The Italian Woman

CHAPTER I

In her apartments at the castle of Plessis-les-Tours a little girl knelt on a window seat and looked disconsolately out on the sunlit grounds. The sunshine out there, she felt, made the castle itself more gloomy by contrast. She hated the place.

‘What am I,’ she said aloud, ‘but a prisoner?’

The lady who was stitching industriously at her embroidery, her back to the window and to the little girl, that the best of the light might fall on her work, clicked her tongue in answer. She had no wish to enter into a discussion of her wrongs with Jeanne, for although the child was only twelve years old, her tongue was so quick that even her tutor had learned not to enter lightly into wordy battles with her, since, with her logic and quick wits, Jeanne had a way of coming out of such encounters victorious. As for Madame de Silly, the Baillive of Caen and governess of Jeanne, she knew herself no match for the child when it came to an argument.

‘I hear the wind howling through the trees in the forest sometimes at night,’ went on Jeanne. ‘Then I think that perhaps it is the souls of those who died in torment before they could make their peace with God. Do you think that is what we hear, Aymée?’

‘Nonsense!’ cried Aymée de Silly. ‘You have just said it was the wind in the trees.’

‘It is a prison, Aymée. Can you not feel it? Too much misery has been suffered in this place for me to be happy here. Think of those prisoners of my ancestor. Think of the iron cages in which he kept them … so small that they could not move; and there they remained for years. Think of the men who have been tortured in this dark and miserable place. Look out there at the lovely river. Men have been cruelly drowned in that river. When I go out at dusk, I seem to see the bodies of men hanging on the trees, as they did all those years ago.’

‘You think too much,’ said Aymée.

‘How can one think too much?’ demanded Jeanne scornfully. ‘I am determined not to stay here. I shall run away and join my mother and father. Why should I be kept from them?’

‘Because it is the will of the King of France. And what do you think would happen were you to run away? If – which, seems hardly likely – you were to have the good fortune to arrive at your father’s court of Navarre, what do you think would happen? I can tell you. You would be sent back here.’

‘That might not be,’ said Jeanne. ‘If my father, the King of Navarre, were there, he would hide me, since he at least wishes me to be with him. I know it.’

‘But it is the will of your uncle that you should stay here. And have you forgotten that your uncle is the King of France?’

‘That is something Uncle Francis never lets anyone forget.’ Jeanne smiled, for in spite of her grievances against him, she loved her uncle. He was handsome and charming and always delightful to her; he was amused rather than angry when she pleaded to be allowed to join her parents, even though she knew it was his wish that she should remain where she was.

‘When I see the little peasant children with their mothers, I envy them,’ she said.

‘You do nothing of the sort!’ retorted Aymée. ‘You only fancy you do. Imagine your feelings, my child, if you were told tomorrow that you were stripped of your rank! How would you like that?’

‘Not at all. But all the same, I long to see my mother. Tell me of her, Aymée.’

‘She is very beautiful; she is respected and loved by her husband, the King of Navarre …’

‘And adored by her brother the King of France,’ interrupted Jeanne. ‘Do you remember that when I was very small, I used to make you repeat over and over again the story of how, when Uncle Francis was a prisoner in Spain, it was my mother who went to his prison in Madrid and nursed him back to health?’

‘I remember clearly,’ said Aymée, smiling.

‘But,’ went on Jeanne, ‘do you think that a woman should love her brother more than she loves her husband and her own child?’

Aymée’s face was pink suddenly; she pursed her lips as she frequently did when challenged with a question she was going to refuse to answer. ‘Your mother is a great queen,’ she said. ‘She is the noblest woman in France …’

‘I know, dear Aymée, but that was not the point we were discussing. Should a woman love her brother more than her husband and her child? That was what I said. And you dare not answer it. My mother could have had me with her, had she insisted. Uncle Francis would have given way had she pleaded, for he can deny her nothing. But she loves him, and because she wishes to please him more than anything in the world, when he says: It is my wish that your daughter should be kept a prisoner at that most hateful, that most gloomy, that most miserable of all my castles … my mother answers: “Thy will be done.” She has no will but his. You yourself have said so.’

‘It is very right and proper that all his subjects should obey the King, and even the Queen of Navarre is a subject of the King of France.’

Jeanne jumped down from the window-seat in exasperation. There were times when Aymée’s method of skirting round a difficult subject infuriated her. Jeanne was vehement by nature; her temper rose quickly and subsided at the same speed. But how absurd it was to pretend things were not as one knew them to be!

‘How I hate all insincerity!’ she cried.

‘And, Mademoiselle,’ said her governess sternly, ‘how I abhor such precocity! You know a good deal more than it is good for you to know.’

‘How can that be when all knowledge is good to have? Aymée, you make me angry when you keep up this pretence. I am loved by my father and mother; my uncle has nothing but my good at heart. And yet, all these years when I have longed to be with my parents, I am kept from them. Now you will try to pretend, will you not, that my uncle, the King of France, and my father, the King of Navarre, are the greatest of friends. Let us have the truth. They hate each other. They are suspicious of each other; and it is because the King of France suspects my father of trying to arrange a match between me and Philip of Spain that he insists on my being kept here, so that he himself may be sure that I am not given to his enemy.’ She laughed to see the dismay in the eyes of her governess. ‘Oh, Aymée, it is not your fault. You have done all you can to keep these facts from me. But you know how I hate pretence. And I will not have it here.’

Aymée shrugged her shoulders and went on with her embroidery. ‘Jeanne,’ she said, ‘why not forget all this? You are young. You keep good state here. You have nothing with which to worry yourself. You are happy; and one day you will be able to join your parents.’

‘Listen!’ cried Jeanne. ‘I hear the sound of a horn.’

Aymée rose and came to the window. Her heart was beating uncomfortably fast. It was a habit of King Francis when he was staying at Amboise to ride over to Plessis-les-Tours. Sometimes he came with just a few of his followers – a brief, informal call on his little niece. At such times Aymée was terrified, for Jeanne never seemed to remember that this magnificent and charming man, besides being her uncle, was also the King of France. She could be pert, disrespectful, and at times resentful. If the King were in a good mood he might be amused; but if he were not, who could know what might happen?

‘Is the court at Amboise?’ asked Jeanne.

‘That I do not know.’

They stood for some seconds looking beyond the grass slopes to the trees of the forest; and then, as a group of riders emerged and came straight towards the castle, Jeanne turned to her governess. ‘The King’s court is at Amboise; and here comes the King to visit me.’

Aymée laid a trembling hand on her charge’s shoulder.

‘Have a care …’

Jeanne retorted: ‘If you mean, tell him that I am happy here and pleased with my state, that I like to be kept from my parents, then rest assured I shall not have a care. I shall tell no lies.’

In the magnificent hall, the King greeted his niece. This hall brought back memories to Francis; here he, as Duke of Valois, had been betrothed to Claude, the Princess of France; he had not been sure then that he would ever sit on the throne of France. His sister Marguerite, dearest of all women as far as he was concerned, had encouraged him in those days. What would his life have been without Marguerite? He thought of that always when he looked at Marguerite’s daughter; and that meant that he must be fond of the child. He could not help but be fond of her for her own sake, since, with those blunt manners, that directness of speech, she was not without charm; and one grew weary of sycophancy. He wished, though, that Jeanne had inherited a little more of her mother’s beauty. He wished that he did not see in her a resemblance to that sly old villain, her father, the King of Navarre.

She knelt before him and kissed his hand; and his lips twitched. He was remembering the tale Marguerite had told him of how this child had, in a fit of temper, once cut off the heads of the saints in her mother’s tapestry and substituted for them the heads of foxes. That was a crime which had amused both Francis and his sister.

‘Rise, child,’ he said. ‘You are looking well. The air of Plessis agrees with you.’

He watched the flush rise in her cheeks. He enjoyed teasing her.

‘Indeed, Sire, it does not agree with me!’

He was aware of Madame de Silly, trembling in the background, waiting in trepidation for what the child would say next.

‘You surprise me, niece. I was about to congratulate Madame de Silly on your healthy appearance.’

‘The air of Navarre – my native air – would suit me better, Sire.’

‘When you hear the good news I have brought you, you will cease to fret for the air of Navarre. I have ridden over from Amboise with the sole purpose of imparting this news to you. What would you say if I told you I had a husband for you?’

Jeanne caught her breath in horror. ‘A husband … for me, Sire?’

‘I see that you are enchanted. That is well. You are growing up, my darling, and it is time we thought about a match for you. How does it appeal to you – the married state?’

‘Not greatly, Sire. Unless, of course, it were with some great King.’

He frowned, and Aymée trembled. It would seem that Jeanne was daring to refer to the match her father wished for her – an alliance with the man who would one day be King of Spain.

‘You prize yourself highly,’ said Francis coldly.

‘Unless there were great honour in a marriage I should not care for it,’ said Jeanne. ‘Many husbands give honour to women not their wives, so it is necessary for a wife to make a marriage which brings her honour, since she may not receive it from her husband afterwards.’

The King was always pleased with those who amused him; and the precocity of the child reminded him of his sister. His momentary displeasure disappeared, and he laughed aloud.

‘My dearest niece, I have no fear that you will be unable to keep Monsieur le Duc de Clèves under control.’

‘The Duc de Clèves!’ she cried. ‘What … do you mean, Sire?’

‘That he is to be your husband.’

Jeanne forgot the homage she owed to the King, and her mouth hardened. ‘You would give me in marriage to a duke of some small kingdom?’

‘Oh come, child, the Duke of Clèves is not so insignificant as you appear to think. I can see that here in Plessis you do not learn things concerning the outside world. Now, on your knees and thank me for having your welfare so near my heart that I have arranged a match for you.’

‘I fear, Sire,’ she said haughtily, ‘that I cannot thank you for arranging such an alliance for me.’

Madame de Silly stepped forward; the noblemen who had accompanied the King waited in dismay for him to express his anger. But it did not come; instead, he turned to them smiling.

‘Leave me alone with my niece,’ he said. ‘I think it necessary for us two to have a talk together.’

They, with Aymée and Jeanne’s attendants, bowed and retired.

Jeanne – terrified, though nothing would have made her admit that this was the case, and humiliated by her uncle’s suggestion – tossed her head to convey that whatever the consequences of her boldness, she did not care.

When they were alone, the King said: ‘Sit at my feet. That is right. Lean your head against me.’

He caressed her hair and, as she smelt the faint perfume of musk and Russia leather which clung to his clothes, she thought she would hate those scents as long as she lived.

‘It grieves me, Jeanne,’ he said, ‘that I should be the cause of unhappiness to you. As you know, your mother is dearer to me than any living person; and because you are her daughter, I love you also. But, my child, it is not for us of royal blood to question the alliances which are made for us. As you are a sensible girl, you must know that. You are right to have your decided views and to show no fear in expressing them. I would not have it otherwise. But you know also that it is your duty to obey your King. You have nothing to fear. The Duke will be enchanted with you, and he is not without good looks.’

‘Sire, am I not too young for marriage?’

‘Nay. You are twelve years of age … old enough for a princess to marry.’

‘But could I not have some choice in the matter?’

‘Dear child, that is a privilege which is denied us, and you must console yourself that one husband is very like another. If you start with passion, you lose it quickly. And, dear Jeanne, marriage need not be an obstacle to the pursuit of passion. Moreover, happiness is sometimes found outside marriage, if it is not granted within. You are wise beyond your years, and I can see that I may talk to you as I do to your mother.’

‘But … the Duke of Clèves! You promised me your son Henry.’

‘Ah yes; but Henry has a little Italian for his wife … and you would not have liked Henry.’

‘I liked him well enough.’

‘As a cousin. Not as a husband. He is gauche and scarcely speaks. He is unfaithful to his wife. Poor Catherine! She is pleasant enough, but he spends all his time with Diane de Poitiers. You would not like Henry as a husband, my dear.’

‘It might be that if he had had a French princess for a wife instead of that Italian woman, he would have spent more time with her.’

‘You have been listening to gossip. So it reaches Plessis, then? Nay! Henry pledged himself to Madame Diane years ago; and he is faithful – dull and faithful. Do not regret Henry. And now, because I respect your courage, I am going to tell you why this marriage must be. There is trouble all about us, my little Jeanne. My Constable has been pursuing a policy which is not to my taste. I am sad to think that he works for Henry the Dauphin more than for Francis the King. You see, like you, I have my sorrows. The Emperor Charles has given the Milanese to his son Philip, and I am angry because the Milanese should be mine. You are too young for these politics, but you must try to understand. It is necessary for me to show my displeasure to Spain, and I want you to help me to do this through your marriage with this man of Clèves, who, in his rebellion against the Emperor, has become my friend. You see, we must keep a balance of power about us, and it is with the marriages of the young members of our family that we can do this. So you will be reasonable; you will agree to this marriage, and you will know that, in doing so, you are serving your King.’

‘Sire, I beg of you, do not use me in this way. You are mighty. You are all-powerful. You can subdue your enemies without my help’

‘Not all-powerful, alas! And my enemies are legion. The greatest of these is the Emperor, with whom I must be continually on the alert. Then there is the sly old hypocrite of England. I am unsafe, child. That is why you, my loyal subject, must do all in your power to help me. Come, little Jeanne, a marriage is not all that important. Why, I have had two of them, and have managed to find much in life to please me. Both of my marriages were marriages of state – as yours must be. Did I complain? Not I. I respected my duty, and my destiny. First I married poor little Claude, who enabled me to do my duty to my country by bearing me many children. Then she died and, for reasons of state, I took a second wife. She is a very good woman and she troubles me not. Believe me, it is possible to live pleasantly and be married at the same time.’

‘But I would not care for that sort of life, Sire. I wish my marriage, if I have one, to be a good marriage. I wish to love and serve my husband and I wish him to be faithful to me.’

The King lifted her in his arms and laid his cheek against hers. ‘And you are right to have such thoughts. Rest assured that I will do all in my power to help you. Now you must prepare to leave Plessis at once. I want you to travel to Alençon, where you will be with your mother. That will delight you, will it not?’

‘Yes, Sire, but … I do not wish for this marriage.’

He smiled with charming regret.

There would be a halt at Paris on the way to Alençon. Usually Jeanne looked forward with zest to her visits to Paris. She would enjoy the long journey which some found so tedious, riding with the procession of attendants with the baggage stacked on the backs of the mules. The magnificence of her uncle’s court never ceased to amaze her; she enjoyed seeing her cousins; she was enchanted by the balls and masques; and the ceremonies of court were such a contrast with the dull life of Plessis-les-Tours.

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.

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 brothers, 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?’

‘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. ‘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 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 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 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.

But what a foolish creature Jeanne was, not to realise that her happiness with her husband was fleeting. Was she blind? Did she not see the inherent weakness of her Antoine? At the moment he was faithful. At the moment! Catherine laughed that loud laugh which she often allowed herself when she was alone. How long did foolish Jeanne expect Bourbon Antoine to remain faithful? It was a miracle that he had remained so for so long. And when Jeanne’s husband began to be unfaithful, the girl would be unable to hide her sorrow, for she had not been brought up in the hard school of a Medici. How would Jeanne d’Albret have acted had she been forced to witness her husband’s infidelity with his mistress for nearly twenty years? Would she have smiled and bided her time?

No! She would have raged and stormed. Surely there was nothing to fear from such a woman. Yet Catherine frowned as once more she called to mind Jeanne’s face, which, unformed as it was, showed as much strength as one ever saw in the face of a woman. She, Catherine de’ Medici, would watch Jeanne d’Albret; every action should be noted; she would come to understand why it was that she felt this fear of her.

It might be because once Jeanne had been intended for Henry. How would Henry have liked his cousin Jeanne? Would she have been able to lure him from the everlasting charms of Diane de Poitiers? Was that it? Did that explain her feeling? Was it a strange, twisted jealousy of one who might have been more successful with Henry than she was?

She would have her latest child brought to her; her face softened with love at the thought of him. Her Henry, her darling, to whom, now that the contemplation of weaning her husband from Diane brought such despair, she was giving more and more of her attention.

What had she to fear from Jeanne d’Albret when she had three sons to prevent the crown of France being taken by a son of Jeanne’s? Perhaps that son of Jeanne’s was at the root of her fear.

Now she could no longer bear to be without her child. She wanted to hold him in her arms, to marvel at his beauty, to marvel at herself, that she, hardened each year with a thousand humiliations, grown cynical with much frustration, could love like this.

She called her woman, Madalenna.

‘Bring my baby. Bring my little Henry to me.’

‘Yes, Madame.’ Madalenna hesitated. The girl had news; and it was news which she knew would interest her mistress.

‘Speak,’ said Catherine. ‘What is it?’

‘Yes, Madame. From Béarn.’

‘From Béarn?’ Catherine raised herself; her eyes were gleaming. News of Jeanne d’Albret. No wonder the woman had been so much in her thoughts. ‘Come, Madalenna,’ she cried impatiently. ‘What news?’

‘Sad news, Madame. Terrible news. The little Prince is dead.’

Catherine successfully hid her smile of triumph, for although this woman knew her perhaps as well as any did, she must not be allowed to know too much.

‘Dead!’ Catherine let out a croak that might have been a laugh or a sob. ‘She cannot raise children, that woman. Two children … and both dead.’

‘This Madame, was a terrible accident. It was his nurse’s fault. She was talking to a courtier through one of the windows and, in fun, she threw the child down to him. It happened, Madame, that the courtier did not catch the child.’

‘Ah!’ said Catherine. ‘So Madame d’Albret’s servants are allowed to play ball with her son. No wonder she cannot keep her children.’

‘Madame, the child’s ribs were crushed, and the nurse, fearing her mistress’s displeasure, tried to soothe his cries and said nothing of what had happened until the poor little Prince died; and when he was unswaddled …’

Catherine cried in sudden alarm: ‘Go and bring my little Henry to me. Quickly. Lose no time.’

Madalenna ran off and very shortly returned with the child, which she laid in his mother’s arms. Catherine held him against her breast – her love, her darling, her son Henry who would compensate her for all she had suffered from Henry her husband.

Now, with the child safe against her breast, she gave herself up to laughter at the disaster to the woman whom she continued to think of as her enemy.

Jeanne was pregnant once more.

She had prayed each night and morning that she might bear a child which she would have the good fortune to rear. She was leading a quiet and regular life, visited by her husband’s relations. Antoine came home from his camp whenever possible. He was as much in love with her as ever. Others marvelled at his constancy, but Jeanne considered it natural. They had their differences, their outbursts of jealousy, but these, Jeanne pointed out, showed only how deeply they cared for one another. The accident to their child – that terrible accident when the poor infant had lain for hours with the agony of broken bones tormenting him – might have ruined all Jeanne’s happiness for a time if Antoine had not been with her to comfort her.

‘Let me bear your grief,’ he had said. ‘I beg of you, do not torment yourself by remembering it.’ And then he had added philosophically: ‘For one that God takes away he can give a dozen.’

Her father had been furious; she had thought that he would do some injury to her, and she was reminded of that other occasion when he had beaten her into unconsciousness. He was a violent-tempered man. Now he called her inhuman; he declared that it was unlikely she would ever raise an heir and he himself would have to marry again. He threatened to marry his favourite mistress, who, although she might not be of royal blood, had a son by him and knew how to rear the boy. He would have him legitimised. He would see that Jeanne did not inherit his throne, for she was unworthy; she was inhuman.

They quarrelled violently, and Jeanne was very disturbed by the thought of what it would mean to any children she might have, if her father disinherited her.

However, before they parted, Henry of Navarre forgot his fury sufficiently to make her promise that, if she were ever to become pregnant again, she would come to his castle of Pau and have her child there where he might watch over her and it.

This she promised and they parted, smouldering anger between them.

Now she was pregnant once more. Antoine was in camp, so she lost no time in setting out for her father’s castle, and when she reached Pau he greeted her warmly.

He had had her mother’s apartments prepared for her, and these were the most magnificent in the palace. Exquisite paintings hung on the walls, and the splendid hangings of crimson satin had been embroidered by Marguerite herself with scenes from her life.

Jeanne’s father watched over her during the next weeks, but he would not allow her to rest too frequently. He did not believe in the idle luxury of the court of the King of France.

A few weeks before the child was due, he talked very seriously to Jeanne. If she did not give him a grandson, he assured her, he would leave all he possessed to his bastard son, whom he would lose no time in legitimising.

‘That,’ he said, ‘I would not wish to do, but if you, my daughter, are incapable of rearing children, then shall I be forced to it.’

He showed her a golden chain which was long enough to be wound round her neck twenty-five times and to which was fastened a little gold box.

‘Now listen, girl,’ he said. ‘In this box is my will, and in this will I have left everything to you. But, there is a condition: when I die, all I possess shall be yours, but in exchange I want something now. I want my grandson. I fear that you will not give me the grandson I want. Nay, don’t dare interrupt me when I speak to you. I tell you I want no peevish girl or drivelling boy. Now, listen. This boy must not come into the world to the sound of a woman’s groaning. His mother must be one who does not groan when she is giving birth to my grandson. His coming into the world must be heralded as the great event it is. Is he not my grandson? So let the first thing he hears be the sound of his mother’s singing, and let the song you sing be one of our own … a Béarnais song or a song of Gascony. No precious, drivelling poetry of the French King’s court. A song of our own land. Understand me, girl? Let me hear you sing a song as my grandson is born, and in exchange you shall have all that is mine. Yes, daughter, the minute I die, all mine shall be yours – in trust for my grandson. You’ll do it?’

Jeanne laughed aloud. ‘Yes, Father. I will. I will sing as my son comes into the world, and you will be there with that little gold box.’

‘On the word of a Béarnais!’ he said; and he solemnly kissed her on either cheek.

‘I’ll send my servant,’ he went on, ‘my trusted Cotin, to sleep in the ante-room. And he shall come to me, whatever the hour, and I’ll be there to greet my grandson and to hear you keep your part of the bargain.’

Jeanne was as happy during those waiting weeks as it was possible to be when Antoine was not with her. She walked with her father, for he insisted on her taking a good deal of exercise; he would rouse her if he saw her resting. He lived in a perpetual fear that she would give him a child like the sons of the King of France – ‘poor mewling brats’ he called them. They would see what a grandson he should have – a grandson who should be born into the world like a good Béarnais.

And when, in the early morning of a bleak winter’s day, Jeanne knew that her time was near, she bade Cotin be ready for a call from her. When her pains began she remembered the agony which she had suffered twice before, and she wondered how she would be able to sing while her body was racked with such pain.

But sing she must, for her father’s inheritance depended on it.

‘Cotin,’ she called. ‘Cotin … quickly … go and call my father. My child is about to be born.’

The sweat ran down her face, and her body was twisted in her pain; but now she could hear her father’s step on the stairs, so she began to sing, and the song she sang was the local canticle of ‘Our Lady at the end of the Bridge’:Our Lady at the end of the bridge,Help me in this present hour.Pray to the God of Heaven that HeWill deliver me speedilyAnd grant me the gift of a son.All to the mountain topsImplore Him.Our Lady at the end of the bridgeHelp me in this present hour.

Henry stood watching in triumph; and again and again, as the pains beset her, Jeanne chanted her entreaty to the Lady at the end of the bridge. Henry was content. That was how his grandson should be born.

And at length … there was the child.

Henry pushed aside those about the bed; his hands were eager to take the child.

A boy! Henry’s triumph was complete.

‘A true Béarnais!’ he cried. ‘What other child was ever born to the sound of his mother’s singing? Tell me that. What are you doing with my grandson? He is mine. He shall be named Henry and he shall live to greatness. Give him to me! Give him to me! Ah … wait awhile.’ He took the gold chain and placed it about the neck of his exhausted daughter; he smiled at her almost tenderly as he put the gold box in her hands.

Now … to his grandson! He took the baby from the attendants and wrapped it in his long robes. He went with the boy to his own apartments crying: ‘My grandson is born. Lo and behold, a sheep has brought forth a lion. Oh, blessed lion! My grandson! Greatness awaits thee, Henry of Navarre.’

When she had recovered from her exhaustion, Jeanne felt the chain about her neck and tried to open the little gold box. But the box was locked. Her father had not given her the key; there had been no mention of a key.

Now she saw that he did not mean her to know what documents were in the box until his death. She did not know what she and her son would inherit; she had to be content merely with the prospect of inheritance.

She was angry; her father had duped her; but as she lay there her anger passed. The action was so typical of her father. He had trapped her while carrying out his part of the bargain to the letter. She could do nothing but curb her impatience.

Meanwhile, Henry of Navarre was gloating over his grandson. He rubbed on the little lips a clove of garlic – the Gascon antidote for poison. Then he called to his attendants, who had followed him to his apartments: ‘Bring me wine.’

And when it was brought, he poured it into his own cup of gold and fed the newly born child with it. The baby swallowed the wine; and his grandfather, turning to his attendants and courtiers, laughed aloud in his pleasure.

‘Here is a true Béarnais!’ he cried.

Henry of Navarre’s interest in his grandson did not end with his birth. He had made up his mind that the boy was not going to suffer through too much coddling, and the best way of assuring this was to put him in the care of a labourer’s wife.

With great discrimination, Henry selected the woman for the job, assuring her that if the child did not continue to remain a healthy boy, terrible punishment awaited her; he told her that the boy was not to be pampered, and that he, the King, and the boy’s mother, his daughter, would visit him in private. Little Henry was not swaddled; in fact, he was treated like the son of a labourer, except that he was always assured of as much to eat as he could manage. Poor Jeanne Fourcharde, although terrified of the great responsibility which was hers, accepted it with pride – for she dared do nothing else when the King of Navarre commanded – and at least it meant that there was plenty of food for her family while the baby Prince was with them. It was no secret that this important little boy was living with them in that cottage, for across the doorway were placed the arms of Navarre and the words ‘Sauvegarde du Roy’.

And so little Henry prospered and became sturdy and strong, coarse and rough – a little boy after his grandfather’s heart; but his grandfather did not long enjoy him, for, less than a year after his birth, the King of Navarre died while preparing for a campaign against Spanish Navarre; he was a victim of an epidemic which was raging in the countryside.

Jeanne was now Queen of Navarre, and she lost no time in making Antoine its King.

It was now that Jeanne began to have her first doubts of her husband – not of his fidelity to herself, but of his astuteness as a statesman. Hitherto he had been perfect in her eyes.

Now that Navarre was ruled by a woman, Henry, the King of France, decided that he did not care to have a petty kingdom so far from Paris and so near to the Spanish frontier, so he planned an exchange of territory. For this reason he summoned Antoine to Paris, and when he was there, Antoine all but agreed to the exchange; and it was only when it was discovered that such must be sanctioned by Jeanne, in accordance with her father’s will, that Antoine thought of consulting his wife.

When Antoine hurried back to Jeanne to tell her of King Henry’s proposal, she was horrified; and this was the cause of their first real quarrel, for Jeanne could not restrain her tongue, and she called him a fool to have been so nearly tricked.

It made a coolness between them which was particularly painful to Jeanne; Antoine could quickly recover from such upsets. It was now that Jeanne discovered in herself those powers which were to make of her a clever diplomat. She travelled to Saint-Germain, where she met the King, although Antoine had warned her that this was a daring thing to do; for what was simpler than for Henry to keep her a prisoner while the exchange was made? But Jeanne, knowing her subjects would never submit to the King of France, by her subtle diplomacy made Henry believe that she herself would agree to the exchange if her subjects would agree to it; but she did not fail to point out that if they did not, he would find it impossible to subdue her territory. Henry saw the wisdom of this and sent her back to test the loyalty of her people. She had been right; she knew she could rely on that loyalty. How proud she was as she rode into Pau and witnessed the demonstrations of her people, who vowed they would accept none other than Jeanne as their ruler.

That was comforting, but she was sad, for she could not help feeling that Antoine, by his light regard for the kingdom which she loved, had betrayed her in some way.

Later there came a summons from Paris to attend the wedding which was being arranged between the Dauphin and Mary Queen of Scots; and it was during this visit that Jeanne had yet another glimpse of the impetuous folly of the man she had married.

When they reached Paris and before they had paid their respects to the King, they were approached by an old friend of Antoine’s whose servant had been imprisoned. This friend asked Antoine to help him in effecting the release of this servant, and Antoine, flattered to be asked and eager to show his authority, promised to do what was requested of him. As his brother, the Cardinal of Bourbon, was Governor of Paris at this time, Antoine had very little difficulty in pleasing his friend.

When King Henry heard what had happened, he was furious at what he considered to be officious interference; and when Jeanne and Antoine came to pay their respects, he greeted them coldly.

He turned to Antoine and said: ‘How, Monseigneur! Have I not told you before that there is and shall be only one King of France?’

Antoine bowed low. ‘Sire, before your Gracious Majesty my sun is in eclipse, and in this kingdom I am but your subject and your servant.’

‘Why then do you presume to open my prisons without my authority?’

Antoine burst into floods of explanations, while the King’s face darkened with fury. But at that moment, most unceremoniously, but as it turned out most propitiously, there ran into the chamber a small boy – little Henry of Navarre, the son of Jeanne and Antoine. He stared about him, his eyes bright, his cheeks rosy; and then without hesitation he ran straight to the King and embraced his knees. He did not know whose knees he was embracing; he only knew that this man had made an instant appeal to him.

King Henry could never resist children, just as they could never resist him. He hesitated for a moment – but only for a moment – and then he looked down into the bright little upturned face which was raised to his in genuine admiration and complete confidence.

‘Who are you?’ asked the King.

‘Henry of Navarre,’ answered the boy promptly. ‘Who are you?

‘Henry of France.’ The King lifted the boy in his arms and smiled, while the arms of Henry of Navarre were clasped about the neck of Henry of France.

‘Why,’ said the King, ‘I think you would like to be my son.’

‘That I would!’ replied the boy. ‘But I have a father, and that is he.’

The King was amused. He kissed the rosy cheek. He said: ‘Methinks then that there will be no alternative but to make you my son-in-law.’

‘That will be good,’ said little Henry.

And after such a scene with the boy the King found it difficult to be angry with the father. The matter was dismissed. ‘But,’ said the King warningly to Antoine, ‘you will do well to remember in future the rank you hold in France.’

Watching this scene, Jeanne’s pride in her son was spoiled by her apprehension on her husband’s account. It was a strange revelation to know that she must go on loving a man even when her respect for him had so sadly diminished.

How alien little Henry looked among the children of the royal household! He certainly looked more healthy than they, with his glowing cheeks and cottage manners. He himself was quite unconscious of any inferiority; and when Margot, who was a year older than he was, laughed at him, she soon found herself sprawling on the floor.

‘He is but a child,’ Jeanne explained, for Margot made the most of her injuries and carried the tale to her governess. ‘And he has, as yet, learned little of court manners.’

Catherine heard of the incident and laughed somewhat coarsely. ‘An old Béarnais custom perhaps, to knock down the ladies?’ she asked; and Jeanne found herself gripped by that fury which Catherine seemed to be able to arouse in her more than any other could and which was out of all proportion to the incident.

But Henry learned quickly; he was soon imitating the manners of Catherine’s sons and daughters and those of the little Guise Princes, who spent much time with the children of the royal household.

Jeanne felt that she could never be sure of these people who inhabited the court of France; they were not straightforward; they bowed and smiled and paid charming compliments while they hated. The royal children filled her with apprehension.

Poor Francis, the bridegroom-to-be, was so sickly and so passionately in love. He was continually telling young Mary how much he loved her, taking her into corners that he might whisper to her of his devotion. His love was his life, and he taxed his strength by trying to excel in all manly pastimes; he would ride until he was exhausted just to show the little Queen of Scots that he was every bit a man. His mother watched him, but showed no concern for his failing health; it seemed to Jeanne that Catherine regarded it with complacency. Surely a strange maternal attitude!

Then there was Mary herself, all charm and coquetry, the loveliest girl Jeanne had ever seen; though, thought Jeanne a little primly, she would have been more attractive if less aware of her own fascinating ways. Calmly this girl accepted the homage offered her; she seemed to think of little but her own charm and beauty. She even tried to fascinate Jeanne’s little Henry, and he – the bold little fellow – was quite willing to be fascinated. Would he, wondered Jeanne, be another such as his grandfather and his great-uncle, King Francis the First?

Then look at Charles. Little Charles was only eight years old, yet there was something about him which was quite alarming. Was it that wildness in his eyes, those sudden fits of laughter and depression? It was disturbing to see the longing glances he cast at Mary Queen of Scots, his envy of his brother. At times, however, he was a pleasant enough little boy, but Jeanne did not like the gleam in his eyes. There was a look almost of madness in them.

Henry, Catherine’s favourite son, was a year younger than Charles. He was yet another strange little boy. He was clever – there was no doubt of that. Beside him, Jeanne’s Henry seemed more coarse and crude than ever; but Jeanne would not have wished to possess such a son. He minced; he preened himself like a girl; he decked himself out in fine clothes, wept when he could not have an ornament he fancied, talked continually of the cut of his coat; he ran to his mother for her comfort if anything disturbed him; he begged her to give him ornaments to deck his conceited little person. And Catherine’s attitude to him was extraordinary. She was quite a different person when she was with this son. She petted him and fussed him; although he had been christened Edouard Alexandre, she had always called him Henry after his father, whom there was no doubt she loved. Jeanne would never understand Catherine. This child, alone of all her children, did not fear her; and yet she had seen even the brazen Margot cringe before her mother; she had seen fear in that little girl’s face merely at a lift of her mother’s eyebrow.

And Margot herself? If Margot were my daughter, thought Jeanne, I would not spare the rod. For there was something about Margot, Jeanne was sure, which should be very closely watched. Margot was five years old now, and she would have been a lovely child but for the heavy Valois nose which she had inherited from her grandfather. Margot was clever, vivacious and precocious – far too precocious. It was rare for a child so young to betray such sensuality. Margot at five was, in some ways, like an experienced woman, with those sly glances at the boys, those gestures. Jeanne was thankful that Margot and her Henry had fought one another. She would not have liked to have seen her son attracted by this wicked little Margot as he was by lovely coquettish Mary Queen of Scots. It seemed, watching these children, that Margot at five years old was already deeply involved in a love affair with the Duke of Guise’s little boy – another Henry. They were continually creeping away together and returning flushed and excited.

Little Hercule was a pretty boy, though spoilt and utterly selfish. He was four years old – a few months younger than her own Henry.

Yes, there was something unpleasant about this family of children, for none of them seemed quite normal; and when Jeanne saw them with their mother she felt that the strangeness had its origin in her. She seemed to inspire them with awe and fascination, so that they wanted the approval of their mother more than anything, although they so greatly feared her displeasure. Jeanne realised that Queen Catherine was able to inspire strange feelings in those about her – feelings which were quite remote from affection.

Yet, when the children were with their father they seemed normal enough. The madness faded from Charles’s eyes; Henry seemed less foppish; Margot would climb on to her father’s knee and pull his beard as any little girl might. They were just happy children in the presence of their father.

The Dauphin’s wedding was heralded by ceremonies and feasting. Antoine declared his pleasure in being with his wife after their long separations; this, he said, when they watched tournaments, when they danced and feasted, was like a second honeymoon. And Jeanne, looking about her at the discord which existed between most other married people, told herself that she was foolish to criticise the little faults of her husband; she went on to her knees and thanked God for granting her the dearest possession she would ever have – her husband’s love.

She was sorry for Catherine, who must see her husband’s mistress take everything that should be hers. Indeed, everywhere one looked one saw the entwined initials D and H – Diane and Henry – not C and H, as custom and tradition demanded. What humiliation! And how patiently it was borne!

‘If you were to treat me like that,’ said Jeanne to Antoine, ‘I would have that woman banished from the kingdom. I would not endure such miserable slights.’

‘Ah, my sweet love,’ said the faithful Antoine, ‘but you are not Catherine de’ Medici and I am not Henry of France. You are your sweet self, and for that I am thankful. Why, were I married to the Italian woman, I doubt not that I should cease to be a faithful husband.’

There were occasions when Jeanne fancied she saw Catherine’s eyes upon her and that Catherine guessed how she was pitied; and when the prominent eyes met her own Jeanne could not, for some incomprehensible reason, suppress a shiver. There were times when she thought Catherine de’ Medici possessed strange powers which enabled her to read the thoughts of others.

The day before that of the wedding a long gallery was erected between the Palace of the Bishop of Paris, where the company had spent the night, to the west door of the Cathedral of Notre Dame; and the porch of the Cathedral was hung with scarlet tapestries embroidered with the fleurs-de-lis. Antoine walked in the procession in a place of honour among the Princes of the blood royal whose task it was to escort the Dauphin to the Cathedral. The King himself followed with Mary Queen of Scots; and Jeanne came after with Catherine and the other attendant Princesses.

At the ceremony few had eyes for any but the bride. Lovely she always was, but to-day her beauty seemed greater than ever. She was robed in white and her crown was studded with pearls, diamonds, sapphires, emeralds – in fact, it seemed that every precious stone that existed was represented among those in her crown.

But Antoine, Jeanne noticed, hardly looked at the bride, and Jeanne believed that for Antoine at least there was only one woman who interested him – his wife. Then she felt as though her heart would burst with its burden of pride and happiness. It was fifteen years ago when, at the christening of this Dauphin, Jeanne had fallen in love with the man who was now her husband.

Jeanne knew suddenly that she wished above all things to embrace her husband’s faith and the faith of his family; she wished to lead a good and serious life.

This was a solemn moment for Jeanne. She did not hear the Cardinal of Bourbon make Francis and Mary husband and wife; nor was she aware of the celebration of mass. Later at the wedding banquet she was absent-minded; and when the party left the episcopal palace for Les Tournelles she was still thoughtful.

Now came the climax of her content. The mummers had come into the great hall; and when their entertainment was over the royal children, with those of the family of Guise, rode on hobby horses with back-cloths of gold and silver, and they attached their horses to little coaches while they sang, in their sweet, piping voices, praise to the virtue and beauty of the married pair. Then came the joyful surprise. Into the ballroom were brought six galleons, rolled and tossed by means of ropes which were hidden from sight; and in each galleon sat a Prince, and each Prince sprang from his galleon to choose a lady to be his companion. The Dauphin, naturally enough, chose his bride; but to the delight of Jeanne and the astonishment of everyone, Antoine de Bourbon carried off none other than his own wife; and he was the only Prince, apart from the Dauphin, to do this.

This was a matter for comment, laughter and a little envy among the ladies of the court.

As for Jeanne, she sat in her galleon, with Antoine’s arms about her, laughing, reminding him that at this cynical court of France such an action was the last expected of any man who had been a husband for more than a few days.

This was a precious moment which she would remember as long as she lived. She was completely happy; but afterwards she was wont to connect that ride in the galleon with the end of that happy and contented life.

It was just over a year later when, in the château of Nérac, Antoine de Bourbon was making preparations for yet another visit to the court of France. Jeanne was disturbed; she was always disturbed when Antoine left her. She was becoming more and more involved in the Reformed Faith and was deeply concerned at the horrors which were being committed by Catholics and Protestants all over the country. The Prince of Condé, Antoine’s younger brother, and his wife Eléonore, with her relations, the Colignys, were looked upon as the leaders of the Reformed Party; they were powerful, but there were others more powerful than they. There were the Guises, the natural enemies and rivals of the Bourbons.

First there was Francis, the Duke of Guise – insolent, arrogant, brutal, the greatest soldier in France. If the nation in general feared this man, Paris adored him. He was attractive in person, and his successes in battle were admired by his friends and enemies alike. Le Balafré was the most discussed man in France.

Then there was his brother Charles, the Cardinal of Lorraine, who would, Jeanne had said, ‘like to set households by the ears all over France’. Duke Francis was often campaigning and therefore absent from court, and the other Guise brothers were insignificant when compared with the Cardinal of Lorraine. He was clever – the cleverest, the most sly member of his family; amorous in the extreme, he was the handsomest of the Guise brothers, and there was a certain nobility in his features, in spite of his lechery and excesses, which most women found irresistible. He was mean and acquisitive, surrounding himself with luxury and the good things of life, even more than did the English Cardinal Wolsey. He was vain and – extraordinary failing in a Guise – he was a coward.

It was these men of whom Jeanne thought when her husband was summoned to court.

Jeanne watched the preparations for the journey. Antoine was dilatory, one day abandoning plans which the day before he had made with great eagerness.

‘Antoine, my darling,’ she said, ‘there are times when I believe you do not wish to make the journey to court.’

‘But why should I, my love, when it means absenting myself from you?’

She could only laugh with pleasure at that, laugh with happiness; she could only suppress those fears which her husband’s weak and vacillating nature aroused in her.

She was happier now than she had ever been, she often reminded herself. She had, in addition to her son Henry, an adorable daughter to whom, because the Queen herself had acted as godmother, had been given the name of Catherine. Thank God, thought Jeanne again and again, thank God for this domestic bliss.

There were great celebrations in progress at court. Elisabeth, daughter of the King and Queen, was being married by proxy to Philip of Spain. Jeanne’s heart bled for Elisabeth, for it seemed to her that Catherine and Henry were marrying their child to a monster. But such was the fate of royal children. Here was yet another reminder of her great good fortune, for her father had tried to make a match for herself with the man who was about to be Elisabeth’s husband. And following on the wedding of Elisabeth was that of Marguerite, the King’s sister, to the Duke of Savoy.

‘You should have been present at these ceremonies,’ she had told Antoine.

‘Nay!’ he declared. ‘There is nowhere I should be but in my own home with my wife and family.’

It was so easy to enjoy this domestic bliss, to forget what was happening in the outside world, forget that, being a branch of the royal tree, it was impossible to escape the reverberations of great happenings.

Antoine was still loitering with his preparations when, one day, messengers arrived at the castle. They had come from the court of France with great news.

‘The King is dead!’ they cried. ‘Long live King Francis!’

It seemed incredible. Only a little while ago, at the wedding of Francis, the King had been in perfect health. It was at the tournament, the messengers explained; he had tilted with young Montgomery, a captain of the Scottish Guard, who had struck the King on the gorget; his lance had flown into splinters, one of which had become lodged in King Henry’s eye.

‘This was treason!’ said Antoine.

‘Nay, Monseigneur,’ said the messenger. ‘The King would not have it so. He had insisted on Montgomery’s tilting with him in spite of the young man’s reluctance; and he had declared that it was no fault of the young man’s.’

The messengers had been given refreshments, and Jeanne and Antoine walked about the castle grounds talking of this dramatic event. Jeanne, with a clear-sightedness which she was rapidly acquiring, saw that it was of the utmost importance that Antoine should go at once to court. This upheaval would have a great effect upon the entire country.

‘My husband,’ she declared, ‘you must not forget that you are a Prince and the head of the House of Bourbon. Next to the royal Valois children, you are first in the land. Francis is sickly; Charles too. And Henry and Hercule?’ She shrugged her shoulders. ‘Yes, there are many between. But how can a boy of sixteen rule France? Experienced men like his grandfather and his father were faced with a hundred difficulties, had a thousand hazardous decisions to make. Our country is divided and there is bloodshed everywhere … in the name of religion. The King will need advisers, Antoine, and you should be one of them.’

‘You are right. I must go to Paris with all speed. If it should be necessary for me to stay there, you will join me, my darling?’

‘Yes. I will join you with the children. We can be happy in Paris, Antoine, as in Nérac.’

She frowned, even as she spoke. ‘I fear the Guises,’ she said. ‘The new King’s wife is their niece, and through her they will have the King’s ear. Antoine, I greatly fear that this will mean more persecutions of those who follow the new religion.’

‘Never fear, my love. My brother Condé and I … with Uncle Gaspard on our side … will outwit the family of Guise.’

She kissed him fondly; adoring him as she did, it was so easy to see in him all that she wished he had.

Before he was ready to make the journey, one of the messengers asked that he might have a word with him, and to this Antoine lightheartedly consented.

‘Sire,’ said the man, ‘it has come to my ears that the King of Spain watches your actions. His spies are everywhere – even here in your own land. He knows your feelings for the new faith and he is therefore your sworn enemy. Be warned, my lord. Be cautious. Go to the court of France, as indeed you should, but not in the splendid fashion that you planned. Take only a few followers and go in secret, so that the spies of the King of Spain do not know that you have left Nérac.’

The name of Philip of Spain was one which could terrify many – Antoine not the least. Spain had already annexed part of Navarre which it was impossible to regain, and Antoine lived in terror that one day the Spaniard would decide that the whole territory of Navarre should be his.

It did not occur to Antoine to doubt the integrity of the messengers. Yet he knew that they had been sent from the court of France, and he might have asked himself if the Guises had, by chance, decided who should carry the message to him.

He said a reluctant good-bye to Jeanne and set out northwards for Paris.