by Jean Plaidy
‘Yes,’ said Jeanne. ‘Though I like babies.’
‘I hope that you will learn to like me better.’ He kissed her hand, and his bold eyes told her that he appreciated her neat little body in its elaborate gown.
They danced together. His conversation was racy and, although from others Jeanne might have disapproved of such talk, she was finding that everything about Antoine was above criticism.
In her downright way she said to him: ‘The birth of this child will make a good deal of difference to you.’
He agreed that this was so. ‘And it will make a great difference to Madame la Dauphine,’ he added. He laughed slyly, for he enjoyed the gossip of the court, and he was going to enjoy still more startling this young girl, for, Princess though she was, the niece of the King himself, she was a country girl, brought up far from Paris, and there was about her the wide-eyed innocence and sincerity of manner which was rarely found at court. He thought her unusual and quite enchanting.
She was waiting eagerly for him to go on and, although Antoine was accustomed to the flattery of women, he had rarely found any so sweet as that which came from this child.
‘How would you like to be in Madame Catherine’s place, little Princess? Her husband has no feeling for her. His mistress has to force him to his wife’s bed. How would you like to be in Catherine’s place? Tell me that!’
Jeanne’s eyes flashed. ‘I would not endure it.’
‘You have spirit. But, bless you, were you Catherine, you would have no alternative but to endure it.’
‘I should beg to be released from such a marriage.’
‘What! Leave the court of France, the company of kings and princes, for the misery of Florence and the company of merchants?’
‘I doubt that Catherine suffered misery in Florence. Her family is rich – richer, some say, than the royal house of France. And I for one would rather forgo this splendour than suffer the humiliation which goes with it.’
‘Don’t waste pity on the Italian. Look at her. Does she need it, do you think?’
Jeanne studied the Dauphine. She seemed completely happy, but if Antoine was not aware of the cold glitter of her eyes, Jeanne was. Nobody at court understood what was going on behind the eyes of the Italian woman, and because they did not understand they were inclined to think there was nothing there to be understood.
‘She has had good fortune,’ Antoine continued. ‘She has saved herself in time. There was talk of a divorce, you know. The King saved her from that.’
‘The King is kind,’ said Jeanne. ‘He was kind to me when I needed kindness.’
Antoine came nearer. ‘Any man would be kind to you, dear Princess. I would I had the opportunities of the King.’
It was court flattery; it was coquetry and flirtation. Jeanne was only fifteen, but she was fully aware of that. Yet, how sweet it was, and how magic were the words which came from the lips of Antoine de Bourbon, though she would be the first to admit that had they come from another she would have considered them insincere. To touch his hand in the dance was a sheer delight; to meet his eyes over a goblet of wine was enchantment; and later how hurtful it was to see him dancing with others, throwing his soft glances at them, and doubtless paying the compliments which a short while ago had enchanted Jeanne of Navarre.
This was the first event of importance which occurred during that year. Jeanne had fallen in love with Antoine de Bourbon even though she was married to the Duke of Clèves, whom her good fortune and a bad French policy kept at the wars.
As, during the eventful year, Jeanne followed the course of the war, never had this enforced marriage of hers seemed so distasteful to her. Thoughts of Guillaume de la Marck filled her with horror; she had magnified his shortcomings, and in her mind he was a monster, a menace to any happiness that she might have had.
When she was back at the court of her father, it was easy to dream. She would wander in the surrounding country, would lie in the castle grounds and dream of Antoine de Bourbon. Being of a practical nature, she did not so much dream of Antoine the lover, caressing her, paying compliments which might be false, as of a happy marriage, a fruitful marriage, with Antoine and herself ruling Navarre together. She dreaded that summons which might come at any time and which she must obey – the summons which would order her to receive her husband and go with him to a strange land. It would be no use protesting; she had tried that before her marriage without success. Again and again she lived through the ceremony of being put to bed; she shuddered, trying to imagine what would have happened to her but for the intervention of her uncle. What great good luck that had been! But she must remember that Francis was only kind when he remembered to be or when being kind would bring no harm to him or his policies.
So during those months which followed the christening of little Francis Jeanne listened eagerly for any scrap of news of the wars which were being fought in Italy and the Netherlands. There was rejoicing when her husband defeated the Imperialists at Sittard, while the King and the Dauphin marched victoriously along the Sambre. Victory was on the way, and Jeanne was torn between loyalty to her uncle and her fears for herself, for she could not help knowing that as soon as the wars came to a victorious conclusion, her husband would demand her company. The Emperor Charles, furious at the turn of events, left Spain in the charge of his son Philip and went in full force to land at Genoa. His fury was directed chiefly against Jeanne’s husband, the rebellious Duke of Clèves, for he looked on the Duke as his vassal, and a rebellious vassal must be immediately subdued and humiliated by a mighty Emperor. Jeanne heard of the appeals for help which her husband had sent to her uncle; but Francis, notorious for hesitating when he should go forward and for over-boldness when discretion was needed, had now disbanded the greater part of his army and had no intention of making any military moves in a hurry.
Thus was sealed the fate of the Duke of Clèves, but his defeat meant the deliverance of Jeanne of Navarre from all she feared most. There was nothing for Guillaume of Clèves to do, when deserted by the King of France, but to throw himself at the feet of the Emperor and beg for mercy.
Francis sent for Jeanne and himself imparted the news to her. His eyes were smouldering as he told her, for it was typical of Francis’s particular military weakness that, through his own negligence, having lost an ally who could have been valuable to him, he should choose to see the fault in what he called the perfidy of that ally.
‘Jeanne, my child,’ he said, ‘I have bad news for you. We married you to a traitor.’
Jeanne felt her heart racing, her hands trembling; and she feared he would see the sparkle in her eyes.
‘He has betrayed us, Jeanne. He has given himself up to our enemy. You could not love such a man. You could not want to be a partner in his miserable life.’
Jeanne was never one for diplomacy. She blurted out: ‘I never wished to share his life. Had he been your friend, Sire, still I should not have wanted him.’
The King lifted his hand. ‘That tongue of yours, my darling, will be the ruin of you one day. Curb it, I beg of you. My dear child, you have been sorely misused. You were married at a very early age to a traitor, for reasons of state which you very well understand, but I shall not allow you to remain married to such a man.’
Jeanne said with a lilt in her voice: ‘No, Sire. I cannot remain married to such a man.’
Francis laid a hand on her shoulder. He said: ‘I must therefore regretfully ask the Pope for an annulment.’
She seized his hand and kissed it; she knelt at his feet and kissed them. She thought the smell of Russia leather, which always seemed to cling to his clothes and which came from the trunks in which his linen was stored, the sweetest perfume in the world. She would never, she was sure, be able to smell it in future without emotion.
‘Alas! Alas! This perfidious Duke has thrown away his dominions and his wife. I have lost one whom I thought was my friend; and you, my child, have lost a husband.’
He smiled down at her. ‘Wh
y, Jeanne, you shock me. You do not look so displeased as a wife should.’
‘Oh, Sire, I have prayed for this.’
‘What! Prayed that the King’s friends might desert him!’
‘No … not that. But I never liked him, Sire.’
The King kissed her. ‘Ah, child, I rejoice. I would rather see the Emperor victorious than your happiness impaired.’
It was quite untrue, of course, but Francis had a charming way of uttering pleasant nonsense, and because he believed it himself – while he said it – he succeeded in making others believe it too.
So, in that eventful year during which Jeanne fell in love with Antoine de Bourbon, the kindly fates decided that her marriage with the Duke of Clèves – which had been no true marriage – should, by the wish of the King of France and the good offices of the Pope of Rome, be dissolved.
After her divorce, Jeanne went back to her comparatively quiet life at Plessis-les-Tours with Madame de Silly. She thought continually of Antoine de Bourbon; she listened avidly to all the news she could glean of his exploits in battle, which were considerable. He had become a hero to her and she idealised him as once she had idealised her mother.
She was growing up, yet there had been no talk of a new marriage for her. She saw less and less of King Francis, for his health had been failing for some time, and one February day, when she was nineteen years old, the news came that he had died at his castle of Rambouillet. Jeanne guessed that the death of her uncle must seriously affect her future, and she was right.
Her father, Henry of Navarre, sent for her to return to her home, for, on the death of Francis, she returned to the control of her parents. Her mother had changed. Since her brother’s death she had lost all desire to live, and she spent much of her time in a convent, where she declared she was awaiting that happy day when she might join her brother; she longed, she said, to follow him to Heaven as she had followed him to Madrid.
There was a new King in Paris – Jeanne’s cousin, whom she might have married – King Henry the Second; there was a new Queen, the Italian, Catherine de’ Medici. It was not long before Cousin Henry sent an order to the court of Nérac, commanding that Jeanne should come to his court.
On her arrival, Jeanne was quick to notice how different was Henry’s court from that of his father. Henry was more sober than King Francis had been; he was completely lacking in that gay charm. He had time for one woman only – Diane de Poitiers, whom he had now created Duchesse de Valentinois.
Jeanne knew that she had been summoned for a purpose, and Henry, in his direct manner – not unlike Jeanne’s own – lost little time in telling her so.
She knelt in ceremonial homage and kissed his hand. There were no caresses from her cousin as there had been from her uncle; there were no charming endearments. But Henry was kind, and he remembered his cousin with that mild affection which had not changed since he had become the King.
‘Cousin,’ said Henry, ‘you are of an age to marry, and it is concerning this matter that I desired your presence here at court.’
Jeanne waited apprehensively; she had been driven to one distasteful marriage; now she wondered how she could hold off another. She had a feeling that, for all his quietness, Henry could be as obstinate as his father.
She said: ‘I have been married, Sire, and my experience makes me feel that I should like to exercise a little caution. Having once married for state reasons, if I were to marry a second time I should like to have a little choice in the matter.’
There was no humour in Henry; he looked at her suspiciously.
‘There are two gentlemen of the court who have expressed desire for an alliance with you. They are both of the highest rank, and I feel that either should find favour with you. One is Francis, Duke of Guise, and the other is Antoine de Bourbon, the Duke of Vendôme.’
‘Antoine de Bourbon!’ cried Jeanne, forgetting all formality for the moment. ‘I … I remember him well. It was at the christening of the little Dauphin that I first became aware of him.’
‘I would favour Monsieur de Guise,’ said Henry. ‘My cousin, he is a great Prince and soldier.’
‘But … the Duke of Vendôme is also a great Prince and a great soldier, Sire.’
Henry did not like arguments. His mistress, Diane, had suggested the Duke of Guise, her kinsman through her daughter’s marriage to his brother; if Jeanne of Navarre married Francis of Guise, a vital link with the House of Valois would be made to the advantage of the House of Guise and Lorraine. Jeanne felt a momentary horror, for she knew that if Henry’s mistress wanted this alliance, then Henry would want it too; and being a sober young woman of twenty and not an impetuous girl of twelve, she no longer believed it possible to move the hearts of kings.
She begged leave to consider the matter, and asked the royal permission to retire.
Francis of Guise, the greatest soldier in France and the country’s most ambitious man! There were few women who would not have been excited at the prospect of marriage with such a man. Beside him, many would say that Antoine, with his fastidious clothes and his elegance, was effeminate. The very manner in which he lifted his plumed hat when greeting a lady was the talk of the court. Henry would feel that Jeanne was a fool to prefer the gallant when she might have had an alliance with the strongest man in France. Declaring himself to be the most tolerant of monarchs, Henry gave her a few weeks to ponder the matter before coming to a decision, while he made it perfectly clear that the decision should be made in favour of the Duke of Guise. That, Jeanne knew, was the wish of his beloved Diane, for Diane was the enemy of the Bourbons, suspecting them of leanings towards the Reformed Faith; and every petty matter in France seemed to revolve round the religious controversy. Guise was a good Catholic; he was also Diane’s friend and relation through marriage. The King would certainly be willing to offer up his cousin in marriage to anyone whom his mistress chose.
Those weeks that followed were full of excitement and apprehension. Francis of Guise was sure of his success with the Princess of Navarre; he had not yet learned what joy Jeanne found in Antoine’s company. Antoine declared to Jeanne that if the King threatened to give her to the Duke of Guise, he, Antoine, and she, Jeanne, would elope; and although Jeanne did not believe that he would be so bold, she loved him the more for making the suggestion.
Gradually Jeanne became aware of the Queen – the quiet Queen, so dignified, so calm, never showing by a look or a word that she felt herself slighted, charming always to her husband’s mistress, grateful that Diane now and then spared her her husband that she might provide the heirs of France. And this woman, Jeanne realised, watched her closely. Often Jeanne would discover that the expressionless eyes were upon her, and she found it difficult to believe, as did the rest of the court, that the Queen was that mild and rather despicable creature who could smile when she was most slighted and accept with apparent unconcern the position of the most neglected and humiliated queen the French had ever known.
One day Catherine asked Jeanne to visit her, and when Jeanne went to her apartments she found the Queen was alone, having dismissed all her attendants.
Catherine dispensed with ceremony and bade her sit down. Jeanne obeyed, finding that she was unable to take her eyes from that cold, snake-like stare of the Queen.
‘If you do not have a care,’ said Catherine, ‘they will marry you to Francis of Guise. I remember your marriage to Guillaume de la Marck, the Duke of Clèves. I remember the document you drew up. In those days you had courage, Cousin.’
‘It did little to help me, Madame. I was married all the same, and it was the fortune of war which saved me from that marriage, not my own ingenuity.’
‘Do you believe in miracles?’ The mouth smiled slyly. ‘Oh, I do not mean the miracles performed by our Lord Jesus, our Lady and the saints. I mean the miracles made by people like yourself.’
‘I have never heard of such miracles, Madame.’
‘They can be brought about. A miracle could save you from a mar
riage that you did not want. And if you were saved from this marriage you might have the man of your choice.’
‘I do not understand.’
‘Why does Francis of Guise want to marry you? Because he is ambitious. He wants to link himself with the King’s cousin. He wants to creep nearer to the throne.’
‘You are right, I know, but …’
‘You could point this out to the King. You could say that in uniting Navarre with Lorraine he is making more powerful a man who, he would know but for the wiles of Madame de Poitiers, could be his greatest enemy. Remind him of his father’s last words to him: “Beware of the House of Guise. The House of Guise and Lorraine is the enemy of the House of Valois.” You could ask him if he has forgotten that.’
‘You are right, Madame. But the King must already know this.’
‘You would do yourself good to remind him of something which he may have been willed to forget. I have your welfare at heart. I should like to see you married to the man of your choice. Why do you smile, Cousin?’
Jeanne said frankly: ‘I was thinking, Madame, how your desire coincides with my own. I do not want Francis of Guise for my husband. You do not wish it because Madame de Poitiers desires it.’
Catherine said coldly: ‘I was not thinking of Madame de Poitiers. I was thinking of you.’
‘I am grateful to you, Madame. I would like to say that, were I in your place, I should do the same as you do. I would do anything – anything to humiliate her.’
Catherine seemed to remember suddenly that she was the Queen of France and that Jeanne was her subject. She extended her hand.
‘You may go now,’ she said.
Jeanne realised too late that she had deeply offended the Queen. She had been tactless and extremely foolish; but how difficult it was to keep up such pretence in face of the obvious. She had only meant to convey that she understood and applauded Catherine’s desire to score over Diane.