The Complete Tudors: Nine Historical Novels

by Jean Plaidy

  He was silent in horror.

  “You must help me. Tell me what to do.”

  “This is murder,” said the priest.

  “He deserved to die. He was a liar, a cheat and a fornicator.”

  “It is not for you to pass judgment, my child.”

  “You must help me, Father. It does not become any of us to prate of the sins of others.”

  The priest was silent. He had sinned with the woman, it was true. But what a provocation such a woman was, particularly to one who led the celibate’s life on and off.

  “Who is the man?” he asked.

  “He is of the Court.”

  The priest drew a deep breath. “Fool! Fool! Do you imagine that murder of a noble gentleman can go unnoticed? If it had been one of your kind I might have helped. But a gentleman of the Court! There is nothing I can do, my child, but hear your confession.”

  “You will do more,” she said. “Because you are wise, Father, and you have been my friend.”

  The priest fidgeted in his robes. He looked at her face in the candlelight. It was pale, and the eyes were enormous; there was no contrition there, only a contentment that vengeance had been wreaked on the faithless, only the determination that he who had shared in her sin should now share in her crime. She was a dangerous woman.

  “It may well be that he was not in truth a gentleman of the Court,” said the priest. “It may be that that was a story he told you.”

  “He was well dressed and he carried papers in his pockets.”

  “That’s what he told you.”

  “I felt them…tonight. They were papers.”

  “Take me to where he lies.”

  They hurried back to the house wherein the murdered man lay. The girl took the priest up to the room; it was not the mutilated body nor the bloodsoaked straw which claimed the priest’s attention, but the papers which were in the pockets of the man’s garments.

  “Hold the candle nearer,” he commanded.

  She did so and, as he read, the priest’s hand shook with excitement, for what he held in his hand was the draft of a secret treaty between the Kingdoms of Navarre and France.

  “Well?” said the girl.

  “This could be worth a fortune,” he said.

  “You mean…papers? How so? But I shall sell his clothes. They should fetch something.”

  “Yes, they should. But these papers are worth more than clothes, I’ll be ready to swear. I believe there are some who would pay highly for them.”

  “Who would?”

  “The Spaniards.” The priest’s mind became alert. Priests were so poor in Pamplona—perhaps as they were all over the world—and there were some who could not help being attracted by riches even as they were by the voluptuous charms of a woman.

  The situation was full of danger. The man who lay on the straw was one whose kind rarely came their way. His death must not be traced to this house. The priest was now an accomplice of the woman and it was imperative to him to cover up this murder.

  “Listen carefully,” he said. “I will leave at once on a journey. I am going to Spain, and there I shall endeavor to see the secretary of the King. He will, if I am not mistaken, be interested in this paper. But speed is essential. If what is written here comes to his knowledge before I reach him, then he will not be ready to pay me for what he already knows. But if he does not know…then he will be willing to pay me highly for what I can tell him.”

  “What is on the paper?” asked the girl.

  “Matters of state. This man did not lie. He was one of the secretaries of the King. Now listen to me. There is one thing we must do before I leave. We must get him out of this house. And when he is gone you must clean away all signs of his having been here. Let us waste no time.”

  They worked feverishly. The priest had cast off his robes to prevent their being marked by blood, and worked in nothing but his drawers. The girl took off her clothes and put on only a light loose robe which could be washed immediately once she had rid herself of her victim.

  They carried the body out of the house and through the alley. They then placed it against a wall and hurried back to the house, where the priest put on his robes and carefully secreted the papers about his person.

  “I shall set out at once,” he said, “for there is little time to lose. You must tell people that I have been called away to see my sick brother. As for you, wash the house so that there are no signs of blood, wash your clothes and do not try to sell his until at least three months have passed.”

  She caught his arm. “How do I know that when you have the money for the papers, you will come back?”

  “I swear by my faith that I will.”

  She was satisfied. He was after all a priest.

  “If you do not…,” she said.

  He shook his head and smiled at her. “Have no fear. I shall never forget you.”

  He would not. She knew too many of his secrets; and she was a woman who did not hesitate to plunge a knife into the body of a man who had deceived her.

  And while the priest set out on his journey for Spain, the girl cleaned the house and her garments, so that when the sun rose there was no sign there that the King’s secretary had ever been her guest.

  CARDINAL XIMENES arrived in Logroño on the banks of the river Ebro at the spot which marked the boundary between Castile and Navarre.

  Ferdinand received him with such pleasure that the Cardinal guessed something unusual had happened to cause this. He dismissed all, so that they were alone together.

  Ferdinand said: “Cardinal, you were opposed to my plans for attacking Navarre. The English are sending a force under the command of the Marquis of Dorset. It is my desire that they shall hold the French while I march on Navarre, which you have wished to leave untouched because you say it is a peaceful state.”

  The Cardinal nodded and then looked deep into Ferdinand’s glowing eyes.

  Smiling, Ferdinand reached for some papers which lay on the table at which he sat. He thrust them at Ximenes.

  “Your Excellency should read this.”

  The Cardinal did so, and Ferdinand who was watching closely saw that almost imperceptible tightening of the thin lips.

  “So you see,” cried Ferdinand triumphantly, “while you were seeking to protect this innocent little state, its King and Queen were making a treaty with our enemy against us.”

  “So it would seem,” replied Ximenes.

  “Is it not clear? You see those papers.”

  “A rough draft of the treaty, yes. But how did they fall into your hands?”

  “They were sold to me by a priest of Pamplona. I paid a high price for them—but not too high for their worth.”

  “A priest! Like as not this person was masquerading as such.”

  Ferdinand laughed slyly. “There are priests who do not regard their duty as highly as does your Eminence.”

  “I should distrust this person.”

  “So should I have done, but I am informed that one of the King of Navarre’s confidential secretaries was found stabbed to death in a byway of Pamplona—stripped of all his clothes. It is reasonable to suppose that he would carry such papers in his pocket.”

  Ximenes nodded. He had no doubt of the authenticity of the documents. And since the state of Navarre was making such a treaty with France, there was only one course open to Spain: attack.

  Ferdinand leaned across the table. “Am I to understand that Your Eminence now withdraws his opposition, and stands firmly behind the attack on Navarre?”

  “In view of these documents,” answered Ximenes, who never allowed personal pride to stand between him and his duty, “I think we are justified in going forward against Navarre.”

  The French Disaster

  AT THE HEADQUARTERS OF HIS ARMY IN SAN SEBASTIAN Thomas Grey, second Marquis of Dorset, felt sick, dizzy and decidedly uneasy. He had long regretted the day when his King had put him in charge of ten thousand archers and sent him to Spain as the spearhead of an army
which, when the country was ready would, with the King at its head, join Dorset.

  From the first he had been bewildered. The help he had been led to expect from his Spanish allies did not come. Ferdinand’s army had done little to help him. There had been scarcely any fighting except for a few clashes with isolated French troops; and his men roamed the countryside, drinking too much Spanish wine, eating too much garlic to which they were unaccustomed and which did not agree with them, catching diseases and vermin from the gipsy girls.

  If, thought Dorset, I were not so ill myself that I fear I shall never leave this accursed country, I should feel alarmed, very alarmed.

  Home seemed far away. The wrath of the King unimportant. The flies here were such a pest and the sight and smell of men, suffering from the continual dysentery, so repellent, that what was happening in England was of little importance.

  He felt listless; that was due to the dysentery; he had ceased to long for home, only because he felt so tired. He believed that he had bungled his commission and that there would be trouble if he ever reached England; but he was too weary to care.

  He had been chosen for this honor not because of his military skill but because the King had a fondness for him. Dorset excelled at the jousts and that was enough to make the King admire him. He had enough skill to come near to rivalling the King without quite matching him—a state which endeared Henry to a man and made him his friend.

  “Why, Dorset,” he had said, “I see no reason why you should not take the first contingent to Spain. These ministers of mine have now decided that they are in favor of war. Fox has given in at last—though the fellow was obstinate for so long. But you shall go, my friend, and show these Frenchmen the valor of our English archers.”

  The rosy cheeks had glowed and the eyes sparkled. “Would I were in your shoes, Dorset. Would I were going to lead an army into battle. But they tell me the time is not ripe for me to leave yet. In a year mayhap I’ll be ready.”

  So it was Dorset who came to Spain, and Dorset who now lay sick of the maladies which sprang from a foreign land.

  Life had not been easy for him; indeed he had lived in uneasy times. He was closely related to the royal family, and to the York branch, not that of Lancaster. His grandfather had been Sir John Grey, the son of Elizabeth Woodville (Queen of Edward IV) by her marriage with Lord Ferrers of Groby. Such a connection would be regarded somewhat cautiously by the Tudors; and although he had been received at Court he had quickly fallen under the suspicion of Henry VII and been confined to the Tower.

  Dorset remembered now those days of imprisonment when he had lain in his cell and hourly expected the summons to the executioner’s block. It would certainly have come had not Henry VII died; but, in those first months of power, his son had desired to show that he had escaped from the influence of his father. He had taken the heads of Dudley and Empson, his father’s favorites, and given a pardon to Dorset.

  The Marquis had done well in the service of the golden boy. Bluff, hearty, the young sportsman had given his father’s prisoner the wardenship of Sawsey Forest; he made Dorset one of his companions, for such a figure was an ornament in the tiltyard.

  And after that, greater honors had been bestowed. How happy Dorset would have been if he had been allowed to confine his battles to the tiltyard!

  He was lying in his tent, turning from side to side, feeling too ill to care what happened to him, when one of his men entered to tell him that the English ambassador to Spain was without.

  “Bring him in,” said Dorset.

  And the ambassador entered. Dorset made an attempt to rise but he was too weak to do so.

  “Sir John Still,” he said, “you find me indisposed.”

  “I am grieved that this should be so.” The ambassador was frowning as though he too shared the uneasiness of all who were connected with this campaign. “I have come to see if there is anything you need beyond the two hundred mules and asses which I had sent to you.”

  Dorset smiled wryly: “What we need is a means of getting back to England,” he said grimly.

  Sir John Still looked startled, and Dorset went on: “The mules and asses which you sent were unable to work. They had been starved and many of them were dying when they arrived. Those which survived had never been exercised and were unable to work for us.”

  “But I paid the Spaniards a great price for those animals.”

  “Ah, another Spanish trick.”

  “A trick?”

  “Sir John, surely you know why we are here. The Spaniards have no intention of being our allies and helping us to regain our territories in France. We are here that the French may be uncertain of our numbers and, expecting that we might be a great army, must needs protect their land. Thus they are kept occupied while the Duke of Alva, at Ferdinand’s command, walks into Navarre.”

  “You mean…that we English have been tricked!”

  “Do not look so surprised, ambassador. All are tricked when they attempt to deal with Ferdinand of Aragon.”

  “I bring you instructions from England,” said the ambassador. “The army is to remain here throughout the winter. Next year the King will be ready to join you.”

  “Stay here during the winter!” cried Dorset. “It’s impossible. Those men out there are half dead now with the sickness from which you see me suffering. They’ll not endure it.”

  “These are the orders from England.”

  “They in England can have no notion of what is happening here. We are given garlic…garlic all the time. There is more garlic than real food. The men are unused to this; they suffer from it. The wines overheat their bodies. Eighteen hundred men have already died; if we stay here many more weeks there will not be a healthy man among us.”

  “You cannot return. To do so would mean you had failed. What have you achieved since you have been here?”

  “Ferdinand has conquered Navarre. We have served the purpose for which we came.”

  “You speak like a traitor, my lord Dorset.”

  “I speak truth. These men will die if they stay here. If disease does not finish them, the French will. No good can come of their staying.”

  “Yet the King’s order is that they should.”

  Dorset staggered to the door of the tent. “Come with me,” he said. “I will tell these men of the King’s command that they are to stay in Spain.”

  The fresh air seemed too much for Dorset. He swayed uncertainly like a man intoxicated, and the ambassador had to hold him to steady him. Bent double with the pain which distorted his yellow face, Dorset tried to shout, but his voice was feeble. “Men! News from home.”

  The word home acted on the camp like magic. Men crawled out of tents, dragging with them those who could not walk. There was a feverish joy in their faces. They believed that the horror was over, and their commander had summoned them to tell them to prepare to leave for home.

  “The King’s orders,” said Dorset. “We are to stay here through the winter.”

  There was a growl of discontent.

  “No!” cried a voice; and others took up the cry. “Home! We are going home!”

  “The orders of our most Gracious Sovereign.…”

  “To the devil with our most Gracious Sovereign. Let him fight his own wars. Home! England! We’re going home to England.”

  Dorset looked at the ambassador.

  “You see,” he said; and he staggered wearily back into his tent.

  Now he was afraid. He saw that he was caught between the desires of his King and those of his men. He was faced either with disobedience to the King or wholesale desertions.

  “I must write to His Grace,” he said. “I must make him aware of the true state of affairs.”

  The ambassador waited while he wrote; but meanwhile outside in the camp the cries of rebellion grew louder. Dorset knew, and the ambassador knew, that even the King’s order to remain in Spain would carry no weight with those men out there.

  THE KING WAS watching the return of his
troops. He stood, legs apart, hands clenched at his side, his eyes so narrowed that they were almost lost in the flesh of his face.

  Beside him stood the Queen, and she was ready to weep at the sorry plight of these men. They were in rags and many were still suffering from the fever; some had to be carried ashore. Yet as they came they were shouting with incoherent joy because the soil they trod was English, and the tears showed clearly on their poor sunken cheeks.

  “What a sad sight,” murmured the Queen.

  “It sickens me!” the King growled.

  But he did not see this return as Katharine did. He felt no pity. He had only room for anger. This was the army which he had sent to France and of which he had been so proud. “I have never seen a finer army!” he had written to John Still. And now…they looked like a party of vagabonds and beggars.

  How dared they do this to him! He was the golden king, the darling of fortune. So far he had had everything he desired, except a son. He remembered this fleetingly and glared distastefully at his wife. There were tears in her eyes. She could weep for that band of scarecrows when she should be weeping because she had failed him and, although she could become pregnant, could not give birth to a healthy boy.

  Katharine turned to him. “There is my lord Dorset, Henry. Oh, poor Dorset. How sick he is. See him. He cannot walk. They are carrying him on a litter.”

  The King followed her gaze and strode over to the litter on which lay the emaciated figure of the man who had once been a champion of the jousts. The sight of such sickness disgusted Henry.

  “Dorset!” he cried. “What means this? I sent you out with an army and an order to fight for victory. You return with these…scarecrows…and dishonorable defeat.”

  Dorset tried to see who was towering over him, shouting at him.

  He said: “Where am I? Is it night?”

  “You are in the presence of your King,” roared Henry.

  “They’ll mutiny,” murmured Dorset. “They’ll endure no more. Is it morning yet?”

  “Take him away,” cried the King. “I never want to see his treacherous face again.”

  The bearers picked up the litter and were passing on.