Chapter Twenty-Three

P hilip opened his eyes to the cool light of dawn and the first thing he saw was his wife's face.

She was sleeping peacefully, her long lashes casting shadows on her cheeks and her lips slightly parted. How he'd missed her pretty features, her soft skin, and her sweet, welcoming body. She was thinner than he remembered, though he hadn't been surprised. Many of her letters to him during pregnancy spoke of her lack of appetite and her abject misery at being confined to her room—even though he'd been assured by Queen Isabella that it had been a self-imposed confinement.

He moved a strand of hair from her brow. She didn't stir. In fact, she couldn't be more different to the wild and frenzied, jealousy-stricken woman he'd been faced with the day before. How she'd lashed out with her tongue. How she'd slashed at poor Carolyne's hair. It was as if a demon had possessed her, taken over her. The only thing he could think to do was upend her and spank the devil out of her.

And it had worked.

At least he hoped that was the case.

A rook cawed outside, no doubt sitting on the roof, and the brittle sound echoed into the room.

Joanna frowned and turned toward him, as though escaping wakefulness and the day beyond.

He held her closer. How he wished his sister, Margaret, were in residence. She'd always been a good friend to his wife, able to speak to her when she was being stubborn about things.

Yes, that was it… stubborn. His wife was the most stubborn creature he'd ever come across. Just look at her behavior at French court. Nothing could sway her from acting out her Spanish roots. She'd been both determined and stubborn.

But Margaret wasn't in Flanders. Their father, Maximilian, had organized her second marriage to the Duke of Savoy and she'd been gone for some time. All was well, very well, and she'd made progress with the duke's rightful claim to his lands and possessions over that of his bastard brother by getting Maximilian to nullify the letters that gave René legitimacy. Her husband was now a powerful man in a strategic position in the Western Alps who could be useful to the Habsburgs.

Margaret was an intelligent, indomitable woman, just like her mother.

And just like his wife. Clever, educated, full of thoughts and ideas the way a man was. But combined with a woman's disposition, that made her volatile and unpredictable, as she'd proven yesterday. It scared him to a degree. Not that he believed she'd do anyone actual harm, but her fast temper and quick words could get them into hot water politically if she were let loose in a man's world of governing and policymaking. And a man's world, it was. Traditions stated that rulers be exclusively male. History proved it. It was the way it should be.

How would she handle being queen one day? Her people would love her—he was sure of it. But were she to make a spectacle of herself, fly into rages, or make unreasonable demands, she'd be a laughingstock and not taken seriously. She needed him at her side, as king, as ruler, as pacifier. That was the only way she'd be a good and noble queen, with him as her king.

"You are awake, my love," she whispered quietly.

"Yes."

"I am glad to be waking up at your side." She yawned then stretched.

The sheet slipped, exposing her dark nipples, and his cock stirred. "And I yours." He sat up. Much as he'd like to spend the day naked with his wife, there were issues to address. "Though I have much to do. The Estates General are meeting and—"

"Oh, Philip , today? Really? Surely, we can have but a few hours together. To go and see the children together."

He was quiet for a moment. "It is true." He smiled. "I am aching to meet my new son, Ferdinand."

She looked away and dipped her head.

"Joanna?" Terror gripped him. "What has happened?"

She shook her head and her shoulders tensed.

Oh, dear Lord. Had his new baby son not survived the journey? Had sweating fever taken him before he'd even had a chance to know his face? "Tell me." He rushed around the bed and flung open the curtains so he could better see her expression. "Tell me. What has happened to him? What has happened to Ferdinand?"

"I am so sorry," she said, a tear escaping her left eye and rolling down her face. "I am so sorry."

"What are you sorry for?" He clenched his fists, tight balls of worry.

"He is not here."

"Not here? What do you mean, not here? On this Earth?"

"Oh, yes, he is on this Earth. As far as I know." She swallowed and clasped her hands in her lap. "I mean he is not here at Coudenberg. He is still in Spain, with his grandparents."

"I don't understand." His heart squeezed with disappointment and the need to ride, this moment, through the fields and mountains and grab his son was almost overwhelming.

"My mother, she said he had to stay there. As an heir to their crown, they wished him to remain at Spanish court, as they have never met Charles."

"But…But he is our child. He belongs with us." The urge to stamp his foot was too much and he did just that, thumping it down onto an oriental rug.

"I should have written to tell you," she said, pushing back the covers and standing. "But I thought it should be done face to face."

"But at least I would have been prepared. I'd presumed he'd arrived with you yesterday at dusk and had been sleeping in his crib with a wet nurse tending him."

She shook her head and took his hands in hers, squeezed them gently. "That was my dream, my wish, but I was stopped. My mother is a cantankerous woman who is stubborn beyond belief when she has made her mind up about something."

He stared into her face and saw her mother's eyes and the same straight line of her mother's mouth.

He sighed. "I am bitterly disappointed. I believed we would all be together as a family. Finally, after all of this time."

"I feel the same." She slipped her arms around him and rested her head beneath his chin. "You know I do."

He held her close, her slim body delicate in his embrace. "We will go to him as soon as it is possible. I will speak to the king and queen and assure them he is safe with us, and remind them that he is not their heir presumptive—that is Charles. It is he who will reign after them."

"You mean after me…and you."

He laughed softly. "Of course that is what I mean, my love."

She relaxed against him and he kissed the top of her head. "We will proceed shortly to see the children. You will be amazed at how they have grown and how well they are coming on with their education. Eleanor is already becoming quite proficient on the harpsichord."

"Oh, how lovely. I am excited to hear her play."

*

Summer slipped to autumn and with it, the days shortened and cooled. Geese were fattened. The truffle hunters busied and a Yule log was chopped in preparation for the twelve days of Christmas.

Philip had relaxed into being a husband again after being parted from Joanna for so long and enjoyed indulging his desires most nights. Her willing, nimble body was always so tempting and she appeared to enjoy their joining every bit as much as he did. At least that was what he presumed from her cries of delight and the moans for more.

Right now, he was studying the long banqueting table that had been set up for the first day of festivities after advent. A boar's head, gaping mouth stuffed with an apple, took center stage, and around it aglow beneath the candlelight sat pots of pickles and fresh loaves of bread, cheese, figs, pies, and walnuts.

"Papa." Charles tugged at his breeches. "Can I have an apple?"

"Please."

"Please." Charles, three now, dashed to the table and came worryingly close to pulling an entire roasted chicken on himself.

"Be careful." Philip scooped him into his arms then passed him an apple. "Where is your mother? Your nursemaid?"

Charles bit into his apple, juice dripping down his chin.

Philip smiled indulgently. His eldest son was going to be a powerful man with a vast empire, or at least that was Philip's plan. With a marriage into France and his great-grandfather and grandfather and himself potentially passing down the role of Holy Roman Emperor, Charles would command great swathes of Europe and beyond.

Which meant it was nice to see him playing carefree with his siblings. Because one day in the future, he'd have a colossal weight upon his shoulders. Being a monarch gave luxury in the form of splendid palaces, feasts, and bejeweled possessions, it was true, but it also came with responsibility and the constant need to look behind and around, work out who was friend or foe, who was plotting.

"Ah, there you are, Charles." Joanna walked into the Aula Magna, her scarlet gown skimming the floor and light from the candle's flames dancing on her face. "Your nursemaid has been searching all over for you."

"I wanted to see Papa," Charles said through a mouthful of apple.

Philip kissed the child's cheek then set him down. "I will see you later."

"Yes, Papa." Charles raced past Joanna to his nursemaid.

Joanna laughed. "He knows that it's story time. He loves that so."

"And I love you." He pulled her to him and stepped closer to the fire. The mantel was decorated with holly and ivy and flames licked upward, reaching for the chimney.

She smiled and kissed him. "I look forward to the feasts and the celebrations of this time of year, but mostly, l look forward to you not having any meetings."

"It is good to relax."

"Indeed, and what is there to do when the nights are so long?"

"I think we entertain ourselves well, wife of mine."

She giggled, a light, little sound that made him smile and want her all the more. "I agree."

"And as our guests are not due to arrive for another hour, I suggest we retreat to our bedchamber to await them."

"But…" Her eyes widened. "I have just prepared myself for the—"

"You can prepare yourself again." He dipped his head and kissed her. She tasted of honey and temptation. "Do not deny me, for I want you. My body wants yours."

"I would never deny you. I am whole when we are together." She slipped her arms around his neck and kissed him deeply.

He moaned as blood rushed to his groin. He pressed against her, letting her know how much he wanted her. Would always want her. He was under her spell.