“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.…”