by Jean Plaidy
When Jeanne had finished this document, she called to her room four of her attendants, and such was her eloquence and such was their pity for the little girl whose body was bruised with the violence of the whippings she had received, and such their admiration for her courage, that these four were bold enough to incur whatever punishment might go with the signing of such a document.
And then, having their signatures, Jeanne, fresh from the day’s beating, seized an opportunity to take the document to the Cathedral, and there she demanded that the prelates read it; and she told them that she relied upon them to do what was right in the matter.
But alas, right for them was the will of their King, and so preparations went on for the marriage of Jeanne d’Albret with the Duke of Clèves.
The King was annoyed by what he was pleased to call this ridiculously childish behaviour. For once Francis had failed to see the joke. His niece was a foolish, arrogant and obstinate little girl.
They had not beaten her recently because they did not wish to carry out their threat of killing her. Her gown was ready. It was made of cloth of gold and was so heavily embroidered with jewels that she could not lift it. She hated its jewels and its long ermine train.
How she envied everyone on her wedding morning! There were no exceptions. The women weeding in the gardens were happier than this sad little Princess; she envied the scullions, the meanest serving-maids; she envied neglected Catherine; she even envied Dauphin Francis lying in his grave.
Weighed down with the heaviness of her dress, pale-faced, sullen-eyed and broken-hearted, she walked in her wedding procession. She saw the great Constable, Anne de Montmorency, and she felt drawn towards him because she had heard whisperings that he was in disgrace; so her tragedy was, in a measure, his. He was blamed for the mismanagement of affairs with Spain, and after all it was due to that mismanagement that she herself was here, the bride-to-be of the Duke of Clèves. But Montmorency did not look her way; he was morosely occupied with his own disgrace.
King Francis, magnificent in white satin decorated with rubies and emeralds which made a perfect foil to his dark, sardonic face, was ready now to lead her to the altar. There was no kindness in his face to-day as he looked down on the little bride. He had been greatly annoyed by the document she had taken to the Cathedral. Had he not been concerned in it, he might have been amused by her originality, impressed by the courage which had enabled her to do such a bold action. But he was weary of her protests.
She felt his fingers on her arm; they pinched a little. But something within herself would not let her give up hope. There were still a few minutes left to her. She must look for a way out of this marriage. She would not yet accept defeat. She looked desperately about her, then she said faintly: ‘I am unwell. I am going to faint. I cannot walk. The dress is too heavy.’
The King watched her through narrowed eyes. Then he gave Montmorency a curt sign.
‘Carry the Princess to the altar,’ he said.
For a moment Jeanne could put aside her own troubles for those of Montmorency, for at such a surprising order the Constable of France turned pale, and it seemed that he was about to answer to the King’s curt command with an equally curt refusal. She knew that the biggest insult the King could have offered to France’s greatest soldier was a command to carry a little girl to the altar. She wished fervently that she need not be the cause of his humiliation. But it was too late to do anything about it now, and after that brief hesitation, Montmorency lifted her in his mighty arms and marched forward with her. He would have been instantly despatched to prison had he not obeyed the King. He had had to accept disgrace as she must accept this marriage with a man she did not know, with a man she was determined to hate.
Jeanne was married … married to a strange man with an unpleasant guttural accent. He sat beside her during the feasting; he danced with her in the great hall. He tried to be kind, but Jeanne could not bring herself to smile for him. Her face was pale, her eyes like pits of glittering jet, her mouth set in a line of endurance. The King spoke kindly to her, and when she answered him coldly he did not reprove her; she even fancied that she now saw a gleam of compassion in his eyes.
The musicians were playing the gayest of tunes; there was a banquet, a ball and another banquet; but what Jeanne feared more than anything else was the night which would bring with it the solemn ritual of putting her to bed with her husband.
The King knew of her fears, and when he led her in the dance he tried to soothe her. As she had now obeyed him, all his anger against her was forgotten; she was his dear little niece once more.
He pressed her hand warmly in the dance. ‘Smile, darling. It is befitting that the bride should smile. Monsieur de Clèves is not without his points. He can’t be a worse husband than the Dauphin, and you might have had him. Smile, my little Jeanne. You have done your duty. Now is the time for pleasure.’
But she would not smile; and she was very ungracious to her uncle; yet he did not reprove her.
She did not know how she lived through the blatant horror of the ceremony of being put to bed. Her women tried to comfort her as they undressed her; her governess kissed her and Jeanne wondered whether she would be whipped if she refused to be put to bed with her husband, and who would do it. Would he?
Even now she was looking round for escape, and a hundred mad ideas came into her head. Could she get out of the palace? Could she cut off her hair and disguise herself as a wandering minstrel or a beggar girl? How she envied all wandering minstrels and beggar girls; they might be hungry, but none was the wife of the Duke of Clèves.
How foolish to think that escape was possible! There was no escape. She could hear the musicians playing softly. One of her women whispered that the King was waiting in the nuptial chamber to see her bedded.
They led her into the room, and when she saw her husband with his gentlemen she refused to look his way. And then, in sudden desperation she stared at King Francis, her lips trembling, her eyes pleading, and he with charming compassion and understanding came to her and, lifting her in his arms, kissed her tenderly.
‘Why,’ he said, ‘your bridegroom is a lucky man, Jeanne. Faith of a gentleman! I would to God I stood in his place.’
And as he lowered her she fancied she saw a conspiratorial gleam in the darkness of his eyes. It was King Francis who led her to the bed. She lay in it beside her husband while her ladies and the Duke’s gentlemen drew the costly coverlet over them.
Then the King spoke.
‘Nobles and ladies, that is enough. The marriage has been sufficiently consummated, for we consider that the bride is too young for consummation to be carried further. She and her husband have been put to bed. Let that be remembered. This is a marriage as binding as any, but there need be nothing more until the bride is of an age suited to a more complete consummation. Ladies, conduct the Princess back to her apartments. And you, my lord Duke, go back to yours. Long live the Duke and Duchess of Clèves!’
With that impulsiveness of hers, Jeanne leaped out of the bed and kneeling, kissed the jewelled hand. Nor would she release it when restraining hands were laid upon her. She forgot that he was the King of France; he was her deliverer, the noble knight who had saved her from what she dreaded most.
The elegant, perfumed fingers caressed her hair. He called her his pet and his darling, so that it seemed that the uncle was the bridegroom, not the bewildered Fleming. But then how typical of Francis was this scene in the nuptial chamber. The King of France must be the hero of all occasions. He must even put the bridegroom in the shade; he must be the one to receive the loving devotion of the bride.
The year Jeanne was fifteen was the happiest she had known as yet, for two events, which she afterwards came to look upon as the most important of her life, happened during that year.
Since her marriage she had been living with her parents, sometimes at the court of Nérac, sometimes at Pau; and there had been one or two journeys to the greater court of King Francis. Jeanne had at
last enjoyed the companionship with her mother for which she had always craved, and the three years had been spent mainly in study under the great sages, Farel and Roussel. Jeanne was quick and clever, although her lack of artistic taste exasperated her mother; she had not followed Marguerite’s leanings towards the Reformed Faith and had remained a Catholic, as was her father. She adored her mother, but she was inclined to be a little impatient with her at times, for it seemed to Jeanne that Marguerite was too literary, too ready to see many sides to a question; her prevaricating nature was out of harmony with Jeanne’s forthright one, and while idealising her mother, Jeanne found herself more in sympathy with the rougher ways of her father. Henry of Navarre had not the grace and charm which Marguerite had learned in her brother’s court when she had reigned with him as Queen in all but name. Henry was coarse in manner and as forthright as Jeanne herself, so it was small wonder that his daughter had an honest respect for him.
As long as Jeanne lived she would never forget the occasion when he had come into her mother’s apartment and found them at prayers. Roussel and Farel had been present, but they had been able to make their escape. Henry of Navarre’s veins had stood out on his forehead, for he was very angry to find his daughter being initiated into the ways of the Protestants. He slapped Queen Marguerite on the cheek, an act which was later going to bring a sharp reproof from the King of France, and then he turned to Jeanne. He did not have to worry about the results of chastising her. He called for a rod and, while it was being brought to him, he told her that she was about to receive the severest whipping of her life, and that its object was to teach her never again to worry her addled head about the doctrines of religion. She would, in future, worship as he had worshipped and as his father had before him.
And there and then he threw her across a stool and belaboured her, while she lay, her lips tightly pressed together, forbearing to cry out, for she knew that if she did he would only lay on the more, since he detested what he called snivelling girls. But when he had tired himself he warned her that if ever he found her at such tricks again, though she were a woman by that time, she would be beaten to the point of death.
She bowed her head and said: ‘I will remember, Father.’
After that her mother never tried to interest her in the Reformed Faith, though she herself went on with her studies.
Life during those years had been pleasant for Jeanne – so pleasant that she almost forgot that she was married to the Duke of Clèves; she had longed to live with her parents in her native Béarn, and for three years this joy had been hers.
And so she came to that wonderful year.
It was also a wonderful year for Catherine the Dauphine, for one bleak evening during its wet and gusty February, her first child was christened.
What a celebration there was at court, and how delighted was the King of France with the grandchild who was to bear his name! Prayers were said daily for little Prince Francis. His mother carried talismans for his safety in her garments; she had been consulting with all the most famous sorcerers and astrologers in the land. It was imperative for Catherine de’ Medici that this child should live and that she bear more children. Jeanne heard the rumours about her which implied that she had come near to being divorced on account of her inability to bear children.
But Jeanne, the fifteen-year-old Princess of Navarre, was as happy as anyone on that day of the christening. She was in Paris, and she loved Paris. Who at fifteen, if one were young at heart and loved gaiety and enjoyed masques and balls and festivities, could help loving Paris? She did, it was true, live in hourly dread of calamity. The war which engaged her husband’s attention could not last for ever, and when it was over he would hurry to her side; then there would be no putting off that consummation from which her kind uncle had snatched her even as she had felt the warmth of her husband’s body close to hers in the nuptial bed. She was no longer a child. She was fifteen, and others had been forced to face the marriage bed at that age. Catherine was one; Henry another. And now … they had their first son.
But she need not think of the return of Guillaume de la Marck, the Duke of Clèves, just yet. The war, she had heard, was not going happily for France; and that meant not happily for her husband, for was he not now the ally of France and the Emperor’s enemy? Was that not why she had been forced to marry him?
He was involved in his wars, and here in beloved Fontainebleau was all the glory, pomp and splendour of a royal christening, and the christening of one who might well, when his day came, sit upon the throne of France.
Fontainebleau was beautiful even in February. The trees were wrapped in a soft blue mist; the air was cold and damp, but Jeanne was happy. Her women whispered as they dressed her for the ceremony. The candles guttered and her face looked almost beautiful in the great gilt-edged mirror, for the candle-light, soft and flattering as a lover, had smoothed out the hard line of her jaw, made more delicate the contours of her face, making her look slightly older than her years – lovely and mysterious.
Afterwards she told herself that she knew something wonderful was going to happen on that night.
Her dress was rich, even among the richness of other dresses, for as a royal Princess she was to lead the ladies, in company with the other Princesses who happened to be at court at that time. Jeanne was the youngest of the Princesses, and she wore her hair flowing about her shoulders.
She listened vaguely to the whispering of the women.
‘Ha! Saved in time. Mon Dieu! We should have seen the back of Madame Catherine but for this little Prince, believe me.’
‘God bless the Prince. I am glad he is here, but would it not have been a happy thing to have sent the Italian packing?’
‘Hush! They say she hears through the very walls. Do you want to go into a decline? Do you want to drink a cup of water and say good-bye to life?’
‘Hush! The Princess listens …’
‘Let the Princess listen. She should be on guard. All should be on guard against the Italian woman.’
On guard! thought Jeanne. There was only one thing she feared – that her husband might come home from the war.
She could not stop thinking of that dire event even when she was passing along the route from the palace to the Church of the Mathurins, where three hundred torches lighted the way, bringing daylight to the night.
The scene at the church was such as Jeanne had never before beheld, accustomed though she was to the opulence of her uncle’s court and its ceremonious occasions. The Crown tapestries and the ornaments dazzled her. The Cardinal of Bourbon stood on a round dais beautifully covered with cloth of silver, as he waited for the cortège to approach that he might baptise the little Prince.
Standing beside the Queen of France and Madame Marguerite the King’s daughter, Jeanne looked about her with wondering eyes. She saw her father with young Charles, who was now the Duke of Orléans. Then came the wonderful moment when a pair of eyes belonging to one of the Princes met hers and held them. The young man smiled, and it seemed to Jeanne that never had she seen such a charming smile as that of Antoine de Bourbon, Duke of Vendôme. She was surprised that, although she had often seen him about the court, she had not realised before that he was the handsomest man in France.
The Bourbon Prince was standing next to Henry of Navarre, but Jeanne ignored the presence of her father. She did not care if his eyes were on her. It only mattered that Antoine de Bourbon was looking her way and that he seemed far more interested in the Princess of Navarre than the newly born Prince of France.
Jeanne heard no more of that ceremony; she saw no more. The walk back to the palace along the torch-lighted route passed like a dream; and as soon as the procession had reached the salle du bal, where a magnificent banquet had been prepared, she was looking for Antoine de Bourbon.
She knew of his importance at court, and that he was the elder of the Bourbon princes – as royal as the Valois family and next to them in the line of succession. Antoine and the younger of his two b
rothers, the Prince of Condé, were regarded as the two most handsome men at court; they were extremely popular with women, and it was said that they made the most of their popularity. But Jeanne did not believe the tales she had heard about Antoine; they were the sort of tales which would be attached to any man as beautiful as that Prince.
It was sad that, during the banquet, she could not be near Antoine; it was sad that she could not do justice to the delicacies which were on the table; but later, when the banquet was over and the ball had begun, she found Antoine de Bourbon at her side.
‘I noticed you in the church,’ said Jeanne, subterfuge being completely alien to her. Jeanne said what was in her mind and expected others to do the same.
Antoine, handsome, profligate, ever on the look-out for fresh conquests, could not help but be impressed by the fresh charm of the young girl and by the amusing directness of her manner, which was in such vivid contrast to the coquetry to which he was accustomed.
‘I am flattered. I am honoured. Tell me, did you find me of more interest than the most honoured and exalted baby?’