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. ‘Why, 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 wou
ld 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 marriage 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.
* * *
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 Guilla
ume 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.
The Italian Woman Page 4