Francis sent for Jeanne and himself imparted the news to her. His eyes were smouldering as he told her, for it was typical of Francis’s particular military weakness that, through his own negligence, having lost an ally who could have been valuable to him, he should choose to see the fault in what he called the perfidy of that ally.
‘Jeanne, my child,’ he said, ‘I have bad news for you. We married you to a traitor.’
Jeanne felt her heart racing, her hands trembling; and she feared he would see the sparkle in her eyes.
‘He has betrayed us, Jeanne. He has given himself up to our enemy. You could not love such a man. You could not want to be a partner in his miserable life.’
Jeanne was never one for diplomacy. She blurted out: ‘I never wished to share his life. Had he been your friend, Sire, still I should not have wanted him.’
The King lifted his hand. ‘That tongue of yours, my darling, will be the ruin of you one day. Curb it, I beg of you. My dear child, you have been sorely misused. You were married at a very early age to a traitor, for reasons of state which you very well understand, but I shall not allow you to remain married to such a man.’
Jeanne said with a lilt in her voice: ‘No, Sire. I cannot remain married to such a man.’
Francis laid a hand on her shoulder. He said: ‘I must therefore regretfully ask the Pope for an annulment.’
She seized his hand and kissed it; she knelt at his feet and kissed them. She thought the smell of Russia leather, which always seemed to cling to his clothes and which came from the trunks in which his linen was stored, the sweetest perfume in the world. She would never, she was sure, be able to smell it in future without emotion.
‘Alas! Alas! This perfidious Duke has thrown away his dominions and his wife. I have lost one whom I thought was my friend; and you, my child, have lost a husband.’
He smiled down at her. ‘Why, Jeanne, you shock me. You do not look so displeased as a wife should.’
‘Oh, Sire, I have prayed for this.’
‘What! Prayed that the King’s friends might desert him!’
‘No … not that. But I never liked him, Sire.’
The King kissed her. ‘Ah, child, I rejoice. I would rather see the Emperor victorious than your happiness impaired.’
It was quite untrue, of course, but Francis had a charming way of uttering pleasant nonsense, and because he believed it himself – while he said it – he succeeded in making others believe it too.
So, in that eventful year during which Jeanne fell in love with Antoine de Bourbon, the kindly fates decided that her marriage with the Duke of Clèves – which had been no true marriage – should, by the wish of the King of France and the good offices of the Pope of Rome, be dissolved.
After her divorce, Jeanne went back to her comparatively quiet life at Plessis-les-Tours with Madame de Silly. She thought continually of Antoine de Bourbon; she listened avidly to all the news she could glean of his exploits in battle, which were considerable. He had become a hero to her and she idealised him as once she had idealised her mother.
She was growing up, yet there had been no talk of a new marriage for her. She saw less and less of King Francis, for his health had been failing for some time, and one February day, when she was nineteen years old, the news came that he had died at his castle of Rambouillet. Jeanne guessed that the death of her uncle must seriously affect her future, and she was right.
Her father, Henry of Navarre, sent for her to return to her home, for, on the death of Francis, she returned to the control of her parents. Her mother had changed. Since her brother’s death she had lost all desire to live, and she spent much of her time in a convent, where she declared she was awaiting that happy day when she might join her brother; she longed, she said, to follow him to Heaven as she had followed him to Madrid.
There was a new King in Paris – Jeanne’s cousin, whom she might have married – King Henry the Second; there was a new Queen, the Italian, Catherine de’ Medici. It was not long before Cousin Henry sent an order to the court of Nérac, commanding that Jeanne should come to his court.
On her arrival, Jeanne was quick to notice how different was Henry’s court from that of his father. Henry was more sober than King Francis had been; he was completely lacking in that gay charm. He had time for one woman only – Diane de Poitiers, whom he had now created Duchesse de Valentinois.
Jeanne knew that she had been summoned for a purpose, and Henry, in his direct manner – not unlike Jeanne’s own – lost little time in telling her so.
She knelt in ceremonial homage and kissed his hand. There were no caresses from her cousin as there had been from her uncle; there were no charming endearments. But Henry was kind, and he remembered his cousin with that mild affection which had not changed since he had become the King.
‘Cousin,’ said Henry, ‘you are of an age to marry, and it is concerning this matter that I desired your presence here at court.’
Jeanne waited apprehensively; she had been driven to one distasteful marriage; now she wondered how she could hold off another. She had a feeling that, for all his quietness, Henry could be as obstinate as his father.
She said: ‘I have been married, Sire, and my experience makes me feel that I should like to exercise a little caution. Having once married for state reasons, if I were to marry a second time I should like to have a little choice in the matter.’
There was no humour in Henry; he looked at her suspiciously.
‘There are two gentlemen of the court who have expressed desire for an alliance with you. They are both of the highest rank, and I feel that either should find favour with you. One is Francis, Duke of Guise, and the other is Antoine de Bourbon, the Duke of Vendôme.’
‘Antoine de Bourbon!’ cried Jeanne, forgetting all formality for the moment. ‘I … I remember him well. It was at the christening of the little Dauphin that I first became aware of him.’
‘I would favour Monsieur de Guise,’ said Henry. ‘My cousin, he is a great Prince and soldier.’
‘But … the Duke of Vendôme is also a great Prince and a great soldier, Sire.’
Henry did not like arguments. His mistress, Diane, had suggested the Duke of Guise, her kinsman through her daughter’s marriage to his brother; if Jeanne of Navarre married Francis of Guise, a vital link with the House of Valois would be made to the advantage of the House of Guise and Lorraine. Jeanne felt a momentary horror, for she knew that if Henry’s mistress wanted this alliance, then Henry would want it too; and being a sober young woman of twenty and not an impetuous girl of twelve, she no longer believed it possible to move the hearts of kings.
She begged leave to consider the matter, and asked the royal permission to retire.
Francis of Guise, the greatest soldier in France and the country’s most ambitious man! There were few women who would not have been excited at the prospect of marriage with such a man. Beside him, many would say that Antoine, with his fastidious clothes and his elegance, was effeminate. The very manner in which he lifted his plumed hat when greeting a lady was the talk of the court. Henry would feel that Jeanne was a fool to prefer the gallant when she might have had an alliance with the strongest man in France. Declaring himself to be the most tolerant of monarchs, Henry gave her a few weeks to ponder the matter before coming to a decision, while he made it perfectly clear that the decision should be made in favour of the Duke of Guise. That, Jeanne knew, was the wish of his beloved Diane, for Diane was the enemy of the Bourbons, suspecting them of leanings towards the Reformed Faith; and every petty matter in France seemed to revolve round the religious controversy. Guise was a good Catholic; he was also Diane’s friend and relation through marriage. The King would certainly be willing to offer up his cousin in marriage to anyone whom his mistress chose.