could not continue. Spain could not be slighted forever.
Philip suddenly decided on a change of policy. He was no longer going to ask for Elizabeth’s hand; and it seemed to him that God was guiding him, for just at that moment when the conduct of the English Queen was exasperating him beyond endurance, the French Ambassador brought dispatches from the King of France in which Henri declared that he was becoming alarmed by the growth of heresy in his country; and he felt it behooved the great Catholic powers to stand together against it throughout the world. It was irreligious for Catholic to fight Catholic while the enemy of their faith was growing to alarming power. Should not the Kings of France and Spain stand together, forget their differences, and isolate England, which, in spite of the prevarication of its Queen—or perhaps because of this—was daily growing more heretic?
Let the marriage between Carlos and Henri’s daughter Elisabeth take place at once, and so show the world that the two Catholic Kings were united against the heretic.
Surely this was the answer, thought Philip. It should be done.
Carlos was quietly happy.
At last she was coming to him, this beautiful girl. He had worked hard with the French language; he could speak many words now. He could say: “I shall call you Isabella, because that is a beautiful name in this country. It is Spanish, and Elisabeth is French. You are Spanish now, dear Isabella.”
He talked to her when he was alone; and he fancied the picture in the locket smiled at him.
He would show her the countryside; he would tell her about his ambitions, how he had always longed to be a great soldier, and that perhaps now that he was so much better, he could be.
“Isabella … Isabella …” he whispered. “I am so glad you are here. There is no one who loves me. Now there will be. There will be you, Isabella.”
Sometimes he pictured darker scenes when he was angry—not with Isabella though; he would never be angry with her. But he fancied that one of his black moods came upon him and he struck his servant until Isabella came to him and begged him to show mercy to the man. And for Isabella’s sake he would pardon the servant. She would be delighted. “Thank you, Carlos,” she would say. “How happy you make me!”
Isabella was gentle. He could see that by her picture. She would be sorry for helpless little animals. She would beg him not to roast hares alive as he liked to do; she would beg him not to cut their throats and let them bleed slowly to death.
“I know I am silly, Carlos,” she would say, “but it frightens me.”
Then Carlos would answer: “I will not do it, Isabella, because I wish to do what you want always … always …”
Then they would laugh together and he would tell her of the black moods. She would kiss him and say: “I will charm them away, dear Carlos.”
“Oh, Isabella … Isabella … at last you are coming! Even my father cannot keep you from me now.”
In the Brussels Palace Philip thought continually of this marriage, and how could he possibly think of the marriage without sorrowfully pondering over the prospective bridegroom?
He shuddered, remembering Carlos in a hundred ugly moods.
“Holy Mother,” he groaned, “why was I burdened with such a son?”
What could Carlos do for his father? What could he do for Spain? The reports from his tutors were alarming; there was not one of them who, having been given a high post in the household of the Prince of the Asturias, did not hint that he would be delighted to dispense with it.
Philip must face the truth. Carlos might not yet be as mad as his great-grandmother Juana, but he was not entirely sane. What trouble Juana had caused! Philip recalled the stinking apartment and the wild-eyed woman. He remembered how she had kept her daughter Katharine in seclusion in the Alcázar of Tordesillas. He remembered how she had screamed from her window, ordering the guards to kill one another.
Carlos was unfit for marriage.
Philip himself must have another son; if he did so, this marriage of Carlos with Elisabeth of Valois would be unnecessary. The important matter at issue was alliance with France, and Philip was the one who needed a wife. Why not continue with the French marriage, but with a different bridegroom!
He reached for the marriage contract. It was so simple. All he need do was substitute the name of Don Philip, King of Spain, for that of Don Carlos, Prince of the Asturias.
And what would the King and Queen of France say to such an exchange of bridegrooms? He could rely on their attitude. Instead of marrying their daughter to a weakling boy who had no power they would be offered alliance with the most powerful monarch in the world. What would any ambitious father and mother say to such a project?
And what would Elisabeth herself say to such a dazzling prospect?
But did it matter what such a child would say? She would of course obey first her parents and then her husband.
The more Philip thought of the project, the more he liked it.
It was left to Juana to tell Carlos.
She came to him, her face, as usual, half-hidden; and there was a terrible fear in her heart. She knew why he had improved so much during the last months; she knew of the picture in the locket, which was his perpetual solace.
She dreaded telling him, yet she knew he must not hear the bad news from any other. Who knew what wildness would take possession of him? He would be capable of a murderous assault on anyone who told him what had been decided.
She came to him while he was studying a book written in French.
“Carlos!” she cried. “Little One!”
He looked at her haughtily. He was not Little One now. He was grown up. He was about to be a husband.
“Carlos, there is sad news, dear one. It is hard to tell.”
“My father is coming home,” he said scowling.
“Yes, yes. I doubt not that he will be home. Carlos, he is to marry.”
“Ha! Then we shall both be bridegrooms. Who is it to be? The Queen of England? I am sorry for her … though they say she is a fury herself. Ha … ha …”
“Do not laugh like that, Carlos. It is not to be the Queen of England.”
“Juana … Juana … why do you look at me like that? Why do you look so sad and frightened?”
“Because, my darling, I have such bad news for you.”