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.

But how could he ever say such a thing to his father? The Emperor had been fond of his wife, but that had not prevented his having mistresses all over the world. Charles did not understand the ideal relationship which Philip sought.

It is because I am so much alone, thought Philip. I have been apart from others. But that is no longer so. There are two of us now and we must grow close together. We must be loving, tender, and faithful, my Maria Manoela and I.

They were riding the few miles from Valladolid to Tordesillas. They were going to visit Philip’s grandmother because tradition demanded it; she was that Queen Juana who was also the grandmother of Maria Manoela.

Maria Manoela was frightened. She had heard tales of Mad Juana.

Philip wondered what his wife had heard, remembering how, in his childhood, he had been aware of the mysteries which surrounded his grandmother. He would have liked to ask her, but he could not. Doubtless some garrulous attendant had chattered with another in the Lisbon palace, and the madness of a queen—and that Queen a near relation of them both—would be an unseemly subject. Her madness, her captivity, her most embarrassing conduct were all matters that should never be mentioned.

Maria Manoela looked very pretty today, and he thought how charming she was with that bewildered and fearful look upon her. Thus she had looked when she had first come to Spain—like a trapped animal, wondering what was in store for her. He felt that when she was troubled, he loved her more deeply, more tenderly than when she was laughing and gay—although she was never so gay with him as she was with the pretty young girls whom she had brought with her. Sometimes, unknown to her, he had listened to her laughter. She could not believe that the important young man whom she saw at state functions could ever be the warm-hearted lover he longed to be. That cold young Prince was always between them; even Philip could not escape from him. When he tried to tell her of his love, that other Philip would be there, restraining him. He could only comfort himself by believing that it would not always be thus.

She would begin to understand him soon. She would cease to be a fearful child who could crow with delight over the antics of a dwarf. She would grow into a woman, and then she would understand. He longed for that day.

He could not take his eyes from her without a great effort. Her lovely black hair was combed high and her coif was decorated with rich jewels which she had brought with her. Her velvet dress billowed over the rich trappings of her mule. He must turn from her to bow his head in the acknowledgment of the greetings of water-carriers, muleteers, and gypsies who stood along the road staring at them as they passed. These people cheered him loudly and with affection. As a young bridegroom he was a romantic figure; and his little bride was such an enchanting sight.

“The saints preserve our Prince!” they cried. And some murmured: “Give him long life. He looks delicate. ’Tis a pity he has not his wife’s healthy looks.”

Courteously he acknowledged their greetings, but he gave no sign that he heard their words.

Philip and Maria Manoela rode on to that palace, which was in reality a prison.

Maria Manoela could not prevent herself from shivering as they rode into the courtyard. She would have been terrified had she been alone. She had heard that her grandmother was a witch who consorted with devils, for it was true that she had railed against Holy Church and the Inquisition. But for the fact that she belonged to the royal house, the Inquisition would have taken her before this.

“Is she truly a witch?” she whispered.

Philip answered: “All will be well.” His voice was harsh with tenderness, and she turned from him. He wanted to tell her that he would be beside her, that she would have nothing to fear, but they were surrounded by attendants and this was not the time.

Maria Manoela wanted to ask Philip to turn back, but she dared not. She was never sure of him. Sometimes he seemed kind, but at others he was so stern. He frightened her. “He is always right,” she had told one of her ladies. “I am frightened of people who are always right. Sins … nice venial sins are so comforting.” And that was true, she thought now. Eating too many sweetmeats, not concentrating during Mass, passing on scandalous tidbits, not always confessing the more private faults … those were the little sins committed by everybody—except Philip. He was apart. That was why he was frightening. Still, she would be glad of his presence when she had to kneel before the old lady; she would pray then that her grandmother would not touch her. It was said that the touch of a witch was enough to lay a spell upon you. The thought of a witch, perhaps … no wonder she was shivering.

Philip whispered: “You are afraid.” And he knew even as he spoke that the words sounded more like a reproach than the comfort he intended to convey.

“What … will she do to us?”

“Give us her blessing.”

“Will she … touch us?”

“She will hardly be able to give us her blessing without doing so.” And he thought: Little one, I shall be there. I shall be with you.

They had entered the palace now. They were walking through long, tiled corridors; their footsteps echoed through the gloomy halls. Maria Manoela moved closer to Philip; and he thought: She turns to me when she is afraid. Gradually she will come to trust me … to love me …

Now they were about to enter the presence of the mad woman of the Tordesillas Alcázar.

As one of the guards of the door knelt before Philip he said: “Your royal Highness, this is one of her Highness’s good days.”

Philip nodded. The doors were thrown open. A herald sounded a fanfare.

“Their royal Highnesses, Prince Philip and the Princess Maria Manoela.”

They went forward together.

Maria Manoela was trembling; she was more frightened than she had been when she had said good-bye to her family in Lisbon, more frightened than when she had been left alone for the first time with her husband, for she believed herself to be in the presence of a witch.

The room was hung with black velvet which shut out most of the light. The air was filled with the smell of decaying food. Candles burned in their silver candlesticks.

Now that Maria Manoela’s eyes had grown accustomed to the gloom she saw that dishes of food were lying about on the floor; they had clearly been there for a long time. It was one of Queen Juana’s fancies that she should eat her food on the floor like a dog and that the dishes should be left until she commanded that they be removed.

In a high chair sat Queen Juana, daughter of Queen Isabella the Catholic and Ferdinand. Her face was unwashed; her hair hung in greasy strands about her shoulders; her robe of rich velvet was torn and stained; through its rents it was possible to see her dirty skin.

She peered at the young pair who were approaching.

“Who’s this?” she cried.

A man who had been standing by her chair bowed and answered: “It is his Highness your grandson, Prince Philip, and with him is his bride, the Princess Maria Manoela.”

“Philip!” she cried. “So it’s Philip.”

She began to laugh and her voice echoed uncannily in the strange room.

The attendant said: “Your grandson, Prince Philip, Highness.”