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.