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.