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.