The Italian Woman

by Виктория Холт

  But this journey was different, since behind it was a sinister motive.

  Even the excitement of arriving at Fontainebleau could not make her forget her fears. Fontainebleau, she had always thought, was one of the most beautiful places on Earth. Its gardens, with that delightful mixture of the wild and cultivated, were such as she had never seen elsewhere; here were great rooms and galleries filled with the treasures of Europe which her uncle had taken such delight in collecting. Not that Jeanne was greatly attracted by art; it was the extravagance of the court which she admired. Then it was pleasant to renew old acquaintances.

  She was disturbed, though, by her cousin Charles, who played unpleasant tricks. She had to be careful each night when she got into her bed to see that some hideous creature like a dead bat or toad had not been put there to keep her company. She was scornful of Charles, which was foolish of her, for Charles would not tolerate a lack of appreciation of his practical jokes, and those he played on her grew more boisterous and more unkind. But she refused to laugh when she did not wish to laugh; she would rather take the consequences than pretend to be amused when she was not.

  Her cousin Henry was kinder, though he had very little to say to her; he had very little to say to anyone but his mistress. He had become of greater importance since Jeanne had last seen him, for then he had been simply the Duke of Orléans and now he was the Dauphin of France. She wished it had been possible to discuss marriage with him, for he had been married when he was very little older than she was; but of course, that was impossible.

  There was Catherine, of course – Catherine the Dauphiness. Jeanne could never discuss marriage with Catherine, for there was something about the Italian which repelled her, although she did not understand what it was. Yet Catherine was a wife, and a neglected wife. There was a good deal of whispering about her because she had already been married six years and had no children. It was said that the fault was Catherine’s because the Dauphin had, during the campaign of Piedmont, given a daughter to a girl whom he had temporarily loved during his enforced absence from his mistress. Poor Catherine! Jeanne would have liked to be friends. It was true that she was only twelve years old and that Catherine was twenty; yet they must both be, at this time, rather bewildered and unhappy people. But, it was not possible to be friendly with Catherine. Jeanne watched her receive Diane, smile and chat with her; there was no sign on those cold, pale features that she suffered the slightest humiliation. I shall never be like that! thought Jeanne fiercely. I shall never be meek. If this Guillaume dares to treat me as Henry treats Catherine, I shall leave him, no matter if all Spain and all France and all England go to war on account of it.

  But when she heard the gossip which went on about Catherine she thought she understood why her cousin Henry was not in love with his wife and preferred the company of his mistress.

  One of her ladies talked to her of this matter as she helped her disrobe at night: ‘I like not these Italians, my lady Princess. They are well versed in the arts of poison, and their poisons are so subtle that none can be sure whether the victim has died of them or a natural death. It is said that Madame la Dauphine wished to be Queen of France, and for that reason she arranged that her Italian follower should first become the cupbearer of the Dauphin Francis and then administer the fatal dose.’

  ‘You must not say such things!’ cried Jeanne. ‘If you were heard saying them and it were brought to the King’s ears, you would be in trouble.’

  ‘It is others that say them, my lady. Not I. I merely tell you what I hear. The Dauphin’s cupbearer was an Italian; that is all I say.’

  Jeanne shivered. She would never like her cousin Catherine. How ridiculous she had been to imagine that she could ever confide in her!

  Once in the gardens at Fontainebleau she met Catherine walking alone.

  ‘Good day to you, cousin,’ said Catherine.

  ‘Good day to you, cousin,’ answered Jeanne.

  ‘So you are soon to be a wife.’

  Jeanne could not help it if her lips tightened and the colour flooded her face; she was never able to hide her feelings. This was particularly irritating when she found herself face to face with one such as Catherine, who would never betray by a lift of the eyebrows or a movement of her lips what was going on in her head.

  ‘You do not seem to be happy about this marriage, cousin.’

  ‘I do not wish for it,’ replied the little girl.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I do not want to go to a strange land. I do not want to marry.’ Jeanne, as Madame de Silly often told her, never stopped to think what she was saying, and she went on impetuously: ‘You will understand. Marriage is sometimes distasteful. Wives are neglected for other women.’

  There was silence all about them. Catherine’s face was quite expressionless, but the prominent eyes were fixed on Jeanne, and although Jeanne did not want to meet them, she found herself unable to avoid doing so.

  She went on quickly: ‘Oh, Catherine, I could not bear to be treated as Henry treats you. Everyone talks of him and Madame de Poitiers. Henry’s eyes follow her wherever she goes! You must be unhappy.’

  ‘I, unhappy? You forget I am the Dauphine.’

  ‘Yes, I know. But to be so humiliated! Madame d’Étampes rules the King, but the Queen is still the Queen. It is hard to believe that Henry could be so cruel. I am glad I did not marry him. They were going to marry me to Henry at one time. I thought it was certain to come about, and I used to think that I should not mind marrying Henry, because he is my cousin and we have always known each other. But I would not, were I his wife, permit him to treat me as he treats you. I would insist. I would …’

  Catherine began to laugh.

  ‘You are good indeed to be so concerned with my affairs. How strange! I was pitying you. I am married to the heir of France, and you – a Princess – are to be married to a poor little Duke. It is you, dear Princess, who are insulted. I shall be Queen of France, so why should I care if the King has a hundred mistresses while I am Queen? And you will be a Duchess … a Duchess of Clèves …’

  Jeanne grew scarlet. She had never before realised how deeply humiliating – as well as distasteful – was this marriage.

  Catherine turned and left her standing there more bewildered and unhappy than she had been since the King told her she was to have a husband.

  * * *

  Jeanne was in disgrace, and the King was furious with her. She had met her future husband, who was twenty-four years old – about double her age – and whom some might call handsome; but Jeanne had hated him as soon as she had heard his name, and she was unable to dispel that hatred. The King had implied that he was ashamed of her lack of graciousness; she in her turn was determined that she was not going to feign a delight she did not feel in such a marriage. As for the Duke of Clèves, he was bewildered by the behaviour of his ungracious little bride-to-be. The King’s anger was largely due to the fact that he believed Jeanne’s father to be secretly supporting her in her decision to do all she could to prevent the marriage; and this was something more than a little girl’s repugnance for a suitor; it was deliberate rebellion of a subject against a King.

  Francis wrote to his sister, and when Jeanne arrived in Alençon she was greeted by a stern mother; and this was yet another tragedy for Jeanne. She adored her mother; she had heard so many stories of her wit and beauty; it had been so long since they had met; and now, when at last she was allowed to see her, it was to find herself in disgrace.

  Marguerite, gentle, living in a world of her own populated by the savants of her day – Ronsard, Marot, all the writers, painters and architects of the Renaissance era – was loth to tear herself away from the life of the mind to deal with the mundane business of a disobedient daughter. It never occurred to Marguerite to do anything but support her brother; she would do that, whatever he suggested, for his will immediately became hers.

  There were long conversations during which Jeanne, sad and bewildered, yet retained her power
to put her case clearly and pungently to her mother.

  ‘The King must be obeyed,’ explained Marguerite. ‘Every command he gives it must be our joy to obey.’

  ‘He can make mistakes,’ countered Jeanne.

  ‘Not our King, my child.’

  ‘But he did. He made terrible mistakes. Have you forgotten what a mistake he made at Pavia?’

  Queen Marguerite’s beautiful eyes grew large with horror. ‘Pavia! That was his misfortune. It was no fault of his. There never lived a braver soldier, a greater general.’

  ‘But great generals are not defeated in war by lesser ones.’

  ‘There are things of which you know nothing, and one of these is that a maiden should have no will of her own.’

  ‘Then how is she to decide the difference between right and wrong?’

  ‘Her parents and her King will guide her.’

  ‘But suppose both her parents and her King do not agree?’

  ‘You are being foolish. We are discussing your marriage with the Duke of Clèves. It is a good marriage.’

  ‘How can that be? I, a Princess, who might have married my cousin Henry, who is a King’s son, to marry with a Duke! The son of the King of Spain might have married me …’

  ‘It is a good marriage because the King wishes it,’ interrupted Marguerite curtly. ‘And you, my daughter, must love and obey your uncle as I do.’

  ‘But,’ persisted Jeanne, ‘this is not what I have been taught to accept as logic.’

  Marguerite said sorrowfully: ‘Jeanne, my dear child, do not rebel in this way. The King wishes your marriage; therefore it must be. If you do not agree, I shall have no alternative but to have you beaten every day until you do. Listen to me, my child. These beatings will be the severest you have ever received in your life. Your life itself might be endangered.’

  ‘Is that so?’ said Jeanne scornfully. ‘I thought it was my marriage your brother wanted – not my funeral!’

  Marguerite looked sadly at her daughter. She was proud of her wit and quick mind, but sorely distressed by her obstinacy.

  * * *

  She would not consent. She would not agree to this marriage. She would defy them all. She thought continually of the Duke of Clèves, and when she thought of him she remembered the smile of Catherine, the Dauphine. She knew she had spoken impetuously to the Italian, but Jeanne did not care for that. Catherine was quite insincere; she must be, to pretend that she did not care that her husband humiliated her, being so gracious to Madame de Poitiers that it was almost as though she were thanking her for being her husband’s mistress. Jeanne had no patience with such insincerity; she called it slyness. She herself, in such circumstances, would have slapped Madame de Poitiers’s face. And yet … she could not shut out of her mind the quiet sneer on Catherine’s face which seemed to goad her, to make her more determined than ever to evade this marriage.

  She decided to put on record her hatred of it, so that the world should know that, if she were forced to it, it would be against her will.

  In her room she sat long composing the document, and when she had finished this is what she had written:

  ‘I, Jeanne of Navarre, persisting in the protestations I have already made, do hereby again affirm and protest, by these present, that the marriage which it is desired to contract between the Duke of Clèves and myself is against my will; that I have never consented to it, nor will consent; and that all I may say and do hereafter, by which it may be attempted to prove that I have given my consent, will be forcibly extorted against my wish and desire, from my dread of the King, of the King my father, and of the Queen my mother, who has threatened to have me whipped by the Baillive of Caen, my governess. By command of the Queen, my mother, my said governess has several times declared that if I do not all in regard to this marriage which the King wishes, and if I do not give my consent, I shall be punished so severely as to occasion my death; and that by refusing I may be the cause of the ruin and destruction of my father, my mother and of their house; the which threat has inspired me with such fear and dread, even to be the cause of the ruin of my said father and mother, that I know not to whom to have recourse, excepting to God, seeing that my father and mother abandon me, who both well know what I have said to them – that never can I love the Duke of Clèves, and that I will not have him. Therefore, I protest beforehand, if it happens that I am affianced, or married to the said Duke of Clèves in any manner, it will be against my heart and in defiance of my will; and that he shall never become my husband, nor will I ever regard or hold him as such, and that my marriage shall be reputed null and void; in testimony of which I appeal to God and yourselves as witnesses of this my declaration that you are about to sign with me; admonishing each of you to remember the compulsion, violence, and constraint employed against me, upon the matter of this said marriage.’

  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.