Виктория Холт - The Shadow of the Pomegranate

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.

“You also,” she said.

He was more than willing to obey.

Naked she faced him, a magnificent Juno, her hands on her hips.

“So you deceive me with that one!” she spat out.

“It was nothing, Gipsy…over and done with…quickly forgotten.”

“As with me?”

“You I will remember all my life. We shall never be parted now. How could any man be satisfied with another after Gipsy?”

“So you would marry me?”

He hesitated for half a second, and he could not help his mouth twitching slightly at the incongruity of the suggestion. Imagine Gipsy at Court—perhaps being presented to King Jean and Queen Catharine!

“Certainly, I would marry you,” he said glibly.

“I told you once that if you went with another woman I would make you sorry for it.”

“Gipsy…you couldn’t make me anything but happy. You’re too perfect.…”

He seized her, she eluded him; but he laughed exultantly; this was merely lover’s play. He sensed her lassitude even as she struck out at him; in a matter of moments he forced her onto the straw.

Afterwards she lay supine beside him. He felt relaxed, the conqueror. She could not resist him, even though she was so frenziedly jealous.

He need not even bother to cover up his peccadilloes. He had been wrong to imagine that he would have to go carefully with Gipsy. Gipsy was like all the others—so filled with desire for a man of his unusual capabilities that she could not resist him.

She bent over him tenderly. “Sleep,” she whispered. “Let us both sleep for ten minutes; then we will be wide awake again.”

He laughed. “You’re insatiable,” he said, “…even as I. Ah, they’re a well matched pair, my Gipsy and her Amigo.”

She bit his shoulder affectionately. And he closed his eyes.

Gipsy did not sleep, although she lay still beside him with her eyes closed. She was picturing him with that other one, and not only that one. There were many others. This faithful lover! she thought contemptuously.

She had told him that he would be sorry if he were not true to her. She had been true to him, yet he considered her so far beneath him that there was no need to keep his promises to her.

She was passionate; she had revelled in their intercourse; but he was only a man, and there were many like him in Pamplona who would be ready to come to Gipsy’s bed when she beckoned.

She listened to his breathing. He was asleep. Perhaps he slept lightly. Perhaps he would wake if she stirred.

She moved quietly away from him. He groaned and vaguely put out a hand, which she avoided, carefully watching the flickering candlelight on his face as she did so.

His hand dropped; his eyes remained shut.

Gipsy stood for a second, watching him; then she picked up her belt. From it she took the knife.

“No man betrays me,” she whispered. “Not even you, my fancy court gentleman. I warned you, did I not. I said you’d be sorry. But you’ll not be sorry…because you’ll not be anything after tonight.”

Her eyes blazed as she lifted the knife.

He opened his eyes a second too late; he saw her bending over him; he saw her blazing eyes, but this time they shone with hate instead of love, with revenge, not with passion.

“Gipsy…” He tried to speak her name, but there was only a gurgle in his throat. He felt the hot blood on his chest…on his neck, before the darkness blocked out her face, the sordid room in candlelight, and wrapped itself about him, shutting out light, shutting out life.

* * *

GIPSY WASHED the blood from her naked body and put on her clothes. Then she blew out the candle and went down the stairs and out to the street.

She ran swiftly through the alley and through several narrow streets until she came to the house she wanted.

She knocked urgently on the door. There was no answer and again she knocked. At length she heard the sound of slow footsteps.

“Quickly, Father,” she cried. “Quickly!”

The door was opened and a man stood peering at her; he was struggling into the robes of a priest.

She stepped inside and shut the door.

“What has happened, my child?” he asked.

“I need your help. I have killed a man.”

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.”

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.