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.”

“Did you not hate your father?”

“Hate him? How could I? He was the best father in the world.” She saw the hatred in his face and she cried out in alarm: “Carlos! What is it? You look so fierce.”

He could not yet tell her of the great passion in his life. He must not frighten her; perhaps she had not yet learned to hate Philip. Carlos was afraid that if he told her his thoughts he would frighten her, and if she were frightened she might run away.

“Nay,” he said. “I am not fierce. I am happy because you came to see me.”

“I thought I might offend you. You Spaniards stand on such ceremony, do you not? Oh, Carlos, I am glad you did not mind my coming to see you. I shall come again, Carlos, now that you and I are friends.”

“I shall never forget that you wanted to see me, Isabella. I shall never forget that you came like this.”

“You are so different, Carlos, from what I thought you would be. Then we are friends. Show me your books. Tell me how you live here. And I will tell you about France, shall I? That is if you wish to know.”

“I wish to know all about you. I have learned to read French because I wished to speak to you. But I should be afraid to speak it.”

“Oh, speak it, Carlos, speak it! You do not know how happy that would make me! How I long to hear it!”

“You would laugh.”

“Only because I should be happy to hear it. Come then.”

Carlos laughed and blushed and said in French with a very strong Castilian accent: “Isabella, I am happy you are come. Carlos bids you welcome to Spain.”

And she did laugh, but so tenderly that he was happy. Then the tears came to her eyes and she said: “You learned that for me, Carlos. That is the nicest thing that has happened to me since I came to Spain.”

Then she put her hands on his shoulders and bent her head, for she was taller than he was, and she kissed him first on his right cheek, then on his left. That moment, Carlos was sure, was the happiest in his life.

He was showing her his books, and she was telling him about the court of France when the door opened and Alexander Farnese and Juan looked in.

Neither the Queen nor the Prince noticed them; and the two boys shut the door and looked at each other in astonishment, as they tiptoed away.

What had happened to Don Carlos? they wondered.

The court was in despair.

The young Queen was dangerously ill. She had danced the night before as gaily as any, though many had noticed that she seemed unusually flushed. They had thought at the time that this was due to excitement, but the next morning there was no doubt that she was in a high fever.

The Queen was suffering from that dread disease, the smallpox.

She had felt too sick to rise from her bed that day. Philip, who had spent the morning with his councillors, heard the news as he left the council chamber.

“The Queen is ill, your Highness.”

“Ill? Ill? But she was well last night.”

“Yes, but, your Majesty, when her ladies went to attend her rising this morning, they were alarmed; they called the physicians. We fear the smallpox.”

A sense of blank despair swept over Philip. He felt desolate. She had seemed to be a pleasant child, amusing with her foreign ways and very pleasing to the eye, but … just a child, a useful child who would cement French and Spanish friendship while she was young enough to give him the son he desired.

But was that all she meant to him? Now he thought of her piteous gratitude because he was not the monster she had expected; he was kind, she had said. Did she know that there were times when he had absented himself because he presumed that was what she wished? Did she realize that he, so utterly sensitive, having suffered marriage with an aging woman, could understand something of her dilemma? She was so charming; all agreed on that.

He knew in that moment, and the knowledge brought surprise with it, that if he lost her he would be a most unhappy man.

Could he be in love with this child? Was it possible? Surely he had done with emotional love affairs? So he had thought. He had dismissed Catherine Lenez; Isabel Osorio had retired to a convent. Now he was like that young man who had loved Maria Manoela. No, it could not be. He was sad because the charming creature was ill. He was merely disturbed because, if she died, he would have to make another marriage, and so much time would have been wasted and the bond with France slackened. He had decided there should be no emotional disturbances in his life. He was dedicated to God and his country.

But, more than anything, he wanted to see her.

As he made his way to her apartments he met the physicians.

“Your Majesty,” they cried, “it would be unwise to go into her chamber now. We are certain. It is the smallpox.”

“I should see her,” he answered. “She will expect to see me. I must reassure her that everything shall be done …”

“Your Majesty … the pox is highly contagious. It would be against our advice that you enter the chamber.”

He hesitated. They were right, of course; he was foolish and it was so rarely that he acted foolishly or even impulsively. What had happened to him when he had left the council chamber and had heard the news of her illness? He was unsure. He was so deeply disturbed.

But he must see her. She was so young and she would be afraid. He must reassure her as he had reassured her on their wedding night when she had been so terrified of facing marriage with the King of Spain. Poor little Princess, she had come through one ordeal and now must face another. The King of Spain or Death—which would be more terrifying to his little bride? Of course he must see her. He must reassure her. Remember, said his common sense, always at his elbow, you would jeopardize your life—that life which is devoted to the service of God and the country—you would sacrifice that to an emotional whim! It was folly. It was unworthy of Philip the King and God’s partner here on Earth.

Still he walked on. The physicians were staring after him in consternation, but he paid no attention to them.

A wild figure came running along the corridor. It was his son. “Carlos!” he cried.

Carlos’s face was blotched with weeping, and when Philip caught the boy by the arm he stared sullenly at his father.

“Where do you go?” asked Philip.

Carlos stammered: “She is ill. Isabella … She is dying. She will want to see me.”

“You are mad. She has the pox. You dare not go to her.”

“I will. She is sick and ill. She will wish to see me.”

“You shall not go!” said Philip sternly. “The risk is too great. Do you not know that?”

“Do you think I care for risks? I care only that she is ill. And I am her friend.”

“Go back to your apartments.”

“I will not.” Carlos scowled at his father. “Let me go. I will go to her.”

“Carlos, calm yourself.”

“You cannot forbid me … I … who am her friend.”

“I am her husband,” said Philip. He signed to two men-at-arms and bade them conduct Don Carlos back to his apartments and keep guard on him that he might not leave them.

Carlos, struggling, his heart filled with black hatred, was led away, while Philip opened the door and went into the sick-room.

She opened her eyes and smiled at him. He had sent everyone away. He wanted none to witness the emotional scene which he half feared might take place.