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.