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.

He called to her as he stood in the darkness of the house. “Gipsy.…”

There was a short silence and he was aware of the darkness. A feeling of foreboding came to him then. Had he been unwise to come? He was the King’s secretary; he carried important documents in his pockets. What if he had been lured to this place to be robbed of those papers? What a fool he was to have brought them with him. He had not thought to clear his pockets. When he was on the trail of a woman he never thought of anything else but what he intended to do with that woman; and if that woman was one such as Gipsy, then the thoughts were all the more vivid, and completely allabsorbing, so that there was no room for caution or anything else.

Then as he hesitated he heard a voice say: “Amigo!” and his fears vanished.

“Where are you, Gipsy?”

“Here!” she was close beside him and he seized her hungrily.

“Wait, impatient one!” she commanded.

But there was to be no waiting. Here! Now! his desires demanded; and there and then it was, there in the darkness of this strange hovel, in one of the least salubrious byways of the town of Pamplona.

“There! Greedy one!” she cried pushing him away from her. “Could you not wait until I get a light?”

“I’ll be ready again when you get the light, Gipsy.”

“You…,” she cried impatiently, “you want too much.”

By the flickering light of a candle he saw the dark little room. So this was her home. He had seen her first near the castle, and he guessed that she came from the vineyards. There had been little time to discover much about each other, and all he knew was that she was a peasant girl who worked with the vines. All she knew was that he was employed at the Court. That made him rich in her eyes.

They had met many times in the vineyards at dusk; and even in daylight it had been easy enough to find a secluded spot. She knew that he carried papers in his pockets for they rustled when he threw off his doublet; he knew she carried a knife in the belt she wore about her waist.

“What is that for?” he had asked.

“For those who would force me against my will,” she told him.

He had laughed triumphantly. She had never attempted to use the knife on him.

He was growing restive with passion again.

“Come up the stairs,” she told him. “There we can lie in comfort.”

“Come then,” he said. “I pray you, lead the way.”

She went before him carrying the candle. He caressed her bare thighs beneath her tattered skirt as they went.

She turned and spat at him: “Your hands stray too much.”

“And how can I help that when I am near you?”

“And near others too!”

“What! You suspect me of infidelity to you?”

“I know,” she answered. “There is one who works with me in the vineyards. She is small and fair and comes from the North.”

He knew to whom she referred. The girl was a contrast to Gipsy; small, fair, almost reluctant, with a virginal air which was a perpetual challenge to him. It had challenged him only yesterday and he had succumbed.

“I knew her once,” he said.

“You knew her yesterday,” she told him.

So the girl had told! Foolish creature! Yet he was not displeased. He liked the women to boast of their connections with him.

Gipsy set down the candle. The room made him shudder. It was not what he was accustomed to. But there was always pleasure in novelty. And when Gipsy carefully unstrapped the belt containing the knife and laid it almost reverently on the floor and then began to take off all her clothes, he saw nothing but Gipsy.