“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 lose 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 aggrandizement 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 stillborn 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 realize 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 lovemaking.
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 secretar
y; 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 allabsorbing, 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 for?” 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?”
“So you would marry me?”
He hesitated for half a second, and he could not help his mouth twitching slightly at the incongruity of the suggestion. Imagine Gipsy at Court—perhaps being presented to King Jean and Queen Catharine!
“Certainly, I would marry you,” he said glibly.
“I told you once that if you went with another woman I would make you sorry for it.”
“Gipsy…you couldn’t make me anything but happy. You’re too perfect.…”
He seized her, she eluded him; but he laughed exultantly; this was merely lover’s play. He sensed her lassitude even as she struck out at him; in a matter of moments he forced her onto the straw.
Afterwards she lay supine beside him. He felt relaxed, the conqueror. She could not resist him, even though she was so frenziedly jealous.
He need not even bother to cover up his peccadilloes. He had been wrong to imagine that he would have to go carefully with Gipsy. Gipsy was like all the others—so filled with desire for a man of his unusual capabilities that she could not resist him.
She bent over him tenderly. “Sleep,” she whispered. “Let us both sleep for ten minutes; then we will be wide awake again.”
He laughed. “You’re insatiable,” he said, “…even as I. Ah, they’re a well matched pair, my Gipsy and her Amigo.”
She bit his shoulder affectionately. And he closed his eyes.
Gipsy did not sleep, although she lay still beside him with her eyes closed. She was picturing him with that other one, and not only that one. There were many others. This faithful lover! she thought contemptuously.
She had told him that he would be sorry if he were not true to her. She had been true to him, yet he considered her so far beneath him that there was no need to keep his promises to her.
She was passionate; she had revelled in their intercourse; but he was only a man, and there were many like him in Pamplona who would be ready to come to Gipsy’s bed when she beckoned.
She listened to his breathing. He was asleep. Perhaps he slept lightly. Perhaps he would wake if she stirred.
She moved quietly away from him. He groaned and vaguely put out a hand, which she avoided, carefully watching the flickering candlelight on his face as she did so.
His hand dropped; his eyes remained shut.
Gipsy stood for a second, watching him; then she picked up her belt. From it she took the knife.
“No man betrays me,” she whispered. “Not even you, my fancy court gentleman. I warned you, did I not. I said you’d be sorry. But you’ll not be sorry…because you’ll not be anything after tonight.”
Her eyes blazed as she lifted the knife.
He opened his eyes a second too late; he saw her bending over him; he saw her blazing eyes, but this time they shone with hate instead of love, with revenge, not with passion.
“Gipsy…” He tried to speak her name, but there was only a gurgle in his throat. He felt the hot blood on his chest…on his neck, before the darkness blocked out her face, the sordid room in candlelight, and wrapped itself about him, shutting out light, shutting out life.
* * *
GIPSY WASHED the blood from her naked body and put on her clothes. Then she blew out the candle and went down the stairs and out to the street.
She ran swiftly through the alley and through several narrow streets until she came to the house she wanted.
She knocked urgently on the door. There was no answer and again she knocked. At length she heard the sound of slow footsteps.
“Quickly, Father,” she cried. “Quickly!”
The door was opened and a man stood peering at her; he was struggling into the robes of a priest.
She stepped inside and shut the door.
“What has happened, my child?” he asked.
“I need your help. I have killed a man.”
He was silent in horror.
“You must help me. Tell me what to do.”
“This is murder,” said the priest.
“He deserved to die. He was a liar, a cheat and a fornicator.”
“It is not for you to pass judgment,
my child.”
“You must help me, Father. It does not become any of us to prate of the sins of others.”
The priest was silent. He had sinned with the woman, it was true. But what a provocation such a woman was, particularly to one who led the celibate’s life on and off.
“Who is the man?” he asked.
“He is of the Court.”
The priest drew a deep breath. “Fool! Fool! Do you imagine that murder of a noble gentleman can go unnoticed? If it had been one of your kind I might have helped. But a gentleman of the Court! There is nothing I can do, my child, but hear your confession.”
“You will do more,” she said. “Because you are wise, Father, and you have been my friend.”
The priest fidgeted in his robes. He looked at her face in the candlelight. It was pale, and the eyes were enormous; there was no contrition there, only a contentment that vengeance had been wreaked on the faithless, only the determination that he who had shared in her sin should now share in her crime. She was a dangerous woman.
“It may well be that he was not in truth a gentleman of the Court,” said the priest. “It may be that that was a story he told you.”
“He was well dressed and he carried papers in his pockets.”
“That’s what he told you.”
“I felt them…tonight. They were papers.”
“Take me to where he lies.”
They hurried back to the house wherein the murdered man lay. The girl took the priest up to the room; it was not the mutilated body nor the bloodsoaked straw which claimed the priest’s attention, but the papers which were in the pockets of the man’s garments.
“Hold the candle nearer,” he commanded.
She did so and, as he read, the priest’s hand shook with excitement, for what he held in his hand was the draft of a secret treaty between the Kingdoms of Navarre and France.
“Well?” said the girl.
“This could be worth a fortune,” he said.
“You mean…papers? How so? But I shall sell his clothes. They should fetch something.”
“Yes, they should. But these papers are worth more than clothes, I’ll be ready to swear. I believe there are some who would pay highly for them.”
The Shadow of the Pomegranate Page 10
