He tried to raise money, but the Spaniards were only too glad to see his dominions slipping away from him. They wanted their King to be King of Spain, to stay with his people, to develop Spain from within. Charles could see little security in what was left of his Empire; he could only see a future given over to continual wars.

Often he thought of days and nights spent in Augsburg, of the child who was to be all that he had longed for in a son, of the Flemish girl who had been all that he had hoped for in a mistress.

“But,” he ruminated sadly, “Fortune is a strumpet who reserves her favors for the young.”

And so tired was he, so filled with pains, that he longed not so much for Barbara Blomberg as for the quiet of some monastery where he might relinquish responsibility and repent his sins, thereby resigning his interest in this world in his contemplation of the next.

Back in Spain, Philip resumed his relationship with Isabel. He confessed his infidelity; not that he felt it incumbent upon himself to do so, but because it seemed to him that Isabel would rather hear of it from him than from others; and there would certainly be others to pass on news of the Prince’s love affair in Brussels.

Although he was as kind and considerate as ever, Isabel noticed the change in him. His liaison with his Flemish mistress had broken down his previous reserve. The court began to whisper the name of Doña Catherine Lenez—a very beautiful woman of noble birth—in connection with Philip.

It was considered natural for a prince to have at least two mistresses. There was Isabel to provide the quiet, homey atmosphere which a wife of some years’ standing might give, and there was Catherine to supply more erotic entertainment.

Throughout Spain there was rejoicing in Philip’s return. Wherever he went people lined the streets to cheer him. News was bad from abroad. Let it be. The Prince was home.

And Philip continued to do what was expected of him. He summoned the Castilian Cortes in Madrid and asked for supplies which were so urgently required by his father. He pushed forward with negotiations which would bring him Maria of Portugal and her dowry. Philip was sorry to lose his beloved friend, Ruy Gomez da Silva, but he knew that Ruy with his suave diplomacy could lure more money from the coffers of King John of Portugal than anyone else could. So to Portugal went Ruy, and Philip prepared to receive his bride as soon as negotiations were brought to a conclusion.

But it seemed that King John was not prepared to be generous, and arrangements were delayed.

Philip was twenty-six; he had had a wife, and now he had two mistresses who completely satisfied him. For himself he did not need a wife. But he must not forget that although he had given his country an heir, that heir was Don Carlos.

Carlos was in the schoolroom; he was sprawling over the table, but he was not listening to his tutor. The tutor was afraid of him, as Carlos was beginning to realize most people were. They were not so much afraid that he would attack their persons—which he would do if the mood took him—but that he would attack their dignity. They did not know how to act when the Prince Don Carlos threw a boot at them. That made Carlos laugh so much that he would cry. To see them standing respectful, full of dignity, and then being forced suddenly to dodge in order to avoid a missile was, thought Carlos, the funniest thing imaginable.

They had taken his beloved Juana from him and married her to the Prince of Portugal. She had wept bitterly when she had gone, and she had told Carlos that she would continually think of him.

There had been only one matter which gave him pleasure at that time: his father was away from Spain. He had stayed for months which had grown to years, so that Carlos had forgotten what he looked like and remembered only that he hated him.

Maximilian and Maria hardly ever saw him; he was shut away from them because they were too busy to be bothered with him. Carlos alternated between bouts of anger and self-pity.

“Nobody loves the little one,” he would say to himself, although he was not so little now. “Nobody loves el niño.”

He was afraid of his Governor, Don Garcia de Toledo, who was the brother of the mighty Duke of Alba. Don Garcia would stride into the apartment and everyone would bow low as though he were the Emperor himself. Carlos would watch him from under lowered brows, his lip jutting out, his eyes sullen. One of these days he would put Don Garcia to the test; he would throw something at him; he would arrange a trap, something over the door to fall upon him and spoil his magnificent doublet, splash his white kid breeches; or perhaps he would put something on the floor so that Don Garcia slipped and turned head over heels. Then Carlos would see what became of his dignity.

For all these mighty dons must remember that Carlos was a prince of Spain and that one day he would be their King; and when that day came he would have their throats cut if they displeased him—not deeply, but just lightly, so that he could watch them bleed to death as he did the rabbits he caught.

At the moment, though, he was not ready. He planned these tricks he would play on Don Garcia, but when the nobleman appeared he would seem so much bigger than the man Carlos had imagined, so much more powerful; and the young Prince had to content himself with plotting for the future.

In the meantime he was helpless. He must leave his bed at seven to attend Mass, and after eating he must go to the schoolroom until eleven, when it was time for dinner. After dinner he must go out of doors into the courtyards, and sons of noblemen were sent to fence with him or play games. He would have liked to fence without foils; he would have liked to run a sharp sword through his opponent’s body. They were too quick for him. It seemed that all the boys with whom he played were stronger than he was, bigger than he was; they did not limp as he did; they could run fast and were never breathless.

He had cried to his tutors: “Let little boys be sent.” Little boys, he thought, whose arms he could twist until they screamed; little boys who did not know the tricks which would enable them to escape his sword, who did not beat him at billiards and quoits.

Don Garcia had said gravely: “Only those worthy to share your Highness’s leisure hours may be sent to you.”

“Why? Why?” demanded Carlos.

“Because those are the orders of his royal Highness, your father.”

His father was the source of all his misery. Well, there was one thing his father did not know. It was this: Whenever Carlos killed a rabbit or a dog, it was of his father that he thought. It was because of his father that he enjoyed taking a mole or a mouse in his hands and slowly squeezing it until it died, because then he imagined that it was his father’s neck which his fingers were pressing, just as he imagined that the blood which flowed was his father’s.

Hatred for his father was the greatest emotion in his life.

Everybody disliked Carlos; he was wise enough to know that. The only one who had loved him was Juana, and they had taken her away from him. She had cried so sadly when she went away. “Little one,” she had said, “if only I could stay with you!” He had put his arms about her neck, had let his hands rest on her soft skin, and although that well-known thrill had crept over him and part of him had wanted to press and squeeze as it did when he touched soft things, the other part of him had only wanted to stroke and caress, for he loved Juana because she was the only one who loved him.

“Little one will kill those who take you away from him,” he had snarled.

“It is no one’s fault, Carlos.”

“It is Prince Philip’s fault.”

“No … no.”

“Everything is his fault.”

He was sure of it; and everyone loved Philip, while only Juana loved Carlos. Carlos wanted so much to be loved. When he was King, he often told himself, he would have everyone killed who did not love him. But in the meantime he was merely a prince, a very young prince, who must perform all the irksome tasks which were set him.

Now that his father had returned to Spain there were more tasks. His father had found the bodies of rabbits in the schoolroom and had demanded to know who had put them there. The result of those inquiries was that Carlos was brought before his father.

“Why do you do such things?” asked Philip sadly.

“Little one does not know.”

“Please speak of yourself as a grown-up person. You are no longer a baby.”

Carlos was afraid because of the coldness of those pale eyes. Fiery anger he understood, but not cold anger.

He stammered: “I do not know.”

“You must know. Why do you take defenseless creatures and kill them without reason?”

Carlos was silent.

“These bad habits must cease,” went on Philip. “You are old enough now to come to some understanding of what your duties will one day be. Instead of occupying yourself with ill-treating defenseless animals, I wish you to develop a taste for reading. Nothing can improve your mind more than that. Understand that is what I expect of you, and if I hear further bad reports of your conduct I shall have to take measures which will not please you.”

Philip dismissed Carlos then; and never, felt the boy, had he hated him so much. He fled to his own apartments, flung himself on to the cushions which were on the floor and, in a rage, began to bite them, tearing the velvet so that soon the down was escaping and floating about him like a snowstorm.

One day, he promised himself, Little One will kill his father.

His tutor came in and found him in a state of emotional exhaustion.

“You shall have a soothing drink, Highness, and after a rest you will feel better.”

And while the tutor took the trembling body of his young master and helped him to his feet, he was wondering if he might ask to be excused the great honor of tutoring the heir. His duties were becoming more and more irksome, and he guessed that one day they would be more than irksome; they would be dangerous.

It was not long before Carlos was lashing himself to fresh fury and, as he did so, a cobbler arrived with a pair of shoes the Prince had ordered.

Carlos was glad to tear himself away from the fierce passion which beset him. “Send the cobbler in,” he commanded. “He brings the new shoes and Little One wishes to try them on.”

Carlos glowered at the cobbler because he was young and handsome. The cobbler knelt and held out the shoes, which were beautifully wrought. He was obviously proud of his work.

“Your royal Highness will see that I have carried out your instructions in every detail. Might your royal Highness like to try them on to assure yourself that the fit is as perfect as I know it to be?”

Carlos sat imperiously in his chair, ordering one of his attendants to kneel and take off his shoes. This was done, and the shoes were put on his feet.

Carlos rose. The cobbler watched in delight. But Carlos was determined to be angry. He could not forget the recent scene with his father. Hatred filled his heart—hatred for his father. Yet he dared not show that hatred. He had enough sense to know that he could not pit his puny strength against that of the calm, solemn man who had the whole of Spain behind him. Yet Carlos would be revenged on someone. He looked at the smiling face of the cobbler.

“They are ill-made!” he shrieked. “They do not fit. You have made them badly on purpose to provoke Don Carlos, and Don Carlos will not be provoked. Scoundrel! How dare you stand there smiling, so pleased, when you have caused the shoes of his royal Highness Don Carlos to pinch him?”

“Your Highness, is it so? Doubtless we can remedy the slight fault. Mayhap the shoes which were copied were a little too small for your royal Highness. The fault shall be rectified.”

“The fault shall indeed be rectified!” cried Carlos, his eyes flashing. “You … standing there … seize this man. Do you hear? Do you stand there refusing to obey Don Carlos!”

Two attendants came forward and took the bewildered cobbler uncertainly by the arms. “What … is your Highness’s pleasure?”

“Your Highness will tell you. Take him. But first let him pick up his shoes … his odious shoes … which he has made too small in order to hurt his Prince.”

“I assure your Highness …” began the cobbler.

“His Highness does not listen to you. His Highness thinks how he will punish you. You will soon wish that you had not dared to show your insolence to Don Carlos.”

Carlos broke into loud laughter. He had thought of a wonderful plan, and it amused him; it made him happy; he would be revenged on the insolent cobbler, for how could he be revenged on the one whom he really hated? For the time being the cobbler could take Philip’s place.