by Jean Plaidy
Jeanne made good use of Catherine’s advice.
When next she was summoned to the King’s presence she was determined to point out to him what, according to Catherine, he had been willed to forget.
‘What a princely man is the Duke of Guise!’ said Henry. ‘There is no other like him in the whole of France. Ah! You should be proud to wed such a man.’
Jeanne lifted her head haughtily.
‘What, Monseigneur?’ she said. ‘Would you indeed permit that the Duchess d’Aumale, who now feels herself honoured in performing the office of my train-bearer, should become my sister-in-law?’
She saw the angry colour rising in the King’s face, for Madame d’Aumale was none other than the daughter of his beloved Diane.
But Jeanne, in her righteous indignation, swept on: ‘Would you consider it meet, Monseigneur, that this Duchess, the daughter of Madame de Valentinois, should, through this marriage which you advocate, acquire the right to walk by my side instead of bearing my train?’
Henry was completely taken off his guard, and when this happened he was always at a loss for words. He did not often have to face a direct attack upon his mistress.
Jeanne seized her opportunity. ‘Oh, Sire, Francis of Guise wants me for a wife – not my person so much as my royalty, my crown. Why, when his niece Mary of Scotland marries the Dauphin, and when he, through me, is King of Navarre, it would seem that there will be more than one King in France.’
Henry stared at his cousin incredulously. In his imagination he saw the dashing soldier; he heard the cries of the Parisians: ‘A Guise. A Guise.’ Francis of Guise was already the hero of Paris. Henry had some respect for the intelligence of his cousin. He himself was not intellectual, but that did not mean he could not admire those who were. He remembered that Jeanne’s mother had been one of the most brilliant women of her day.
Jeanne went on: ‘Have you forgotten the words of your father, those words he spoke on his deathbed? “Beware of the House of Guise …” Oh, Sire, your most gracious father understood the ambitions of this family.’
Henry was thinking that there was a good deal of truth in what she said, and although Diane wished for this marriage he would have to remind her of his father’s warning and the danger of putting too much power in the way of the Guises.
He dismissed Jeanne without anger; and very shortly afterwards he announced that he favoured the marriage of his cousin Jeanne d’Albret of Navarre with Antoine de Bourbon, the Duke of Vendôme.
He had found a way out. Francis of Guise should have a bride who would please him as much as Jeanne would have done. He himself would publicly sign the marriage contract between Francis and Anna d’Este, the daughter of the Duke of Ferrara and granddaughter of Louis XII. That was a good marriage, a royal marriage; but not nearly such a dangerous marriage as a union with Navarre.
So Francis of Guise agreed with as good a grace as he could; and Diane, on this occasion, bowed to the will of her lover; consequently, Jeanne of Navarre was betrothed to the man of her choice.
The happiest woman in France was being married. There had never been any, said her women, whom they had heard laugh so much. Jeanne explained: ‘You see, I am a Princess and I am to marry for love!’
It was five years since the christening of little Francis, when Jeanne had fallen in love with Antoine, but what were five years of waiting now?
When her women awakened her on those mornings preceding her wedding, they marvelled at her happiness; she would sing and chatter and talk continually of her lover. When, she demanded again and again, had a royal Princess had the good fortune to be allowed to marry for love? She was fortunate above all princesses. She liked now to think of that other marriage of hers – which was no marriage at all; she liked to recapture those awful moments when she had lain in the nuptial bed with Guillaume of Clèves. Oh, what horror! And what a miraculous escape! No wonder she thought of herself as the most fortunate Princess in the world.
Her mother laughed to see her so happy, but she was nevertheless displeased by the marriage. She had had higher hopes for her daughter. She might have been more actively against it had she not been so listless, feeling herself shut away from the world. Jeanne’s father was also against the marriage, but the King of France had bribed the King of Navarre with an addition to his pension and the promise of an expedition to regain Upper Navarre, which the Spaniards had taken years before.
Jeanne marvelled that the consent of her father, that stern Catholic, who had beaten her for praying with her mother, could have been won over for his daughter’s marriage to a Protestant Bourbon; but she had always known that his most cherished dream was the capture of Upper Navarre, that he might win it back to his sovereignty.
What great good luck was hers, then, and what did she care for the storms which might blow up through such a marriage! Let her mother be displeased with the match. Let her father be bribed. It mattered not. Antoine was to be her husband, and Antoine had declared that he loved her as he had never loved before.
Antoine, apart from one or two misgivings, was happy about his marriage. The Bourbon family had been out of favour for a long time; when King Francis had shown a fondness for the Count d’Enghien, who had died so tragically during a snow fight at La Roche-Guyon, it had seemed that the Bourbon family were about to see a rise in their fortunes; but with the death of the Count, favour had not been extended to the family, and the Guises were in high favour through Diane.
And now, Prince Antoine, head of the House of Bourbon, was to marry the cousin of King Henry. Antoine was pleased for that reason; moreover, being ardent and a deeply sensuous man, he could not help but be enchanted by his young bride. Not that she was so very young now, being past her twentieth year, but she was by no means old. There was another pleasant aspect of this marriage: it seemed almost certain that Henry of Navarre would leave no male heir, and that meant that Jeanne would, on his death, become the Queen of that province. Jeanne was not beautiful as the court of Paris understood beauty. She was indeed a little severe of countenance, but that spontaneous sincerity of hers was unusual, and Antoine loved novelty; and when her face was animated in conversation she was quite attractive. She was clever, and she was no weakling. Antoine, being weak himself, was attracted by strength.
He was therefore by no means displeased with the marriage that brought the Houses of Valois and Bourbon closer together. There was just a possibility that he and Jeanne might breed Kings of France. Young Francis – now the Dauphin – was a sickly little fellow. Catherine had another son, Louis, but it did not seem as if he were going to be long for this world. It would appear that King Henry and Queen Catherine were not going to have healthy children. Perhaps they suffered from the sins of the grandfathers, for both the paternal grandfather, Francis the First, and the maternal one, Lorenzo the usurping Duke of Urbino, had died of that disease which was called in France La Maladie Anglaise and in England The French Disease. Henry and Catherine appeared to be healthy enough; but it certainly seemed as though their children would not inherit that health; and if they did not … well, when the House of Valois could not succeed it would be for the legitimate Bourbons to take over the crown. The Guises might make a bid for it; but the people of France would surely never allow that. The Bourbons – next to the Valois – were the rightful heirs to the throne of France, and the cousin-german of the reigning Valois would be in direct line to the throne. Yes, it was indeed a good marriage.
His little Jeanne adored him; and he adored her. It was a fact that he had ceased to be interested in other women for many weeks.
But when he remembered that other marriage of Jeanne’s to the Duke of Clèves, Antoine was disturbed. The marriage had not been fully consummated, it was true, but the pair had been bedded; and that, King Francis had said at the time, was sufficient to make the marriage valid.
King Henry had been against the marriage of Antoine and Jeanne at first and then, suddenly, he had changed his mind. Why? Madame Diane was bound to
the Guises by the marriage of her daughter and their common faith. What if this were a diabolical plot to marry him to Jeanne of Navarre and, when their sons were born, to declare them illegitimate?
Antoine paced up and down his apartments. He loved his little Jeanne; he adored his little Jeanne; but not enough to jeopardise the future of his house.
So, on the day before that fixed for the wedding, Antoine begged an audience of the King, and when it was granted he expressed his fears that, as Jeanne had once been married to the Duke of Clèves, her marriage to himself could not take place.
Jeanne never knew how near she came to losing her bridegroom.
By the time the ceremony was due to take place, however, the King and his ministers had succeeded in lulling Antoine’s fears; and since this was so, Antoine was able to give himself up to love. This he did – being well practised in that art – much to Jeanne’s delight and contentment.
‘Let this happiness last,’ she prayed; but she never really doubted that it would. She was completely happy; she could not stop reminding herself that she had been rescued from the husband she hated and given the man she loved. After such a miracle, she could not doubt that life would go on being wonderful.
Her father took her aside after the wedding. He smelt of garlic and there was wine spilt on his garments. His manners seemed rougher than they had before she had become so well acquainted with Bourbon elegance. Still, he was her father, and Jeanne had more of him in her than she had of her mother. He was a brave soldier, this King of Navarre; and if his ways were rough compared with those of the court of Paris, still, she understood him; and although she remembered the beatings she had received at his hands, she could not but honour her father.
He said: ‘I want a grandson, girl. Nor do I expect to wait long for him. You’ve got a courtier for a husband – a dainty, pretty man, I doubt not. See that he gives you his children and does not squander them on other women, for by all accounts he’s a man who can’t do without a woman, although he has done very well without a wife until this day.’
Jeanne’s eyes flashed and her stubborn chin shot up. ‘He has led the life of a court gallant – that I know. But now he is a husband, Father; he is my husband. He has begun a new life with me.’
That made her father let out a guffaw and hiccup into his goblet.
‘Don’t ask for fidelity, girl. Ask for sons. Ventre de biche! Don’t make me wait too long for a grandson, or, woman that you are and Bourbon that you may be, I’ll take the rod to you.’
She smiled at him fondly. She honoured him for his bravery and, if he were crude and coarse, and his light love-affairs with women were numerous, he was but a man and her mother had never loved him deeply. It was not, she must remember, given to all men and women to love as she and Antoine did – for ever, most faithfully, ideally. Perhaps there had never been a perfect marriage before theirs.
Antoine agreed with her. ‘I never dreamed,’ he said, ‘that the day would come when such happiness would be mine. Ah, sweet Jeanne, my dearest wife, how I wish I had led a life as pure as yours!’
Jeanne kissed him tenderly. ‘The past is done with, Antoine. And the future is ours.’
Antoine went on lyrically: ‘All women seem to have grown ugly in my eyes. Why is that, little Jeanne? There is no one else who has a trace of beauty. You have it all. Yes, all the beauty in the world is in that sweet face and form. I would barter all my fortune for one of your kisses.’
Jeanne believed him. As for Antoine, he had forgotten that a very short while ago he had had to be persuaded to continue with this marriage.
Jeanne was a happy wife of two years’ standing. The love between herself and her husband had grown deeper, for Antoine could not be insensible to her sincerity, to her steadfast belief that they would live in happiness for the rest of their lives.
During those two years Antoine had often been away from home; there had been occasions when it had been possible to accompany him to camp, but when it was not she would wait patiently for his return, and each time he came back there was a renewal of their ecstatic days together.
There had been sorrows. Jeanne’s mother, having no wish to live after the death of King Francis, had died within a year.
The second sorrow followed quickly on the first.
In the September after her marriage, Jeanne, to her great delight as well as that of her husband, gave birth to a son. She wished to accompany Antoine to camp, and, remembering the devotion of her old governess, Aymée de Silly, the Baillive of Caen, she had put her son into this lady’s care. Madame de Silly was a conscientious woman, determined to be worthy of the honour done to her, and she forthwith set about doing her best for the child. But she had grown feeble during the last years and her joints were so stiff that she found the least cold breeze increased her pains; she therefore had all windows sealed, and her walls hung with thick Arras, while fires burned in all the rooms of her house night and day. Heat, she declared, was necessary to good health, and what was good for her was good for the baby Prince of Navarre. He was accordingly kept in this bad atmosphere, never allowed out into the fresh air, and tightly swaddled in garments which were never removed. Under this treatment the little Prince grew frail and began to waste away, until at length his condition became so precarious that Jeanne was informed; and when she came to see her son, she was so shocked by what she found that she bitterly reproached her old governess and took the child away from her. Alas, it was too late. The little Prince died when he was just over a year old.
This was heartbreaking, but already she was pregnant again, and this time Jeanne vowed that she would look after the child herself. To her great delight, the new baby was a healthy boy and, under her care – so very different from that of the Baillive of Caen – he began to thrive.
And so, on this happy day, with the country temporarily at peace, she, Antoine, the child and their attendants travelled down to her father’s castle, where they intended to spend Christmas.
Antoine was happy too. His thoughts circled about his wife, for he had never known any woman like her. She was, in her directness and that almost naïve frankness, enchanting; and she was, moreover, still wholeheartedly in love with him. Antoine was vain of his own personal charms; he was almost as fascinating to women as was his brother, the Prince of Condé, and of this fact he was keenly aware. Their high rank, their good looks, and the romantic lives they had led in the days before their marriages meant that they were subject to constant temptation. Antoine had written to Jeanne when he was away from her: ‘I never dreamed that I could receive the courtship of ladies as I do now. I know not if it be the sweet winds that blow from Béarn which are the cause of this, or if it be that my eyesight has changed so much that it can no longer be deceived as it was before.’
The vanity of the little man! thought Jeanne fondly. So … he still received the courtship of ladies! Ah well, his profligate past was over.
So Jeanne continued to be delighted with her marriage; she was growing fond of her husband’s family – in particular, her sister-in-law, Princess Eléonore, the wife of the Prince of Condé. And through Eléonore she came to be on familiar terms with Eléonore’s relatives, the Colignys – Gaspard, Odet and Andelot. Jeanne and Eléonore had much in common; they were both in love with their husbands, and their husbands were brothers. Eléonore, it seemed to Jeanne, was a saint; Jeanne knew herself to be no saint, for she had not changed so very much from that little girl who had cut the saints’ heads from their bodies in her mother’s tapestry and substituted the heads of foxes; she was vehement and quick-tempered.
She was fired during those early years of her marriage by the religious devotion of her new friends. Her happiest days – when she could not enjoy the society of her husband – were spent at the Palais de Condé. Here came men and women of the new faith; some of them were refugees; there were rich and poor; some brought letters and others verbal messages too important to be trusted to paper. She met there Eléonore’s uncles, Gaspard
, Odet and Andelot; there was no one – except Antoine – whom Jeanne admired more than Uncle Gaspard de Coligny. He was a great man, a good man, a man who would die for what he believed to be right. Jeanne often felt that she would like to become closer to them, one of their community. But she realised that could not be as long as her father lived. She remembered the beating he had given her when she had joined with her mother in her prayers. She was not afraid of beatings; in any case, her father could not beat her now; but it was laid down that a woman should honour her father, so how could Jeanne go against his wishes in this matter of religion? No! She would not forget her duty to her parent; she would confine herself to discussion, to discovering all she could of the new faith; but she would not accept it … yet.
Jeanne’s father greeted them with pleasure. He was enchanted by his grandson, but he did not forget to reproach his daughter for the death of her firstborn. However, he was inclined to forgive her as she now had such a bonny boy to replace him.
He had arranged for a great hunting party to entertain his son-in-law and daughter, and he talked of little else. Of Antoine he was suspicious, noting the weakness of his handsome face, the dandyism of his clothes.
‘Béarn is not Paris,’ he reminded him grimly, ‘but we Béarnais like things the way they are here.’
And Jeanne was amused to see how her father was just a little coarser in his manners than usual, determined to make no concessions to the finicky Bourbon.
She was very happy to ride out to the hunt, her husband beside her, her father riding ahead.
After the hunt, when they returned to the castle, the first thing Jeanne heard was the crying of the little Prince, her son. She sent for his nurse and asked her what ailed him.
The nurse, trembling a little, said: ‘He is a little peevish, Madame. Nothing more.’
But all through the night the baby cried.
In the state bedroom at Fontainebleau, Catherine de’ Medici lay thinking of Jeanne, and wondering why it should be that her thoughts kept returning again and again to the woman. As soon as she had seen Jeanne d’Albret at court, she had felt a strong repulsion for her; it was a strange feeling, an occult sense, which told her to beware. Why so? Jeanne was a fool, far too outspoken, possessing no diplomatic sense at all. Yet how strong she had been when they had tried to marry her to the Duke of Clèves. That declaration in the Cathedral showed power, while it showed a lamentable lack of restraint. Jeanne had hated the marriage they had planned for her, and well she might. The niece of King Francis, the cousin of King Henry, to be fobbed off with a foreign Duke-ling! Catherine could smile, well pleased in that respect with her own marriage, in which she could have been very happy if Henry had only made a pretence of loving her as Antoine de Bourbon loved his wife.