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.
Fonta
inebleau 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 an
d 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.
The Italian Woman Page 3
