The Italian Woman

by Виктория Холт

  ‘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 h
e 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 li
ttle 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.