The Shadow of the Pomegranate Read online

  Caroz soothed his anger by thinking of the account he would send to Ferdinand of this interview.

  You will not long remain in England, my little priest, he prophesied.

  His next call was on Richard Fox, Bishop of Winchester – a man who, he knew, had great influence among the King’s ministers.

  Promise them anything, Ferdinand had said, but get in exchange for your promise theirs to work for the English invasion of France.

  Here was a man, thought Luis, who could surely be bribed because as an ambitious man he must be eager for the prizes of power and fame.

  Caroz was proud of his ingenuity, for he had made up his mind what he was going to promise Richard Fox.

  Fox received him with seeming pleasure, but beneath that calm expression of hospitality there was an alertness.

  ‘I pray you be seated,’ said Fox. ‘This is indeed both an honour and a pleasure.’

  ‘You are kind, my lord Bishop, and I thank you. I have come here today because I believe it is in my power to do you some service.’

  The Bishop smiled rather ambiguously. He knew that it was a bargain the ambassador would offer rather than a gift.

  ‘Your kindness warms my heart, Excellency,’ he said.

  ‘It would not be an easy matter to achieve,’ admitted Caroz, ‘but I would ask my master to work for this with all his considerable power – and he has great power.’

  The Bishop was waiting, now almost unable to curb his eagerness.

  ‘His Holiness plans to create more Cardinals. There are two French Cardinals and it has been suggested that he will present the hat to more Italians and Spaniards. My master is of the opinion that there should be some English holders of the office. I think he would be prepared to consider those for whom he felt some . . . gratitude.’

  The Bishop, who had been sceptical until this moment, could scarcely hide the great excitement which possessed him. The Cardinal’s hat! The major step towards the highest goal of all churchmen – the Papal Crown.

  Fox had assured himself that he was a man of integrity; he would work for the good of England – but what an honour for England if one of her bishops became a Cardinal; what great glory if one day there should be an English Pope!

  Caroz, exulting inwardly, knew of the conflict which was going on behind the immobile features of the Bishop. What a stroke of genius on his part to think of hinting at a Cardinal’s hat! It was the irresistible bribe. No matter if there was no possibility of the offer’s ever being made; promises such as this were all part of statecraft. How delighted Ferdinand would be with his ambassador when he heard of his ingenuity. It was worthy of Ferdinand himself.

  ‘I agree with His Highness, King Ferdinand, that there should be a few English Cardinals,’ said Fox. ‘It will be interesting to see if the Pope shares that opinion.’

  ‘There are few whom I would consider for the office,’ said Caroz. ‘But there are some . . . there is one . . .’

  The Bishop said fervently: ‘That man would never cease to be grateful to those who helped him to attain such office, I can assure you.’

  ‘I will pass on your words to my master. As you know, since the alliance of his daughter and the King he has had a great affection for your countrymen. It is something which he does not bear towards the French. Nothing would please him more than to see our two countries set out side by side to conquer our mutual enemy.’

  The Bishop was silent. The terms had been stated. Withdraw your opposition to the project of war, and Ferdinand will use all his considerable influence with the Pope to win you a Cardinal’s hat.

  Was it such a great price? Fox asked himself. Who could say? It might well be that those territories which had once been in English hands would be restored. Surely a matter for rejoicing. And his help might mean that an English cardinal would be created, and English influence would be felt in Rome.

  Caroz wanted to laugh aloud. It has succeeded, he thought. And why not? What bishop could turn aside from the glory of receiving his cardinal’s hat?

  He took his leave of the Bishop and went to his own apartments, there to write to his master.

  He wrote that he believed he had found a means of breaking down the opposition to the beginning of military operations. He added a footnote: ‘It would seem to me that the Queen’s confessor, Fray Diego Fernandez, works more for England than for Spain, and I would recommend his recall to Spain.’

  Chapter V

  MURDER IN PAMPLONA

  Jean d’Albret, that rich nobleman who owned much of the land in the neighbourhood of the Pyrenees, had become King of Navarre through his marriage to Catharine, the Queen of that state. It was an ambitious marriage and one which had pleased him at the time he had made it, and still did in some respects. But to possess a crown through a wife was not the most happy way of doing so, and Jean d’Albret, a man who was more attracted by pleasure than ambition, by a love of literature than of conquest, was far from satisfied.

  The times were dangerous and he saw himself caught between two great and military minded powers. His was a small state but it was in a strategic position and could be of importance to both France and Spain. Jean knew that Ferdinand had long cast acquisitive eyes on his and Catharine’s crown; and that Louis was determined to keep Navarre as a vassal state.

  It was tiresome. There were so very many interesting matters to occupy a man. War seemed to Jean senseless; and he knew that, if there should be war over Navarre, the Spanish and French sovereigns would see that it took place on Navarrese soil.

  Jean began to think that had he made a less ambitious marriage, say with the daughter of a nobleman as rich as himself, their possessions could have been joined together and they would have remained happily French; and moreover lived the rest of their days in comfort without this perpetual fear of invasion of their territory.

  His wife Catharine came to him, and he saw by the anxious expression on her face that she was even more worried than he was. She was pleased for once to find him alone; usually the fact that he preferred to live as an ordinary nobleman with as little royal style as possible, irritated her; but today she had something of importance to say to him.

  ‘My agents have brought news of negotiations which are going on between Ferdinand and Henry of England. It is almost certain that the English will invade France.’

  Jean shrugged his shoulders. ‘Louis will laugh at their puny efforts.’

  ‘You have missed the point as usual,’ she told him tartly. ‘Ferdinand’s plan is not to invade France but to take Navarre. As soon as the English engage the French he will march on us.’

  Jean was silent. He was watching the sun play on a fountain and thinking of a poem he had read a short while ago.

  ‘You are not listening!’ she accused. Her eyes flashed. ‘Oh, what a husband I have!’

  ‘Catharine,’ said Jean gently, ‘there is nothing we can do. We live in this beautiful place . . . at least we live here for the time being. Let us enjoy it.’

  ‘To think that I could have married such a man! Does your kingdom, your family, your crown mean nothing to you?’

  ‘The crown, as you have so often told me, was your wedding gift to me, my dear. It is not always comfortable to wear and if it were to be taken from me . . . well, then I should be plain d’Albret. It was the name I was born with.’

  Catharine narrowed her eyes. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘you were Jean d’Albret from the time you were born, and it seems that so you may well die plain Jean d’Albret. Those who are not prepared to fight for their crowns would not arouse much sympathy if they lost them.’

  ‘But you, my dear, wish to fight for yours . . . fight an enemy ten times your size . . . fight to the death . . . and in death, my dear, of what use would the crown of Navarre be to you?’

  Catharine turned from him in exasperation. Her grandmother Leonora, who had been Ferdinand’s half-sister, had poisoned her own sister, Blanche, in order that she might take the crown of Navarre; Leonora had not lived long
to enjoy that for which she had committed murder, and on her death her grandson, Catharine’s brother, had become the King of Navarre.

  Catharine now thought of her golden-haired brother Francis Phoebus, who had been so called on account of his wonderful golden hair and great beauty.

  They had been a proud family, for Leonora’s son, Gaston de Foix, had married Madeleine, the sister of Louis XI, and thus they were closely related to the royal house of France, and it was natural that they should look for protection to that monarch.

  What an unlucky family we were! thought Catharine. My father, wounded by a lance in a tourney at Lisbon and dying long before his time. Francis Phoebus died only four years after he attained the crown, and so it had passed to Catharine, his only sister.

  Ferdinand had desired a marriage between Catharine and his son Juan; that would have been one way – and by far the simplest – of bringing the Navarrese crown under Spanish influence, for then Ferdinand’s grandchildren would have been the future kings and queens of Navarre; but Catharine’s mother, the Princess of France, was determined that she would do nothing to aid the aggrandisement of Spain. So Juan had married Margaret of Austria and had died a few months after the marriage leaving Margaret pregnant with what had proved to be a still-born child.

  And Catharine had been married to Jean d’Albret – a match of her mother’s making – because Jean was a Frenchman and the Princess Madeleine had been determined to keep Navarre a vassal state of France.

  So this man is my husband! thought Catharine. And he does not care. All he wishes is that we should live in peace, that he may dance and make merry with those of the court, ride through the country and speak with the humblest of his subjects, asking tenderly after the state of the vines, like the commoner he still is.

  But the granddaughter of the murderess, Leonora, was not going to allow her crown to be taken from her if she could help it.

  She cried out: ‘We must make the position known to the King of France. We must lose no time. Cannot you see how important that is, Jean, or are you still dreaming? Send for one of your secretaries and he shall prepare a letter for the King with all speed. Do you think Louis will allow Ferdinand of Aragon to walk into Navarre and take what is ours? He will see the folly of it. He will make a treaty with us which will let Ferdinand know that, if he should attempt to attack us, he will have to face the might of France as well as that of Navarre.’

  Jean rose and went to the door. Catharine watched him as he gave an order to one of the pages. His manner even towards the page lacked dignity. She felt exasperated beyond endurance because she was so afraid.

  In a short time the secretary appeared.

  He was a tall young man, with bold black eyes, a little overdressed; Catharine guessed that he could on occasions be somewhat bombastic. He was a little subdued as he entered the apartment, she was pleased to notice, and that was due to the fact that the Queen was present.

  Jean was very much mistaken in behaving in a free and easy manner with his subjects. It might make him popular, but it certainly did not make him respected.

  ‘The King and I wish you to draft a letter to the King of France.’

  The secretary bowed his head. It was as though he wished to hide his eyes, which were always lustful when he was in the presence of a woman; he could not help himself now, as a connoisseur of the female body, studying the Queen and estimating the amount of pleasure the King derived from the relationship. He dared not allow the Queen to guess his thoughts, though it did occur to him that the King might. But the King would understand; he was easy-going and he would realise that a man of his secretary’s virility could never keep the thought of sexual relationships out of his mind.

  Jean was thinking exactly this. Poor young man, he pondered, women plague him. If he were not perpetually concerned with plots and schemes to go to bed with this one and that, he would be a very good secretary.

  The Queen was not thinking of the young man as a man; to her he was merely a scribe. He would draft the letter to the King of France and it should be sent off with all speed.

  Navarre was in serious danger from Spain. Louis must come to their aid.

  The secretary, hurrying through the streets of the poorer quarter of Pamplona, slipped through an alley and, coming to a hovel there, stopped, looked over his shoulder and tried the door. It was open.

  Before entering the house, he glanced once more over his shoulder to make sure that he was not being followed. It would never do for one of the King’s confidential secretaries to be seen entering such a place.

  Ah, thought the secretary, who can say where love will strike?

  He had a host of mistresses – some court ladies, some peasants. He was a man of wide experience and not one to go into the matter of birth and rank before embarking on a passionate love affair.

  But this one . . . ah, this one . . . she was the best of them all.

  He suspected her of being a gipsy. She had dark, bold eyes and thick crisply curling hair; she was wildly passionate and even he had felt a little overwhelmed and lacking in experience when they indulged in their love-making.

  She would dance with her castanets, more Spanish than French; her skin was brown, her limbs firm and voluptuous; she was a cornucopia of pleasure. By a mere gesture she could rouse him to a frenzy of passion; a look, a slackening of the lips, were all that was necessary. She had said that he must come to this house, and he had come, although for anyone else he would have not done so. He would have decided the place of assignation.

  He called her Gipsy. She called him Amigo. That was because he had accused her of being Spanish. A Spanish Gipsy, he called her, and she had slapped his face for that. He smiled now to think how he had leaped on her then, how they had rolled on the ground together – with the inevitable conclusion.

  He was pleased enough to be Amigo to her. A confidential secretary to the King of Navarre should not disclose his real name.

  He called to her as he stood in the darkness of the house. ‘Gipsy . . .’

  There was a short silence and he was aware of the darkness. A feeling of foreboding came to him then. Had he been unwise to come? He was the King’s secretary; he carried important documents in his pockets. What if he had been lured to this place to be robbed of those papers? What a fool he was to have brought them with him. He had not thought to clear his pockets. When he was on the trail of a woman he never thought of anything else but what he intended to do with that woman; and if that woman was one such as Gipsy, then the thoughts were all the more vivid, and completely all-absorbing, so that there was no room for caution or anything else.

  Then as he hesitated he heard a voice say: ‘Amigo!’ and his fears vanished.

  ‘Where are you, Gipsy?’

  ‘Here!’ she was close beside him and he seized her hungrily.

  ‘Wait, impatient one!’ she commanded.

  But there was to be no waiting. Here! Now! his desires demanded; and there and then it was, there in the darkness of this strange hovel, in one of the least salubrious byways of the town of Pamplona.

  ‘There! Greedy one!’ she cried, pushing him away from her. ‘Could you not wait until I get a light?’

  ‘I’ll be ready again when you get the light, Gipsy.’

  ‘You . . .’ she cried impatiently, ‘You want too much.’

  By the flickering light of a candle he saw the dark little room. So this was her home. He had seen her first near the castle, and he guessed that she came from the vineyards. There had been little time to discover much about each other, and all he knew was that she was a peasant girl who worked with the vines. All she knew was that he was employed at the Court. That made him rich in her eyes.

  They had met many times in the vineyards at dusk; and even in daylight it had been easy enough to find a secluded spot. She knew that he carried papers in his pockets for they rustled when he threw off his doublet; he knew she carried a knife in the belt she wore about her waist.

  ‘What is that fo
r?’ he had asked.

  ‘For those who would force me against my will,’ she told him.

  He had laughed triumphantly. She had never attempted to use the knife on him.

  He was growing restive with passion again.

  ‘Come up the stairs,’ she told him. ‘There we can lie in comfort.’

  ‘Come then,’ he said. ‘I pray you, lead the way.’

  She went before him carrying the candle. He caressed her bare thighs beneath her tattered skirt as they went.

  She turned and spat at him: ‘Your hands stray too much.’

  ‘And how can I help that when I am near you?’

  ‘And near others too!’

  ‘What! You suspect me of infidelity to you?’

  ‘I know,’ she answered. ‘There is one who works with me in the vineyards. She is small and fair and comes from the North.’

  He knew to whom she referred. The girl was a contrast to Gipsy; small, fair, almost reluctant, with a virginal air which was a perpetual challenge to him. It had challenged him only yesterday and he had succumbed.

  ‘I knew her once,’ he said.

  ‘You knew her yesterday,’ she told him.

  So the girl had told! Foolish creature! Yet he was not displeased. He liked the women to boast of their connections with him.

  Gipsy set down the candle. The room made him shudder. It was not what he was accustomed to. But there was always pleasure in novelty. And when Gipsy carefully unstrapped the belt containing the knife and laid it almost reverently on the floor and then began to take off all her clothes, he saw nothing but Gipsy.

  ‘You also,’ she said.

  He was more than willing to obey.

  Naked she faced him, a magnificent Juno, her hands on her hips.

  ‘So you deceive me with that one!’ she spat out.

  ‘It was nothing, Gipsy . . . over and done with . . . quickly forgotten.’

  ‘As with me?’

  ‘You I will remember all my life. We shall never be parted now. How could any man be satisfied with another after Gipsy?’