The Shadow of the Pomegranate

Spanish Intrigue

KATHARINE REJOICED TO SEE THE CHANGE IN HER HUSBAND. She was sure that the irresponsible boy had been left behind and the King was growing to maturity.

He had forgotten their differences and talked with her of his ambitions; this made her very happy; he had even ceased to ask questions as to whether or not she had conceived again.

She had said to him: “It may be that the fact that we concern ourselves so constantly with my pregnancies is the reason that I am not with child. I have heard that constant anxiety can make one sterile.”

He may have taken this to heart, but on the other hand the prospect of war may have been entirely responsible for turning his interest into other channels.

One day he swept into her apartments, and she was aware that instead of glancing appreciatively at the prettiest of her women with that glazed look in his eyes which she had noticed with some alarm on previous occasions, he waved his hands for their dismissal.

“Ah, Kate,” he cried when they were alone, “I chafe at this delay. I would I could set out this day for France. These ministers of mine think the time is not meet for me to leave the country.”

“I have heard from my father,” she told him. “He writes that he knows that you would be welcomed in Guienne. The people there have never taken kindly to French rule, he says, and have always considered the English their true rulers. He says that once they see Your Grace they would rally to your banner.”

Henry smiled complacently. He could well believe that. He was certain that the wars with France should never have been allowed to die out while the position was so unsatisfactory for England. England had been torn by her own Wars of the Roses—which was a matter he could not regret as out of that had come the victorious conclusion which had set the Tudors on the throne; but now that there was peace within England and there was a King on the throne who was as strong and eager for conquest as Henry V had been, why should not the struggle be continued?

But Guienne! His ministers were a little anxious. It would have been so much simpler to have attacked nearer home. Calais was the natural starting point.

He would of course be near his ally if he attacked in the south; delay galled him. He could not imagine defeat, so he longed to set forth, to show the people his conquests.

“It would please me, Kate,” said Henry, “to lead my army and join up with that of your father. Together we should be invincible.”

“I am sure that you would. My father is considered one of the greatest soldiers in Europe.”

Henry frowned. “You would imply, Kate, that I should find it necessary to learn from him?”

“He is a man of great experience, Henry.”

Henry turned from her. “There are some who are born to be conquerors. They are endowed with the gift. They do not need lessons in bravery.”

She went on as though she had not heard him. “He and my mother had to fight for their kingdoms. She often said that without him she would have been lost.”

“I like to hear of a wife who appreciates her husband.”

“She appreciated him…although he was often unfaithful to her.”

“Ha!” cried Henry. “You have no such complaint.”

She turned to him smiling. “Henry, never give me cause for such complaint. I swear to love and serve you with all my might. I picture us growing old together with our children about us.”

His eyes were misted with sentiment. The thought of children could always produce this result. Then his face puckered suddenly.

“Kate, I do not understand. We have been unfortunate, have we not?”

“Many are unfortunate, Henry. So many children die in infancy.”

“But three times.…”

“There will be many times, Henry.”

“But I cannot understand. Look at me. See my strength. My good health is something all marvel at. And yet…” He was looking at her almost critically.

She said quickly: “I too enjoy good health.”

“Then why…I could almost believe that some spell has been cast upon us…that we have offended God in some way.”

“We cannot have done that. We are devout worshippers, both of us. No, Henry, it is natural to lose children. They are dying every day.”

“Yes,” he agreed. “One, two, three or four in every family. But some live.”

“Some of ours will live.”

He stroked her hair, which was her claim to beauty, and as he watched the sun bring out the red in it he felt a sudden rush of desire for her.

He laughed and taking her hand he began to dance, twirling her round, releasing her to caper high in the air. She watched him, clapping her hands, happy to see him so gay.

He grew excited by the dancing and he seized her and hugged her so tightly that she could not breathe.

“A thought comes to me, Kate,” he said. “If I go to France with my armies, you must stay behind. We shall be apart.”

“Oh Henry, that will make me very sad. I shall miss you so sorely.”

“Time will pass,” he assured her, “and while we are separated how can I get you with child?” Then he began to laugh afresh. “And we squander our time in dancing!”

Then with a swift gesture—eager even in this moment of excitement that she should marvel at his strength—he swung her into his arms and carried her across the apartment to the bedchamber.

FERDINAND, KING OF ARAGON and Regent of Castile until his grandson Charles should come of age, was eagerly awaiting dispatches from England.

His great desire at the moment was for the conquest of Navarre. He had made Naples safe and this left him free to make new conquests. It had always been one of his ambitions that Navarre should be under Spanish dominion; his great concern now was to persuade the Archbishop of Toledo and Primate of Spain, Francesco Ximenes de Cisneros, of the justice of this.

He had summoned Ximenes to his presence with the sole purpose of winning his approval of the project. Ximenes came, but from the moment he entered the King’s apartments in the Alhambra he showed his reluctance to be torn from his beloved University of Alcalá, which he himself had built and where he was now finishing that great work, his polyglot bible.

Ferdinand felt a surge of resentment as Ximenes entered the apartment. Whenever he saw the man he remembered how his first wife, Isabella, had bestowed the Archbishopric of Toledo on this recluse when he, Ferdinand, had so deeply desired it for his illegitimate son. He had to admit that Isabella’s trust in Ximenes had not been ill-founded; the man was a brilliant statesman as well as a monk; yet the resentment lingered.

Even now, thought Ferdinand, I must make excuses for my conduct to this man. I must win him to myself, because he wields as much power as I do, since while I am Regent for my grandson, he is Primate in his own right.

“Your Highness wished to see me,” Ximenes reminded Ferdinand.

“I am concerned about the French, and the dilatory ways of the English.”

“Your Highness is eager to make war on the French for, I believe, the purpose of annexing Navarre.”

Ferdinand felt the warm blood rushing to his face.

“Your Eminence has forgotten that I have a claim to Navarre, through my father’s first wife.”

“Who was not Your Highness’ mother.”

“But I claim through my father.”

“Through his marriage into the royal house of Navarre,” Ximenes reminded Ferdinand, “it would seem that Jean d’Albret is the rightful King of Navarre.”

Ferdinand said impatiently: “Navarre is in a strategic position. It is necessary to Spain.”

“That is scarcely a reason for making war on a peaceful state.”

You old fool! thought Ferdinand. Go back to your university and your polyglot bible. Leave me to fight for my rights.

But he said craftily: “How can we be sure that their intentions are peaceful?”

“We have no evidence to the contrary, and it is scarcely likely that such a small kingdom would seek to make war on Spain.”

Ferdinand changed the subject.

“The English are eager to take Guienne.”

“A foolish project,” said Ximenes, “and one doomed to failure.”

Ferdinand smiled slyly. “That is a matter for them to decide.”

“Your Highness has doubtless roused these ambitions in the mind of the young King of England.”

Ferdinand lifted his shoulders. “Should it be my concern if the King of England becomes ambitious to regain territories in France?”

“It could well be,” retorted Ximenes, “since the English could harry the French, leaving you free to walk into Navarre.”

The sly old fox! thought Ferdinand. There was little he did not know of European affairs. There he sat in his gloomy cell in his grim old university, scratching away with his scholars at their polyglot bible. Then he took one look at affairs and saw the position as clearly as those did who studied it hourly.

The man had genius. Trust Isabella to discover it and use it. If I could but lure him to my side, the conquest of Navarre would be as good as achieved.

But the Primate was not with him; it was against his principles to make war on a peaceful state. Ximenes did not wish for war. He wanted peace, that he might make a great Christian country, a country which was the strongest in the world, and in which no man could live and prosper unless he was a Christian. The Inquisition was dear to his heart; he was eager that every Spaniard should be as devout as himself and he was ready to torture them to make them so—for he was a man who did not hesitate to torture himself. Ferdinand knew that, beneath the grand robes of his office—which he wore only because he had been ordered to do so by the Pope—was the hair shirt and the rough serge of the Franciscan habit.

We shall always pull one against the other, thought Ferdinand. It was inevitable that he, the ambitious, the sensuous, the avaricious, should be in continual conflict with the austere monk.

Yet, he thought, he shall not hold me back. I must lure the English to France, and this I shall do for I have the best ambassador a man could have at the Court of England. My daughter is the Queen, and the King cherishes her, and as the King is young, inexperienced and inordinately vain, it should not be difficult.

He began to talk of other matters because he saw it was useless to try to convince Ximenes of the need to take Navarre. But all the time he was thinking of the instructions he would give to Katharine and Luis Caroz in London. With the English as his ally he would do without the approval of Ximenes.

He hid his resentment and feigned such friendship for his Primate that he accompanied him to his apartments. A faint sneer touched his lips as he saw the elaborate bed—worthy of the Cardinal, Inquisitor General and Primate of Spain—because he knew that Ximenes used it only for ceremonial occasions and spent his nights on a rough pallet with a log of wood for a pillow. It was incongruous that such a man should hold such a position in a great country.

Ferdinand, however, lost no time in returning to his own apartments and writing to his ambassador in London.

The King of England must be persuaded to join Spain in the war against France without delay. The Queen of England must influence her husband. It would not be good policy of course to let her know how, in inducing England to make war, she was serving Spain rather than England; but she must be made to use all her power to persuade the King. It was clear that certain of the King’s ministers were restraining him. Those ministers should be promised bribes…anything they wished for…if they would cease to dissuade the King of England from war. But the most important influence at the Court of England was the Queen; and if Caroz could not persuade her to do what her father wished, he should consult her confessor and let the priest make Katharine see where her duty lay.

Ferdinand sealed the dispatches, called for his messengers and, when they had gone, sat impatiently tapping his foot. He felt exhausted, and this irked him for it was yet another indication that he was growing old. He thought with regret of those days of glowing health and vitality; he was a man of action and he dreaded the thought of encroaching old age.

If he could not be a soldier leading men into battle, a statesman artfully seeking to get the better of his opponents, a lusty lover of women, a begetter of children, what was left to him? He was not one who could enjoy the quiet pleasures of old age. He had always been a man of action, first and foremost.

And now there was gray in his beard, pouches beneath his eyes and a stiffness in his limbs. He had a young and beautiful wife, yet his pleasure in her was spoiled by the contrast in their ages; he could not forget his age when he was with her, but rather was more conscious of the years.

He longed for sons, because he was feeling a growing animosity towards his young grandson Charles, a boy who was being brought up in Flanders and who could inherit not only the dominions of his grandfather, the Emperor Maximilian, but those of Isabella and Ferdinand and all the Spanish dependencies…unless Ferdinand’s wife Germaine gave him a son to whom he could leave Aragon.

So much! thought Ferdinand. For one young boy who has done nothing to win it for himself!

He thought of the early struggles he and Isabella had endured in order to win Castile, and he longed afresh for his youth. With mingled feelings he remembered Isabella—a great Queen but at times an uncomfortable wife. His Germaine was more pliable; there was no question of her attempting to use her authority in defiance of his—she had none in any case. And yet…those days of struggle and triumph with Isabella had been great days.

But she was gone these many years, and her daughter Juana, Queen of Spain in name only, passed her tragic days in seclusion at the Castle of Tordesillas, roaming from room to room, her mentality so clouded that she talked to those who had died years before, or fell into silences which lasted for weeks; ate her meals from the floor like an animal, never cleaned herself, and constantly mourned the dead husband who had been noted for his infidelity and his beauty.

Tragic for her of course, but not so for Ferdinand, since it was due to Juana’s insanity that he ruled Castile. But for that he would be merely a petty ruler of Aragon realizing how much he owed to his marriage with Isabella.

But the past was done with, and the once active, lusty man was feeling his age.

Unless he got Germaine with child, young Charles could inherit everything his maternal and paternal grandparents had to leave. But his younger brother, Ferdinand, should not be forgotten. His grandfather and namesake would see to that. All the same he longed for a son of his own.

He had thought at one time that his wish was to be fulfilled. Germaine had two or three years before given birth to a son; but the little boy had died only a few hours after birth.

Ferdinand sat musing on the past and the future, and after a while he rose and went through the main apartments to a small chamber in which he kept certain important documents.

He opened a cabinet in this room and took out a small bottle which contained certain pills, which he slipped into his pocket.

Unobtrusively he would take one half an hour before retiring. He had proved the efficacy of these pills and would reward his physician if the desired result were achieved.

Germaine would be surprised at his powers.

He smiled; yet at the same time he felt a little sad that a man who had once been noted for his virility should be forced to resort to aphrodisiacs.

DON LUIS CAROZ, waiting in an antechamber of the Queen’s apartments at Westminster, chafed against this mission which he felt to be an indignity to a man of his position. Don Luis flicked at the elaborate sleeve of his doublet; it was an unnecessary gesture; there was no dust on his sleeve; but it conveyed his fastidiousness and his contempt for the streets through which he had passed.

His garments were more magnificent than those of most ambassadors at the King’s Court; indeed he vied with the King and he assured himself that it was merely because Henry favored the brightest colors that he appeared to be more dazzling. It was a matter of English vulgarity against Spanish good taste. Don Luis had a very high opinion of himself; it seemed to him that his diplomacy succeeded brilliantly; he lost sight of the fact—if it ever had occurred to him—that it was the Queen who made it easy for him, not only to gain an audience with the King whenever he wished to do so, but, receiving hints of her father’s desires, by preparing the King’s mind favorably towards them before Caroz appeared.

Vain, immensely rich—which was the reason why Ferdinand had chosen him to be his ambassador in England since he could pay his own expenses and thus save Ferdinand’s doing so—Don Luis was determined that his suite should be more grand than that of any other ambassador, and that the Court should not forget that his position was a specially favorable one on account of the Queen’s being the daughter of his master.

It was therefore galling for such a grand gentleman to be kept waiting—and by a humble priest at that. At least he should have been humble; but Caroz had reason to know that there was nothing humble about Fray Diego Fernandez.

Katharine, who was almost as pious as her mother had been, naturally placed great confidence in her confessor, and the friar who held such a position was certain to wield an influence over her.

Don Luis paced up and down the anteroom. How dare the priest keep the ambassador waiting! The vulgar fellow. It was the ambassador’s belief that the little priest was itching to get a finger into the political pie. Let him keep to his post and the ambassador would keep to his.

But Fray Diego’s task was to be the Queen’s confessor—and a woman such as Katharine would consider her actions always a matter of conscience.

Don Luis made a gesture of impatience. “The saints preserve us from saintly women,” he murmured.

At length the priest appeared. Don Luis looked at him—uncouth, he thought, in his priestly robes, a smug satisfaction on his young but clever face.

“Your Excellency wished to see me?”

“I have been waiting this last half hour to do so.”

“I trust you have not found the waiting tedious.”

“I always find waiting tedious.”

“It is because you are a man of such affairs. I pray you therefore let me know your business.”

Don Luis went swiftly to the door; he opened it, looked out, then shut it and stood leaning against it. “What I have to say is for you alone…for Spanish ears, you understand me?”

The priest bowed his head in assent.

“Our master is eager that the King of England should declare war on France without delay.”

The priest lifted his hands. “Wars, Excellency, are beyond my sphere.”

“Nothing is beyond the sphere of a good servant of Spain. That is what our master thinks. And he has work for you.”

“I pray you proceed.”

“King Ferdinand believes that the Queen could help us. She has much influence with King Henry. Indeed her influence must surely be of greater account than that of his ministers.”

“I doubt that, Excellency.”

“Then it must become so. If it is not, mayhap it is because the Queen has not worked hard enough to obey her father’s wishes.”

“Her Grace wishes to please her father and her husband. Her father is far away and did little to succor her when she needed his help. Her husband is here at hand; and I doubt he could be led too far from his own desires.”

“What do you know of these matters? He is young and ardent. If the Queen used skill, the utmost tact…she could win his promise immediately.”

“It is my opinion that this would not be so.”

“Your opinion was not asked. And how can you, a celibate, understand that intimacy which exists between a man and woman in the privacy of the bedchamber? My dear Fray Diego, there are moments, I assure you, which if chosen with skill can be used to great advantage. But you do not know of these matters—or do you?”

There was a sneer behind the words, a suggestion that the rumors of a secret life, attributed to Fray Diego, might be true. If such rumors were proved to be true they could cost him his position, Fray Diego knew; for Katharine herself would be so shocked that, much as she relied on him, she would let him go if she discovered his secret.

The priest knew that the ambassador was not his friend; but he had triumphed over enemies before. He remembered with relish his battle with Francesca de Carceres; she had hated him and had schemed for his recall to Spain. But look what had happened to her! Now married to the banker Grimaldi she was desperately trying to regain her position at Court, whereas he was higher in the Queen’s favor than he had ever been, and so important that the ambassador was forced, though much against his will, to seek an interview with him.

Fray Diego was young; he was somewhat arrogant. He really did not see why he should take orders from Caroz. It was Ferdinand’s wish that he should do so, but he no longer regarded Ferdinand as his master. His influence seemed slight from such a great distance. Ferdinand had neglected his daughter during the years of her widowhood; it was only now that he wrote to her so frequently and so affectionately. Katharine remembered this; and in Fray Diego’s opinion she was more Queen of England than Infanta of Spain.

He was determined therefore that he was not going to allow his fear of Ferdinand to rob him of the ascendancy he felt he possessed over Ferdinand’s ambassador, towards whom the Queen did not feel as affectionate as she did towards her friend and confessor.

“It is true,” he said, “that I have not your experience, Don Luis, of these matters. But what you ask is for the Queen’s conscience, and for Her Grace to decide.”

“Nonsense!” retorted Caroz. “It is a confessor’s duty to guide those who are in his spiritual care. A few careful words, spoken at the appropriate moment, and the Queen will realize her duty.”

“You mean her duty to her father, I am sure. But there is the possibility that Her Grace might also realize the duty to her husband.”

“Do you mean that you refuse to obey our master’s commands?”

“I mean,” said Fray Diego with dignity, “that I will give the matter my consideration and if, after meditation and prayer, I can convince myself that what you ask is good for the soul of Her Grace, I shall do as you say.”

“And if not…?” burst out Caroz, fuming with indignation.

“This is a matter for my conscience as well as the Queen’s. That is all I can say.”

Caroz curtly took his leave and went away fuming. The arrogance of that upstart! he was thinking. A vulgar fellow. It was a great mistake that any but the highest nobility should be entrusted with state matters—and the Queen’s confessor should have been a man of highest integrity and that noble birth which would have kept him loyal to his own kind.

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 honor 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 skeptical 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 honor 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.”