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?’