The Shadow of the Pomegranate

The Perfidy of Ferdinand

IN HIS HEADQUARTERS AT LOGROÑO, FERDINAND WAS IN gleeful conference with Cardinal Ximenes. It appeared that the King had cast off his infirmities; he was as a young man again. Perhaps, thought the Cardinal, watching him, he congratulates himself that, although his body may be failing him, his mind is as shrewd and cunning as it ever was—and indeed, it may be more so, for his experience teaches him further methods of doubledealing, of plotting against his friends while he professes his regard for them.

Ximenes could have felt sorry for the young King of England if he had not been convinced that what had happened to him was due to his own folly. The King of England was clearly a braggart, seeking easy glory. He had certainly not found it in Spain; and one of the first lessons he would have to learn was that none but the foolish would enter into alliance with the most avaricious, double-dealing monarch in Europe—Ferdinand of Aragon.

Henry was as yet oversentimental; he believed that because he was Ferdinand’s son-in-law he would be treated with special consideration. As if Ferdinand had ever considered anything but his gold and his glory.

“So, Excellency, the campaign is over; it merely remains to consolidate our gains. Jean d’ Albret and Catharine have fled to France. Let them remain there. As for me…I have no further wish for conflict, and I do not see why, if Louis is agreeable, I should not make a truce with him.”

“And your son-in-law?”

“The young coxcomb must fight his own battles…if he can, Excellency. If he can!”

“He received little help from his allies, Highness.”

Ferdinand snapped his fingers. “My son-in-law will have to learn that if he hopes to win battles he should not send an army into a foreign land without the means to maintain it.”

“He relied too strongly on the promised help of his ally.”

“It was not promised, I do assure you. But we waste our time. I hear he tried his gallant officers and that they were forced to give evidence on their knees! That must have been a sight, eh! He was trying them for the incompetence and lack of foresight of himself and his ministers. And it was my daughter who saved them from the gallows.”

“It would seem that the Queen of England has not forgotten the teachings of her mother.”

Ferdinand was sobered by the mention of Isabella; then he shrugged off the memory with the reminder that Isabella had worked unsparingly for Spain. She would surely have realized the importance of Navarre and have understood that the means of acquiring it were not so important as long as the deed was accomplished with the minimum of bloodshed and expense to Spain.

“I am sending dispatches to my son-in-law, Excellency. Here they are. Glance through them and give them your approval!”

Ximenes took the proffered documents.

In these Ferdinand explained to Henry that the incompetence of Dorset’s army had made conquest of Guienne impossible. He was not suggesting that Dorset was a true example of an Englishman; and it was his belief that English soldiers, if properly trained and armed, would make fair enough soldiers; perhaps then they would not show up so badly against those of Europe. At this time he could not ask Henry to send more men into Spain, even though he himself should lead them. He had been forced to conclude a six months’ truce with Louis, as he feared that, if he had not, the French might feel—in view of the sad spectacle they had recently witnessed of English troops in action—that it would be an act of folly not to invade England, where they might—as they had seen a sample of English valor and fighting prowess—expect an easy victory. It was a great regret to Ferdinand that the English had failed to achieve their object—the conquest of Guienne—and if it was still the desire of his dear son-in-law that the province should be won for England, he, Ferdinand would, at the conclusion of the six months’ truce, win it for England. He would need ten thousand German mercenaries to help him, for his dear son-in-law would readily understand that, in view of their recent capers, he could not ask for Englishmen. The cost of the mercenaries would be great, but it was not money his son-in-law lacked but men of valor and fighting spirit. Ferdinand would be hearing more of this through his ambassador, Don Luis Caroz, and more importantly and more intimately from his dearly beloved daughter who was also the wife of that dear and honored son, the King of England.

Ximenes glanced up after reading the document.

“This will act as an irritant rather than balm to your dear son-in-law for whom you have such an affection,” he said.

“It is what I intend,” answered Ferdinand. “Do you not see, the young coxcomb will be so incensed that he will immediately plan to make war on Louis. It is exactly what we need to keep Louis engaged while we rest from battle and enjoy the spoils of victory.”

Ximenes thought of Ferdinand’s daughter. He could scarcely remember what she looked like as it was many years since he had seen her. Her mother had felt tenderly towards her, too tenderly, he had often said; for her devotion to her family had often come between herself and her duty to God.

Yet he was sorry for Isabella’s daughter. He saw her as a helpless barrier between the youthful follies of her husband and the cruel ambition of her father.

How could he complain when Ferdinand was working for the glory of Spain? There could be no doubt that the recent conquest had brought glory to the country.

Ximenes handed the papers back to Ferdinand. He must approve; but how he longed for the peace of Alcalá, for that room in which the scholars sat with him working on the polyglot bible.

Ximenes believed then that he would have been a happier man if he had lived his hermit’s life, free from power and ambition.

Happy! he reproved himself. We are not put on this Earth to be happy!

Smiling complacently, Ferdinand sealed his documents, forgetting as he did so encroaching old age, the pains which beset his body, the constant needs of ointments and aphrodisiac potions that he might in some measure wear the semblance of youth.

He could win battles; he could outwit his enemies, with even more cunning than he had shown in the days of his youth. Experience was dearly bought; but there were moments such as this one when he valued it highly and would not have exchanged it for the virility of his young son-in-law of England.

KATHARINE WAS SEATED before her mirror and her women were dressing her hair. Her reflection looked back at her and she was not displeased with it. Henry admired her hair so much; he liked her to wear it loose by night—which tangled it; but often she compromised by having it plaited into two heavy ropes.

Henry was ardent again. They were full of hope, he and she; the next time there was the sign of a child she was to take especial care, he had commanded. It was clear to him that he was dogged by ill luck. Witness the campaign in Spain for instance. Their inability to produce a child who could live was merely another example of their bad luck.

She smiled. If only I had a child, a son, she thought, I could be completely happy.

“Maria,” she said to her maid of honor, Maria de Salinas, “you have a happy look today. Why is that?”

Maria was confused. “I, Your Grace? But I did not know.…”

“It is a look of contentment, as though something for which you longed has come to pass. Does it concern my Lord Willoughby?”

“He intends to speak for me, Your Grace.”

“Ah Maria, and since this has brought that look of happiness to your eyes, what can my answer be but yes?”

Maria fell to her knees and kissed Katharine’s hand. When she lifted her face to the Queen’s there were tears in her eyes.

“But you weep,” said Katharine, “and I thought you were happy.”

“It will mean that I can no longer remain in the service of Your Grace.”

“He will wish to leave Court and take you away to the country then?”

“It is so, Your Grace.”

“Well, Maria, we must accept that.” And she thought: How I shall miss her! Of all the girls who came with me from Spain, Maria was the best, the most faithful. It was Maria whom I could trust as I could trust no other. Now she will be gone.

“I myself feel like shedding tears. Yet this must be a happy occasion, for you love this man, Maria?”

Maria nodded.

“And it is a good match. I know the King will willingly give his consent with mine, so there is naught to make us sad, Maria. Why, Lord Willoughby will not carry you off to a strange country. There will be times when you will come to Court, and then we shall be together.”

Maria dried her eyes with her kerchief and Katharine, looking into the mirror, did not see her own reflection, but herself arriving in England, after saying an infinitely sorrowful farewell to her mother, with her the duenna Doña Elvira Manuel, who had proved treacherous, and her maids of honor who had all been chosen for their beauty. Maria had been one of the loveliest even of that lovely band. They were scattered now, most of them married…. Inez de Veñegas to Lord Mountjoy, and Francesca de Carceres, most unsuitably, to the banker Grimaldi.

“Maria, tell me, have you seen Francesca recently?”

“She still waits for an audience. Does Your Grace wish to see her? Perhaps, now that I am going.…”

Katharine’s face hardened. “She left me once, because she felt it was to her advantage to do so. I would never take back one who has proved her disloyalty to me and to her family.”

“I have heard, Your Grace, that the banker loves her truly.”

“Then if she is so loved she should be content with that state of life which she deliberately chose. There will never be a place for her in my household.”

When Katharine spoke as firmly as that Maria knew that her mind was made up.

Katharine changed the subject. “I hope that you do not intend to leave me at once, Maria.”

Maria knelt once more at the Queen’s feet and buried her face against Katharine’s skirts.

“It is my only regret that I cannot be in constant attendance on Your Grace.”

There was sudden commotion outside the apartment. The door was flung open and the King stalked in. His face was a deeper red than usual and his anger was apparent from the manner in which he strutted. In his hand he carried papers, and a quick glance at those papers, as she swung round from the mirror, told Katharine that it was news from Spain which had angered her husband.

Maria rose to her feet and dropped a curtsey with the other women in the apartment. The King did not bestow his usual smile of appreciation on some particular beauty who caught his eye. Henry was always single-minded and now his thoughts were on the papers he carried.

He waved his hand in an imperious gesture. It was eloquent. It meant: “Leave us.” The women hastened to obey, and Maria’s heart sank seeing those signs of anger in the King’s face, because she, who was closer to Katharine than any of her companions, knew that the Queen was beginning to fear the King.

When they were alone Henry stood glaring at his wife, for the first few seconds too angry to speak. She waited, having learned from experience that when the King was in such a mood a carelessly spoken word could fan the flame of anger.

Henry waved the papers as though they were banners and he were advancing on an enemy.

“News from your father!” he spat out. “He seems determined to insult me.”

“But Henry, I am sure this cannot be so. He has the utmost regard for you.”

“So it would seem. He tells me here that my armies are useless. He is offering to fight my battles for me if I will pay him to provide mercenaries!”

“This cannot be so.”

“You have eyes. Read this,” he roared.

She took the papers and glanced at them. She could only see her father as her mother had taught her to look at him. Isabella had never complained to their children of Ferdinand’s conduct; she had always represented him as the perfect King and father. Katharine had only heard by chance that her father had on many occasions been unfaithful to Isabella and that there were children to prove it. And even though she must accept him as an unfaithful husband—in her opinion to the greatest and most saintly woman who had ever lived—still she could not believe that he was anything but honorable; and she accepted in good faith what he had written.

“Well?” demanded Henry harshly.

“My father considered what happened to our men in Spain. He wishes to help you.”

“So he casts a sneer at me and my armies.”

“You read into this what is not intended, Henry.”

“I…I? I am a fool, I suppose, Madam. I lack your perception. There is something you and your father forget.” He came close to her, his eyes narrowed, and she shrank from the malice she saw in his face. “But for me, what would have happened to you? I brought you up to your present position. It would be wise not to forget that. There were many who were against our marriage. What were you then? A miserable outcast. Your father would not support you…you were living in poverty.” Henry folded his arms behind his back and scowled at her. “I was told that a monarch such as I might choose my wife from all the greatest heiresses in the world. And what did I do? I chose you. You, Madam, who had been the wife of my brother, who were neglected by your father, who was living in miserable poverty in Durham House. I raised you up. I set you on the throne. And this is my reward.…”

She tried to fight the terror which such words inspired. She had grown pale and her twitching fingers caught at the cloth of her gown.

“Henry,” she said, “this I know well. Even if I did not love you for your many qualities…I would be grateful and wish to serve you until the end of my life.”

He was slightly mollified. She thought: Oh God, how easy it is to placate him, how easy to anger him.

“’Tis as well you are aware of your debts,” he growled. “And your father! What have you to say for him? He too should be grateful for what I did for you. This is an example of his gratitude!”

“Henry, he is offering to help you.…”

“With German mercenaries! Because we English are unable to fight our own battles!”

“He does not mean that, Henry. I am sure of this.”

“Not mean it! Then why does he say it?”

“Because he believes you to be suffering a keen disappointment, because he is sorry our army did not achieve its end.”

“He does not want English troops on Spanish soil! By God, would I had hanged the traitor Dorset. Would I had not listened to your woman’s pleading for a worthless life.”

“Nay, Henry, you must not blame Dorset.” She was suddenly overwhelmed by her tenderness for this big man who, it seemed to her, at times had the heart and mind of a child. “Let us face the truth. We failed. We failed because we had not enough food for our men, and we sent them out illequipped. Certainly you cannot accept my father’s offer—though he makes it in friendship; I do assure you of that. But there is an answer to those who have jeered at our failure. There is an answer to my father.”

“What is this answer!”

“That you should prepare an army that will be invincible, that you should place yourself at the head of it and attack the French, not from the South but from the North. There you would find a climate not unlike our own; there would not be the same difficulties in feeding an army that was separated from England only by twenty-one miles of sea. And with you at the head of it…”

A slow smile was spreading across the King’s face. He did not speak for a few seconds; then he burst out: “By God, Kate, we have the answer there. That is it. We shall start from Calais…and go on from there. And this time it will not be a Marquis who commands, but a King.”

All ill humor had disappeared. He seized her in his arms and hugged her, but already his thoughts were far away from her; he was leading his men into triumphant battle. This would be a masque to outdo those merry exercises that had charmed the courtiers and the people at Windsor, Richmond and Westminster.

He was content—content with life, content with Kate.

He danced round the apartment with her, lifting her in his arms, pausing so that she should marvel at his strength, which she did—running his fingers through her hair and over her body.

“There’s one thing that will not please me. I shall be separated from my Kate. And what will she be doing while she awaits the return of the conqueror, eh?” The little eyes were alight with laughter and confidence. “Mayhap she will be nursing the heir of England…the heir to all those lands which I shall bring back to the English crown!”

Katharine was laughing in his arms. The danger was over for a while; the King was happy again.

SO IT WAS TO be war. Katharine was eager to show Henry how she could work for him and that he could rely on his Queen’s being always at his side.

Henry was in high spirits. He was certain that he was going to win fresh honors and was already regarding the coming war as a glorified masque. It was a comfort to know that he could safely leave those matters of minor importance to Katharine, and he was pleased with her because she was so eager to be made use of.

He spent all his nights with her.

“There is one thing only I long for, Kate, and that is to leave you pregnant on my departure. What joy for me! I go forth to win honor for England, knowing you are at home nursing my seed within this comely belly of yours. I’ll give England new dominions, Kate, and together we’ll give her heirs. How’s that?”

“Henry, if only it could be so I’d be the happiest woman on Earth.”

“Of course it shall be so.” He had no doubt.

Katharine summoned Thomas Wolsey to her presence; she was impressed by his efficient handling of his duties which now included the assembling of the materials to be used in the war.

She was glad one day when in conference with the almoner that the King joined them.

Henry’s face glowed with bluff good humor.

“Ha, Master Wolsey,” he cried. “Her Grace tells me that you are of great use to us.”

“I do my humble best, Sire,” answered Wolsey. “My regret is that I have not four pairs of hands and four heads with which to serve Your Grace the better.”

Henry laughed and laid a great hand on Wolsey’s shoulder. “We are well pleased with those two hands and that head, my friend. The Queen has shown me the value of your work. She regards you highly, and the Queen and I are of one mind on all matters.”

“There is great joy in serving such a master…and such a mistress.”

“And we are fortunate in our servant. Show me the list of supplies you have prepared.”

“They are here, Your Grace.”

“Fox tells me that you work with the vigor of two men. He too has a high opinion of you.”

“The Bishop has always been a good friend to me.”

“It pleases us. We like our ministers to work well together. Too often we hear of discord, so that it is pleasant to hear of harmony. Now, let me see. So many victuals, eh? So much conduct money. And you can raise it, Master Wolsey?”

“I have no doubt of it, Sire. I can explain in detail how I propose to make these arrangements.”

“Enough, enough. We trust you. Bother us not with the how and the why and the where. Let us find that we have what we need. That is all we ask of you.”

“It shall be so, Sire.”

Henry once more patted Wolsey’s shoulder and the almoner, who had always been a man to seize his opportunities, said with an air of impulsiveness which concealed a perfected rehearsal: “Your Graces, have I your permission to speak to you on a…somewhat delicate matter?”

Henry tried to look shrewd; Katharine was faintly alarmed. She was always afraid that someone whom she regarded highly would, by a carelessly spoken word, anger the King and so ruin a promising career.

“Speak,” said Henry.

Wolsey lowered his eyes. “This is bold of me, Your Grace, but I was bold in the service of your most noble and honored father, and thus found favor with him. I would serve Your Grace with all the zeal I gave to your father’s cause.”

“Yes, yes,” said Henry impatiently.

“It concerns my lord of Surrey.”

“What of my lord of Surrey?”

“I have noticed of late that he is failing. He plans to go to France with Your Grace. This is rash of me…but I shall not think of my own recklessness in speaking my mind—only of the service I could do Your Grace. Sire, the Earl of Surrey is too old to accompany Your Grace to France, and such men can do much to impede an expedition. If it is Your Grace’s wish that the Earl of Surrey should accompany you to France, then it is my wish also, but…”

Henry nodded. “He speaks truth,” he said. “Surrey is an old man. Do I want graybeards to march with me!”

The thought occurred to Katharine that the only reason he could want them would be to call attention to his own radiant youth.

But they were going into battle. Henry wanted young men beside him. He also wished to show this man that he appreciated what he had done. Bishop Fox, who looked upon Wolsey as his protégé, had informed the King that the energy of Wolsey astonished even him. He had taken control of tanneries and smithies, of bakeries and breweries; so that they were all working for the state to enable Master Wolsey to provide everything that was needed for the expedition. He worked all hours of the day and far into the night; he scarcely stopped to eat; he was determined to please the King by his diligence, determined that this time the war should not fail through lack of equipment.

I like this Thomas Wolsey, the King told himself.

To throw Surrey to him in exchange for all his labors was a small thing. Surrey was old and arrogant and had passed from the King’s favor. And Wolsey asked it, Henry believed, not out of enmity towards the old man, but in his zeal for the success of the cause.

“When we leave for France,” said Henry, “Surrey shall stay behind.”

Wolsey bowed his head in such humble gratitude that he might have been receiving a great honor for himself.

“I am greatly relieved, Your Grace; I feared my importuning…”

Henry slapped the almoner’s back with a blow which made him stagger a little.

“Have no fear, Master Wolsey. Serve us well and you will find us a good master.”

Wolsey took the King’s hand and kissed it; there were tears in the eyes which he raised to Henry’s face. “And the greatest, Sire,” he murmured. “A master whom all men must delight to serve.”

Henry’s pleasure was apparent. He was thinking: When this war is won, I’ll not forget Master Wolsey. Mayhap I’ll keep him near me. He’s a useful man, and a wise one.

WOLSEY, COMING FROM the royal apartment, was smiling to himself.

This war was serving him well, for it had brought him closer to the King’s notice. He was going to impress the young monarch with his worth, as he had his father on that occasion when the old King had believed he had not begun a mission and had then found it completed with efficiency and success.

“The way is clear for me,” he whispered to himself. “There is nothing to fear.”

He felt faintly regretful that he could not share his triumphs with his family. He would have liked to see Mistress Wynter and the boy and girl at Court. He would have liked to put honors in their way. Of course he would do so. Both his children would be well looked after. Yet it saddened him that they must remain hidden.

He wondered what the King would say if he knew that Wolsey escaped from Court now and then to a woman who had borne him two children. He could guess. The little eyes would show a shocked expression; the royal mouth would be prim. Henry would expect celibacy in his priests; and he would be harder than less sensual men on those who were incontinent. There was a man, thought Wolsey, who lusted after the personable women whom he encountered. Yet he did not know it perhaps. He feigned to have a kingly interest in his subjects; but the interest was greater when the subject was a woman and a fair one.

No, the matter must be kept secret; his enemies must never discover the existence of Mistress Wynter. And he had enemies—many of them. They were an essential part of a man’s life when that man had determined to rise from humble beginnings to greatness.

There was one of them approaching him at this moment.

The Earl of Surrey was pretending not to see him, but Wolsey decided that he should not pass.

“Good day, my lord.”

Surrey gave him a haughty stare.

“You did not see me,” went on Wolsey. “My lord, is your sight failing then?”

“’Tis as good as it was the day I was twenty.”

“A long, long time ago, my lord. You were deep in thought; mayhap that was why you did not see me. You were thinking of the campaign in France.”

Surrey’s curiosity overcame his contempt for one of such humble origin.

“You have been with the King?” he asked. “What news of our leaving? Are the stores ready yet?”

“They will be by the time the King is ready to leave. There will be work for us who go with him to France, and for those of you who stay behind.”

“I am prepared to leave whenever His Grace gives the word,” said Surrey.

“You are prepared to leave, my lord?”

“Indeed I am.”

“You are certain then that you are to serve with the King in France?”

“Of a surety I am certain. Am I not the King’s general?”

Wolsey smiled knowledgeably and in a manner which replaced Surrey’s bombast with fear.

He could have struck the man, but he did not wish to soil his hands by touching a tradesman’s son. Wolsey murmured: “A merry good day to you, my lord,” and passed on.

SURREY STOOD FOR a few seconds looking after the almoner; then as his rising rage smothered his good sense, he hurried to the royal apartments.

“I wish to see the King at once,” he demanded.

The guards looked astonished; but this was after all the great Earl of Surrey, and it might well be that he had news of importance to impart to the King.

He strode past them and threw open the door of the King’s apartment. Henry was leaning against a table where Wolsey had recently left him; Katharine was seated, and the King was twirling a lock of her hair in his fingers.

“Sire, I must have immediate speech with you!”

Henry looked up, rather peevishly. He did not expect people to burst in unannounced. Could it be that Surrey considered that he was of such nobility that he need not observe the laws of ordinary courtiers?

Henry let fall the lock of hair and fixed his gaze on Surrey. The Earl should have been warned by the glitter in the King’s eye, but he was too alarmed to take notice of anything.

“Sire, I have just met that butcher’s son, coming from your apartments. The insolence of the fellow is beyond endurance.”

“If you speak of my good friend Wolsey,” said Henry sharply, “I should warn you, my lord, to do so with more respect.”

“Your Grace, the fellow hinted that I am too old to follow you in battle. The impertinent butcher’s cur.…”

“Your face is an unhealthy purple, Surrey,” said Henry, “and it would seem that you are forgetful of your manners.” He turned to Katharine. “Could that be his age, do you think?”

Katharine said nothing. She dreaded such scenes. She wanted to warn Surrey, but there was no restraining the irate nobleman.

“The impudent jackanapes! I’d have his tongue cut out. I’d cut off both his ears.…”

“Which shows what a fool you are and how unfit for our counsels,” retorted Henry. “You would rob us of the man who is doing more than any to make the expedition into France a success.”

“He has bemused Your Grace with his sly ways.”

There was nothing he could have said to rouse Henry’s anger more certainly. To suggest that he, the astute and brilliant leader, was a dupe!

Oh Surrey, you fool! thought Katharine.

Henry stood up to his full height and his voice rumbled like thunder when he shouted: “Nay, my lord Earl, there is no room for you in my army. There is no room for you in my Court. You will leave it at once. Do not let me see you until I send for you.”

“Your Grace…”

“Are you so old then that you have lost your hearing!” roared Henry cruelly. “You heard me, sir. Go! At once. Leave the Court. You are banished from our sight. Will you go, or shall I have to call the guard?”

Surrey crumpled suddenly, so that he did indeed look like an old man.

He bowed stiffly and left the King’s presence.

FROM A WINDOW of the Palace Wolsey watched the departure of Surrey. He wanted to laugh aloud in his triumph.

“Such disgrace shall befall all the enemies of Thomas Wolsey,” he told himself. “No slight shall be forgotten.”

He remembered then a certain gentleman of Limington in Somerset, a Sir Amias Paulet. In the days when Thomas had been rector of Limington he had not shown what Paulet considered adequate respect to this local bigwig; and Paulet had, on some flimsy pretext, caused Thomas Wolsey to be set in the stocks.

Even now Thomas could remember the indignity, and he told himself that when the time was ripe Paulet should deeply regret the day he had Thomas Wolsey set in the stocks.

An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. Nay, thought Thomas, I am no ordinary man, and any who robs me of one tooth shall pay with two of his own.

So Surrey, who had called the King’s almoner a butcher’s cur, had lost his chance of following the King to France; he had also lost his place at Court.

That was meet and fitting, thought Thomas smiling. There would be many scores to settle on the way up, and they should be settled…settled in full.

IT WAS SOME TIME since Ferdinand had felt so full of vigor. Hourly dispatches were reaching him. He was playing the double game of politics which was so dear to his heart, and he never enjoyed it so much as when he was deluding those who thought themselves to be his allies, and coming to secret terms with those whom his allies thought to be a mutual enemy.

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 son-in-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 pomegranate 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.”

She had sworn to take the utmost care.

Then he had requested her to be present at the meeting of the Council, and there he had announced that since he must go away he must appoint a Regent to govern the land in his absence.

“I have given this matter great thought. I have prayed for guidance, and I am leaving you the best and only possible Regent.” There was the pause for dramatic effect; then the little eyes, shining with sentiment, were on Katharine.

“Gentlemen of the Council, your Regent during my absence will be Her Grace the Queen.”

She had been overcome with joyful emotion, and she thought, as she did on all such occasions, If only my mother could be with me now!

So she was to be Regent during his absence. She was to have a Council to help her, should she need their help. The King had chosen the Archbishop of Canterbury, Thomas Lovell, and the Earl of Surrey. The Earl had been allowed to return to Court for Henry was in a mellow mood. Many of his most able statesmen were accompanying him to France, and Surrey who, in spite of his arrogance, was a man of experience, could be more useful at Court than skulking in the country, perhaps planning mischief. So back to Court came the Earl—although Thomas Wolsey had discreetly tried to advise the King against the old man’s recall. Henry did not accept Wolsey’s advice, and Wolsey was too clever to press it.

So they had ridden into Dover, up the steep hill to the Castle, there to rest awhile until the expedition was ready to sail.

THE KING WAS now ready to embark. Beside him were the most courageous of his knights, men such as Brandon, Compton, Sir John Seymour, Sir Thomas Parr and Sir Thomas Boleyn. There was the indefatigable Thomas Wolsey determined to keep a wary eye on food supplies and equipment, not forgetting to glance with the faintest hint of triumph at the Earl of Surrey who was with those who remained behind.

There on Dover strand the King had decided a ceremony should take place. He wanted all his subjects to know in what affection he held his Queen; and when before them all he took her into his arms and kissed her loudly on both cheeks, a cheer went up, for the people never loved their King so much as when he, sparkling with the glitter of royalty, showed them that he was at heart an ordinary family man.

Then he took Katharine’s hand and addressed the assembly.

“My subjects, my friends, you see me about to depart on a holy war. I grieve to leave my country but it is God’s will that I should cross the sea to bring back to you that of which the French have robbed us. On this fine day you can see the coast of France; my town of Calais lies across the sea and I am now about to set out for that town. From there I shall seek to win back my rights and your rights. But while I am engaged on this duty I do not forget my people at home, so I leave you one who, I hope, is almost as dear to you as she is to me—my wife, your Queen. My friends, when I go aboard, when I set sail, Queen Katharine becomes the Governor of this Realm and Captain General of the forces for home defense.”

As he took Katharine’s hand and kissed it, another cheer went up.

He looked into her face and his eyes were glazed with tenderness and the pleasure he felt in scenes such as this.

“Farewell, my Kate. I will return with rich conquests. Guard yourself well…and that other.”

“I will, my King,” she answered.

A last embrace, and to the fanfares of trumpets he went abroad.

Katharine stood, with those who were remaining behind, on Dover strand, watching the glittering fleet as it set sail for France.

She was praying for Henry’s safety, for divine guidance that she might carry out her duties in a manner worthy of the daughter of Isabella of Castile.

She determined to surprise the King with her ability to govern; she was going to show him that if at one time she had sought to win advantages for Spain, she no longer did so; for there was only one country which she now called her own; and that was England.

Yet the real reason for her exultation lay within her own body. The child! This child must come forth from her womb, strong and healthy; and when he did come he must not be allowed to die.

There must not be another disaster. If such a calamity should befall her, all the affection of the last weeks, all the love and devotion which the King had sworn he bore her, would be as lightly swept away as the gaudy paper decorations after a masque.