“Little one won’t have it.”

“When you speak of yourself, please say ‘I.’ You are too old for childish talk.”

Carlos clutched Juana’s skirts and scowled at his father, and Philip felt suddenly that he must end this scene because he could bear no more. He had suffered too much tragedy. Was it not enough that he had seen Maria Manoela lying on her deathbed? Must he also have to look on this monstrous child with the heavy head, the low brow, the atavistic eyes?

“Tutors shall be appointed,” he said, “and in the meantime, Juana, I command you, do not pander to his whims. Treat him sternly. If you do not, I shall have no choice but to forbid you to see him.”

He strode past them. Juana sank to her knees.

As Philip left the apartment, he heard Carlos cry: “Juana loves him. Juana loves el niño.”

When Philip left his son’s apartment it was to discover that the Duke of Alba had arrived at the palace. The Duke had just come to Spain from Flanders and brought dispatches from the Emperor.

The dispatches, said Alba, were of the utmost secrecy, and the Emperor had entrusted them in no other hands but his. Moreover, his instructions were to hand them to no one but Philip.

Philip took the packet and, dismissing the Duke, shut himself into his small privy chamber and prepared to examine the documents. He was glad of the work. He was glad of anything which would enable him to forget that nursery scene in which he feared he had played a somewhat ignoble part.

The Emperor had written with his usual fullness and frankness. He recalled the past in order to explain how he and Philip came to be in their present position.

“Your great-grandfather Ferdinand, as you know, my dear Philip, favored my younger brother Ferdinand. Doubtless because he had the same name as himself, for people do favor their namesakes. It is a human weakness. My brother Ferdinand was educated as a Spaniard while I went the way of the Hapsburgs. It was your great-grandfather’s wish to make my brother Ferdinand King of Aragon, at one time, or even to create a kingdom for him in our dominions. He was to be Regent of Spain while I administered the Hapsburg inheritance in Germany and the Netherlands. But when old Ferdinand, your great-grandfather, died, I was the stronger. I was proclaimed King of Spain while I remained Emperor of my father’s dominions. But I could not ignore my brother Ferdinand. I had troubles enough on hand and I did not want another enemy. I made him King of the Romans, and I let him believe that on my death or retirement he would become Emperor.

“Naturally, my son, I have always wanted you to succeed me; and I plan, in order that I may ensure this as far as possible, to transfer to you the Imperial Vicariate in Italy and to attach Flanders and Holland to the Spanish crown. This would mean, of course, that my brother, as future Emperor, would have nothing but the Austrian territory. Naturally, he does not much like this arrangement, but after many conferences I have won him to my side.

“To do this, I have had to agree to the immediate marriage of your sister Maria with his son Maximilian, and to agree that on Ferdinand’s death, Maximilian—not you—shall succeed him as Emperor. Now, my son, you have traveled very little, and I should like to remedy that. Young Max has won the affection of the people whom he hopes one day to rule as Emperor. He is one of them. They follow him in the streets; they cheer him. They are a lusty people who will choose their own rulers.

“My dear Philip, it is time you visited your dominions. This is my proposal: Maximilian is on his way to Spain. When he arrives he shall be married to Maria. I have promised your Uncle Ferdinand that Maximilian and Maria shall have the regency while you are away. I believe this to be our safest move. Therefore, on receipt of this, make preparations for a journey, which will take you through Italy and Germany and Luxembourg to me here in Brussels. There is much that I wish to discuss with you in private …”

Philip stopped reading.

To leave Spain! To leave Carlos, who needed his discipline? To leave Doña Isabel and her two boys who gave him all the solace he needed when he escaped from his affairs of state, to face the Cortes and tell them that he was to follow his father abroad … he did not like it. And Spain would not like it either.

He guessed that one subject his father wished to discuss in private was another marriage for him. He had been a widower too long.

He did not want his life to be disturbed; yet if it was his duty to leave his country and to travel in foreign lands, to take a woman whom he did not want to be his wife, he would do that duty, as he always had.

Valladolid was preparing for fiesta. The marriage of the Emperor’s daughter Maria to her cousin Maximilian was to be celebrated with even more pomp and splendor than was usual on such occasions; the populace must be appeased. The Cortes had protested against the departure of the heir to the crown; its members had even written to the Emperor begging him not to take Philip from Spain. Some of the statesmen had been outspoken: they had declared that the Emperor was ruining Spain with his campaigns abroad, and they wished to be ruled by a king, not an emperor.

Philip had faced them, calm and resigned. He had no wish to leave Spain; but if it was his father’s desire that he should, then that must be fulfilled.

When he had left the Cortes he had gone to Isabel’s house. She was waiting for him. The baby was a fine child, growing up like his brother, and it was a great pleasure to be with them. There was peace in Isabel’s room; he could sit beside her, watching the children playing at their feet. If only he might enjoy domestic happiness! But even now, at this moment, he must break the news of his departure.

“My father has sent for me, Isabel, and I may be away from you for a long time.”

She turned to him and, as that control which she had taught herself broke suddenly, she laid her face against his shoulder and began to cry quietly.

Philip was deeply moved, as he always was by a display of affection toward himself. “Isabel,” he said. “Isabel … my love.”

She spoke fiercely against the Emperor. “But why should you go? You are needed here. Are you going to be away from us forever … as the Emperor has always been? The people will not endure that. You must not go, Philip. Oh, you must not go.”

He stroked her hair; he dared not speak for fear of showing her his distress.

Little Garcia came and stood before them, looking wonderingly at his mother. “What ails her, Father?” he asked.

Philip took the boy on to his knee. The baby stopped kicking as he lay on his cushions. When he saw their tears he let out a loud wail.

His mother went to him and picked him up; she sat with him on her knee, hiding her own grief in her effort to comfort the child.

“Father,” insisted Garcia, “what is wrong, then?”

His mother answered for Philip. “It is nothing to be sad about. But … your father has to go away for a time.”

“For a long time?”

“It will not be longer than I can help,” said Philip.

“You will come back soon,” said the boy.

They sat for a while in silence, the boy looking from the face of one parent to the other’s. The baby put out a fat hand and grasped at a bright ornament on his father’s doublet.

It seemed to Philip a scene of charming domesticity, saddened only by his impending departure. Oh, how happy he might have been had he not been born the Prince of Spain!

While the festivities which followed the wedding of Maximilian and Maria were still in progress, Philip left Valladolid on the first stage of his journey.

His departure took some of the merrymaking out of the revels, for even to the people in the streets he was the beloved Prince. The Emperor might be a foreigner, but Philip was one of themselves; they liked his quiet dignity, his Spanish haughtiness; they had never heard of any indiscretion on his part, and even his love affair with Isabel Osorio was conducted with decorum, and it was said—and all believed this—that Philip behaved like a respectably married man in his relationship with Doña Isabel, whereas his father’s love affairs were mainly with foreign women.

Still, if they loved their Prince, they also loved merrymaking, and what good could they do by grieving?

On that October day, as Philip left Valladolid followed by a magnificent retinue to ride through Aragon and Catalonia, the people lined the streets and cried Godspeed and a quick return.

One woman watched him from her window. She held up her elder son that he might see his father, for she knew, though she did not tell the boy this, that it would be a year or two before they saw Philip again.

Was Philip aware of them as he rode past Isabel’s house? She knew that he was, and she knew that he longed to turn and take one last look at the house in which he had known great happiness. But he did not turn his head to look. Not for one instant, however great the provocation, would he forget the decorum due to his rank.

Yet he had taken a public farewell of Carlos. He had lifted the sullen boy up that the crowds might see him, and he had solemnly kissed the unresponding lips. Carlos had enjoyed the ceremony, caring nothing for his father’s departure.

Philip had said to him when they were alone: “I shall not see you for a long time, Carlos. I want you to promise me to be good and try to learn your lessons.”

Carlos had said nothing; he merely gave his father that long, cunning stare.

“You must be good, my son, for, with your grandfather and your father away from Spain, you have a special duty to your people. You must show an example to all.”