The Italian Woman Page 6

  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 He

  Will deliver me speedily

  And grant me the gift of a son.

  All to the mountain tops

  Implore Him.

  Our Lady at the end of the bridge

  Help 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.’