by Jean Plaidy
There was only one matter of moment to Ferdinand: the good of Spain. Spain's desire at this moment was for peace. She had Navarre and, with the acquisition of that important little state, she was ready to consolidate her triumphs.
The English were clamoring for action. Katharine wrote naïvely from England. His dear innocent daughter, did she think that politics were arranged like rules in a convent? She was eager to please that handsome young husband of hers and her father at the same time.
She was invaluable.
Through her, it seemed, Ferdinand could set the young monarch dancing to his tune. He could let England work for Spain. What an excellent state of affairs it was when one had docile children to work for one.
He was a little sad, thinking of his lost youth and his inability to get Germaine with child. The times when he could go to bed with several women in one night were over. But he was still the sly fox of Europe.
He would forget the fear of impotence; forget the delights of love and think of wars instead.
He would allow Caroz to make a treaty for him in London with his sonin-law. He would give his promises… although he had no intention of keeping them. Promises were counters used in a game. If it was worthwhile redeeming them, you did so; if not, you forgot you had ever made them.
He sat down and wrote to Caroz. “… my armies to invade Guienne while the English are to attack from the North. I doubt not that the present Henry will be about to repeat the success of that other Henry in France, and we shall soon be hearing news of another battle of Agincourt. Let there be a treaty between our two countries, and assure my son-in-law that I am in this matter with him, heart and soul.…”
While he was writing a page entered to tell him that the friar for whom he had sent had arrived.
“Bring him to me,” said Ferdinand.
And the man was brought.
Ferdinand was pleased with his appearance. He looked like a wandering friar; he could pass from Spain to the Court of France without attracting a great deal of notice.
“I have work for you,” he said. “You are to leave immediately for France. Seek out King Louis and tell him from whom you come. Tell him that the English are preparing to make war on him and that I, through my daughter, have information of where they will attack and in what force they will come. Sound him well. Let him know that I am ready to make peace with him for a consideration… terms which we can later discuss if he is ready to consider this matter.”
The friar listened eagerly to Ferdinand's instructions and, when he had left, Ferdinand returned to the letter which he was writing to Caroz.
“I would have my son-in-law know that France is the enemy of us both and that we must stand together to crush her. Let me know how far preparations have proceeded, and we will sign our treaty so that all the world shall know that we are of one family and together in this matter.”
Ferdinand sealed his letters and sent for his messengers.
He stood at the window watching their departure, laughing inwardly.
I am no longer young, he chuckled, I cannot satisfy a wife, let alone a mistress. Yet I am still the slyest fox in Europe.
ON A BRIGHT APRIL DAY the King presided over the ceremony of signing the treaty with his father-in-law.
Luis Caroz, whose magnificence of person was only slightly less than that of the King, stood with Henry and Katharine; and a cheer went up from all those assembled, because they believed that with the help of Ferdinand they could not but be victorious against France.
The great days of conquest were about to begin. The triumphs of the warlike Henry V would be repeated. They looked at the glowing face of their twenty-two-year-old King and they told themselves that he would bring England to a new greatness.
Katharine felt content.
One of her dearest dreams was to make strong the friendship between her husband and father; that she believed she had achieved.
Surely that other—the bearing of a healthy son—must follow.
KATHARINE STARED at the letters in consternation. This could not be true. Her father could not have made a truce with the King of France a few days before Caroz was signing one on behalf of his master with the King of England.
There had been some confusion, a mistake somewhere.
She sent at once for Caroz. The ambassador came to her in complete bewilderment. As he passed through to her apartments he met her confessor, Fray Diego Fernandez. Fray Diego greeted the ambassador without much respect, and Caroz was quick to notice the quirk of satisfaction about the priest's mouth.
Laugh, my little man, thought Caroz. Your days here are numbered. I am beginning to make Ferdinand understand that you work more for England than for Spain.
But Caroz had little time to spare for the impudent priest on this day, and hurried to the apartment where Katharine was eagerly waiting to receive him.
“You have heard this news?” she asked.
“Yes, your Grace.”
“There has been some mistake.”
Caroz shook his head. He knew his master better than the Queen knew her father, and it seemed to him that such an act was characteristic of Ferdinand. What worried him was the action Ferdinand would take next, for Caroz guessed that he had already settled on a scapegoat, and that would very likely be his ambassador in England.
“It cannot be that my father was making an agreement with France while the treaty of alliance was being signed here in England!”
“It would seem so, Your Grace.”
“How could such a terrible misunderstanding come about?”
“Doubtless your father will offer some explanation.”
Henry strode into the apartment. He was in a violent rage.
“Ha!” he cried. “Don Luis Caroz! So you are here. What news is this I hear from Spain? Someone has lied to me. How could your master give his name to two such agreements at the same time!”
“Sire, I can no more understand than you can.”
“Then it is time you did. I want an explanation of this conduct.” Henry turned to Katharine. “It would seem, Madam, that your father has been mocking us.”
Katharine shivered, for Henry looked as though he were ready to destroy all things Spanish, including Caroz and herself.
“It cannot be so,” she answered as calmly as she could. “This news must be false.”
“It's to be hoped so,” growled Henry.
Caroz said: “Sire, have I Your Grace's permission to retire, that I may dispatch a letter to my master with all speed?”
“Retire!” cried Henry. “It would be well for you to retire, Sir Ambassador. If you stay I may do to you what those who betray my trust deserve.”
The ambassador hurried away with all speed, leaving Katharine alone with her husband.
Henry stood in his favorite position, legs apart, fingers playing with his dagger hilt, eyes glinting blue fire between the lids which almost met.
“My ally!” he shouted. “So this is Spanish honor! By God, I have trusted you Spaniards too much. And what has it brought me? An alliance which is no alliance…a barren wife.”
“No…Henry.”
“No! What of this treaty your father has signed with France? France! Our enemy! His and mine! I have served you royally. I brought you from your poverty and set you on a throne. And how do you repay me? Three births and not a child to show for it. It would seem that Spaniards seek to make a mock of the King of England.”
“Henry, it is no more my fault than yours that we have no child. That matter has nothing to do with this treaty it is said my father has made with France.”
“Has it not, Madam. Has it not!”
“Henry, how could I be blamed because our children did not live?”
“Perhaps,” said Henry more quietly, “it is because it is not the will of God that you should bear children. Perhaps because you were my brother's wife.…”
“The Pope gave us the dispensation,” she said, her voice trembling with a vague terror.
“Because he believed that you were a virgin when you married me.”
“As I was.”
While he looked at her the rage in his face subsided and it was replaced by a look which might have been one of speculation. “As you tell me, Madam,” he said.
And with that he turned and left her—bewildered, unhappy, and numbed by a fear which was as yet vague and shadowy.
FERDINAND WROTE to Henry and his daughter.
There had been a terrible misunderstanding. He was desolate because he feared he had been misrepresented. He had given no firm instruction that Caroz was to sign a treaty on his behalf with Henry. He was afraid that this matter had cast a slur on his honor; for even though he knew himself to be blameless, would others understand the truth?
It was a humiliating thing for a King to admit, but he feared that his ambassador in England was an incompetent fellow. He had misunderstood instructions… not deliberately. He would not believe that Don Luis was a rogue—but merely a fool.
“My dear daughter,” he wrote, “you who were brought up in our Court know well the piety of your mother and that it was her wish that all her family should share that piety. I am a sick man, daughter. You would not recognize me if you saw me now. I believe myself to be very close to death. My conscience troubled me. When death is near, those of us who have striven to lead a religious life have an urgent desire to set our affairs in order. Make peace with your enemies—that is one of God's laws. So I looked about me and thought of my greatest enemy. Who could that be but Louis XII of France? So, believing that there should be reconciliation between Christians, I signed the truce with him. This was my reason. You, who are your mother's daughter, will understand my motives.”
When Katharine read that letter her attitude towards her father began to change.
What loyalty do I owe to him now? she asked herself. It was the memory of her mother which had until this time made her wish to serve him; but her mother would never have agreed to the signing of these two treaties within a few days of each other.
It was not easy for one who had been brought up with the strictest regard for filial duty, to criticize a parent's action, but Katharine was beginning to do so.
The letter which Ferdinand had written to Henry was in the same strain.
He did not wish his son-in-law to think that he put friendship with the King of France on the same level with that which he bore to the King of England, he wrote. Nay, he had made peace with France because he feared he had but a short time to live and wished to die at peace with his enemies. But out of his love for his son-in-law, he would be ready to break the truce with France if necessary. There was a way in which this could be done. The province of Béarn was not included in the treaty and, if Ferdinand attacked Béarn and the King of France came to its defense—as he most assuredly would—then he would attack the Spanish, which would be breaking the treaty. And so it would be France which had broken faith, not Spain.
Henry scowled when he read this. He was beginning to believe that he was a fool to put any trust in such a double dealer. But it did not mean that he was not going forward with his plans for war.
MARIA DE SALINAS came to the Queen's side and whispered: “Caroz is without. He is in a sorry state. An attempt has been made on his life.”
Katharine, who had been sitting at her embroidery with two of her ladies, rose immediately and went with Maria into the adjoining anteroom.
“Bring him to me here,” she said.
Maria returned in a short time with Caroz. His fine satin doublet was torn, and there was blood on his arm.
“Your Grace,” he panted, “I was set upon in the street. I was attacked, but by a stroke of good fortune my attacker slipped just as he was about to thrust home his sword. It caught my arm and I ran…I ran for my life.”
“Bring me water and bandages,” said Katharine to Maria. “I will bind up the wound. I have a special unguent which is a wonderful healer.”
As she spoke she cut the sleeve away from the wound and saw to her relief that it was not deep.
“I am submitted to insults on all sides.” Caroz was almost sobbing. “Everyone here blames me for the treaty His Highness has made with the King of France. They have determined to kill me. It is unsafe for me to go abroad in the streets.”
“You are distraught, Don Luis,” said Katharine. “Pray calm yourself. This may have been nothing but the action of a cutpurse.”
“Nay, Your Grace. The people are infuriated with me. They blame me, although Your Grace well knows…”
Katharine said: “This may make you feel a little faint. Lie back and close your eyes.”
As she washed the wound and applied the unguent, she thought: Poor Don Luis. He is the scapegoat. I must do all in my power to save him. I should not forgive myself if he, bearing the blame for my father's action, should also suffer the death wound which would be his should these people lay their hands upon him.
She bound the wound and made Don Luis lie down, setting two of her pages to watch over him.
Then she went to the King's apartment.
Henry frowned at her. He was still displeased with the Spaniards and he wished her to know that she was included in that displeasure. But she faced him boldly. She was certain that some of his friends had set an assassin to attack Don Luis, and she believed that Henry alone could save the ambassador from another attack. She felt sickened with humiliation because of her father's conduct and, although she had no great regard for Don Luis, she was determined that his death should not be placed to her family's account.
“Henry,” she said, “Don Luis has been attacked.”
Henry growled his indifference.
“His murder would help us not at all.”
“Us?” he demanded. “For whom do you work, Madam? Do you set yourself on the side of your father or your husband?”
Katharine drew herself to her full height and in that moment she looked magnificent, with her eyes flashing and the color in her cheeks.
“I have made my vows to love, cherish and honor my husband,” she said distinctly. “I do not break my vows.”
Then Henry laughed exultantly. His Kate was a handsome woman. She was telling him clearly that she recognized her father's duplicity and that she was ranging herself on her husband's side against him. The woman adored him. That was easy to see.
“Why, Kate,” he said, “I knew it well.”
She threw herself into his arms and clung to him.
“Oh Henry, I am fearful that you should go to war.”
He stroked her hair gently. “No harm will come to me, Kate. I'll give a good account of myself.”
“Yet I shall fret if you are away.”
“You are a good wife to me, Kate. But have no fear for me. I'll go to France and I'll come back…in triumph… and you shall share those triumphs with me.”
“Come back safely… that is all I ask.”
“Bah! You speak like a woman.” But he was not displeased that she should.
It was then that she asked him to forbid further attacks on Caroz.
“The man is a fool,” she said, “but no knave. Rest assured that he signed the treaty on my father's behalf in good faith.”
“I'll order it, Kate… since you ask me. Caroz can live on without fear of losing his life. And if your father does not recall him, he shall keep his position at Court.” His eyes narrowed. “The man is a fool. But sometimes it is not a bad thing when those who are set to work against us are fools.”
Katharine did not answer. She had shown clearly that she would never completely trust her father again. Henry was satisfied.
And so the life of Caroz was saved.
THE JUNE SUN shone on the walls of Dover Castle. From a window in the keep Katharine looked down on the fleet in the harbor, waiting to set sail. She knew most of the ships by name for she had taken the greatest interest in the preparations for this war. There lay the Peter Pomegranate—named in deference to her, whose device of the pomegr
anate had become so well known at the Court. There was the Anne of Greenwich side by side with the George of Falmouth; there was the Barbara, the Dragon and the Lion.
It had been a magnificent cavalcade which had passed along the road to Dover. The people had come out to cheer their King, and when they had seen him, so richly clad, so handsome, they had declared he was more like a god than a man. He was preceded by his Yeomen of the Guard in the Tudor colors, green and white; and the knights in armor and the gaily caparisoned horses were a colorful sight.
But it was the King who stood out in that glittering assembly. He was not in armor, but dressed as Supreme Head of the Navy of which he was very proud. There were four hundred ships waiting to set sail from Dover harbor, and he himself had superintended a great deal of the preparation for the journey. Thomas Wolsey was with him; he had learned more and more the value of that man.
And there rode Henry in his vest of gold brocade, his breeches of cloth of gold and his hose of scarlet. About his neck on a thick gold chain hung a whistle—the biggest any of the spectators had ever seen—and this was set with jewels which flashed in the sunlight. He blew on the whistle from time to time to the delight of all those who heard it.
Of all the pageants in which he had played his joyful parts there was not one which had delighted him as did this new game of going to war.
Katharine rode with him, applauding, admiring; and the glances he threw her way were full of love and tenderness.
There was a reason for this. As though to crown his happiness she had been able to give him, some few weeks before, the news which he had so wished to hear.
“Henry,” she had said, her eyes alight with happiness, “there can be no doubt that I am with child.”
Then he had embraced her and told her that there was only one regret in his life; that to make this holy war on France he must leave her.
“You must take care of yourself, Kate,” he had said. “Remember in this fair body lies the heir of England.”
