When it was time for Elisabeth to be formally handed over and to say good-bye to Antoine, whom she loved, she felt herself unable to bear the parting.

When Antoine made his speech, in which he said that he had brought the Princess from the house of the greatest King in the world to be delivered to the most illustrious sovereign on Earth, she broke down and wept; whereupon the emotional Antoine so far forgot his dignity as to break off his ceremonial speech, take her in his arms, and try to comfort her.

All the noble Spaniards—the greatest in the land assembled to represent their King in this important ceremony—were shocked by such conduct. Their glances implied that the Queen would have to learn to behave differently now that she was in Spain.

The Duke of Infantado, head of the great Mendoza family, whose duty it had been to receive her at this stage on behalf of the King, reproved her as he led her away.

“I beg your Highness to remember,” he said, “that you are now the Queen of Spain, and the Queen of Spain does not so condescend to the Duke of Vendôme—even though he may call himself the King of Navarre.”

Elisabeth’s grief subdued her fear. She said sharply: “The Duke of Infantado is greatly daring to speak thus to the Queen of Spain, who will say good-bye to those she loves in the manner of her own people, who do not seek to hide their genuine feelings if they wish to show them.”

The Duke was taken aback, but she was so beautiful, so young, so appealing that she blunted the edge of his Spanish dignity; moreover, he realized that she was not the frivolous girl he had imagined her to be. He could only bow his head and murmur: “I crave your Highness’s pardon.”

All along the road the Spaniards came out to see their new Queen. Her beauty enchanted them. She was typically French in poise and gesture, yet her features bore traces of her Italian ancestry.

She was calmer now that she had said good-bye to her relations. It was too late to hope for a miracle, and since the death of her father she had done with hoping for miracles. Her clothes were not only rich, they were becoming; and the Spaniards had never seen anything like them. She bowed and smiled at the people with French warmth which was so different from Spanish frigidity. She charmed these people as she rode among them. “Surely she is the most beautiful Queen in the world,” they said.

She had long since learned to read the Castilian language, and now she rapidly taught herself to speak it, and if her accent was that of a Frenchwoman, it merely added to her fascinating qualities.

Even the old members of the Spanish nobility were won over by her manners. Even grim Alba himself was attracted by her.

One grows up, thought Elisabeth. One cannot cry when one has no tears left. This is the fate which befalls all princesses.

But she knew that the greatest trial had yet to come. Each day brought her nearer to it, and every little fracas between French and Spaniards prepared her for it. There was still the meeting with Philip—and after that the life with him—to be faced.

Philip was waiting for her at Guadalajara. Juana and Carlos were with him.

Carlos was in a state of extreme tension, though no one but Ruy and Juana seemed to be aware of this. Carlos would have heard the reports regarding the bride; she seemed to have enchanted all those who had come into contact with her, and, although she was not yet fifteen, she had appeared to make even the grim Alba behave like a young man in love.

“Guard my little one,” muttered Juana. “I pray all the saints to guard him.”

Ruy was thinking: Is Philip blind? Does he not realize the effect of this on one so unbalanced as Carlos?

He must be prepared to go to the defense of Philip, for anything might happen. In such a moment Carlos’s mind might topple over into complete insanity. Ruy must be at hand to guard the King.

Philip seemed almost indifferent. He was worried about the Netherlands. The Prince of Orange was hatching evil plots; he knew it. His cousin Maximilian and his sister Maria were growing closer to the German princes; they must be watched. There was so much to occupy his mind, and he only had time to think that this Elisabeth of Valois would suit him because she was young and would bear him children. Marriage was a duty to be endured for the sake of his country.

He was facing a new phase of his career, and he was determined to be ready to meet it. He had said good-bye to Catherine Lenez; Isabel Osorio had gone into a convent, for she knew that, now he was the King, their life together was ended. All Isabel’s children would be provided for by Philip, and later would have good posts in his household or in his armies. Philip could be trusted to do his duty.

He had already sent for his half-brother Juan, in order that he might fulfill the promise he had made to their father, and Juan was being brought up and educated with Carlos.

There was another boy who shared their lessons. This was Philip’s cousin, Alexander Farnese, whom Philip had brought home with him from the Netherlands.

Alexander was the son of Margaret of Parma, who was herself one of the illegitimate daughters of the Emperor Charles. Charles had always made his children’s welfare a concern of his, and he had married Margaret to Alessandro, the illegitimate son of Pope Clement. Alessandro, who had been known as the Nero of Florence, had, fortunately for Florence and Margaret, died a violent death a year after the marriage. After Margaret had been a widow for some years Charles found another bridegroom for her; but in her second marriage Margaret was hardly more fortunate than in her first, for now she was a woman and her new husband, Ottavio Farnese, was only twelve years old. The union was naturally not a very happy one, although it brought Margaret her son Alexander. Charles, aware of her capabilities and that character which was more masculine than feminine, bestowed on her the Governorship of the Netherlands, and this Philip had allowed her to retain.

He was considering now whether it might not be expedient to have the two sons of Maximilian and Maria brought to Spain, for the same reason as he had brought Alexander: ostensibly to be companions for Carlos, but actually as hostages for their parents’ good behavior.

With so much to occupy his mind, and so many problems to be faced, it was small wonder that Philip had little thought to spare for his bride.

She was now riding into the town on a white palfrey; on one side of her was the Duke of Infantado and on the other the Cardinal of Burgos. In the streets the people were shouting their pleasure; and here, in the ducal palace, everything was in readiness, for the actual marriage ceremony must take place as soon as the bride arrived.

Philip stood on the dais. Carlos was beside him. How he fidgeted! Could not the boy show some dignity? There was Juana, looking more as though she were at a funeral than at a wedding. Philip was uneasy suddenly. Would Juana’s melancholy lead to trouble one day? And here was Ruy, standing close to him—surely closer than was necessary—as though he were preparing to face a host of enemies rather than his sovereign’s bride. Philip wanted to say: “My dear friend, there is no need for uneasiness. I feel none. I do not believe this Princess of France will be very formidable.” Lightly he wondered how Ruy fared in his own married life with the stormy, one-eyed Ana.

Glancing at Carlos, Philip saw that his lips were moving. Hastily Philip turned away from his son.

What would the new Queen think of her stepson? She must surely congratulate herself when she contemplated what she had escaped. Whatever she thought of her own bridegroom, he would certainly seem preferable to Carlos.

Meanwhile, Carlos was saying to himself: “She is mine. This was to have been my wedding day. But he takes everything from me.”

He did not know what he would do when she entered. Could she really be as beautiful as they said she was? When he saw her, he believed, he might be so jealous that his hatred of his father would compell him to kill him. He might try to seize Philip’s sword and run it through his heart.

Those who had seen her had said of Isabella: “She is so attractive that no cavalier durst look at her for fear of losing his heart to her; and should the King see this it might cost a man his life!”

And she is mine! thought Carlos. Mine … not his.

Outside the procession had halted before the ducal palace and the doors were thrown wide open that the little Queen might enter.

She stepped into the hall, and she was the most beautiful creature Carlos had ever seen. She was far more charming than any picture could show.

Carlos, watching her as she was led to the spot where the King stood, wanted to shout: “Do not be afraid of him, Isabella!” He loved her the more because of that fear he sensed in her. “You are mine, Isabella, and together we will plan to kill him.”

He was aware of a hand on his shoulder and, turning, he looked into the eyes of Ruy Gomez da Silva. Carlos quailed slightly, for he knew that he had betrayed to this man the burning hatred he felt for his father.

The King was now greeting the French Princess, and she was answering falteringly in Castilian.

Then Juana knelt and kissed the Princess’s ermine-edged robe. Elisabeth smiled at her; she had pleasant smiles for all except Philip; for him she had only fearful glances.

Now it was Carlos’s turn. He knelt. He kissed the edge of her robe; he lifted his eyes, alight with adoration, to her face; and all the time the hammer-beats of his heart were declaring: “She is mine…mine!”

Her smile bewitched and maddened him; but almost immediately Philip had laid his hand on her arm and she was turning away that she might be presented to the members of his suite.