Those weeks that followed were full of excitement and apprehension. Francis of Guise was sure of his success with the Princess of Navarre; he had not yet learned what joy Jeanne found in Antoine’s company. Antoine declared to Jeanne that if the King threatened to give her to the Duke of Guise, he, Antoine, and she, Jeanne, would elope; and although Jeanne did not believe that he would be so bold, she loved him the more for making the suggestion.
Gradually Jeanne became aware of the Queen – the quiet Queen, so dignified, so calm, never showing by a look or a word that she felt herself slighted, charming always to her husband’s mistress, grateful that Diane now and then spared her her husband that she might provide the heirs of France. And this woman, Jeanne realised, watched her closely. Often Jeanne would discover that the expressionless eyes were upon her, and she found it difficult to believe, as did the rest of the court, that the Queen was that mild and rather despicable creature who could smile when she was most slighted and accept with apparent unconcern the position of the most neglected and humiliated queen the French had ever known.
One day Catherine asked Jeanne to visit her, and when Jeanne went to her apartments she found the Queen was alone, having dismissed all her attendants.
Catherine dispensed with ceremony and bade her sit down. Jeanne obeyed, finding that she was unable to take her eyes from that cold, snake-like stare of the Queen.
‘If you do not have a care,’ said Catherine, ‘they will marry you to Francis of Guise. I remember your marriage to Guillaume de la Marck, the Duke of Clèves. I remember the document you drew up. In those days you had courage, Cousin.’
‘It did little to help me, Madame. I was married all the same, and it was the fortune of war which saved me from that marriage, not my own ingenuity.’
‘Do you believe in miracles?’ The mouth smiled slyly. ‘Oh, I do not mean the miracles performed by our Lord Jesus, our Lady and the saints. I mean the miracles made by people like yourself.’
‘I have never heard of such miracles, Madame.’
‘They can be brought about. A miracle could save you from a marriage that you did not want. And if you were saved from this marriage you might have the man of your choice.’
‘I do not understand.’
‘Why does Francis of Guise want to marry you? Because he is ambitious. He wants to link himself with the King’s cousin. He wants to creep nearer to the throne.’
‘You are right, I know, but …’
‘You could point this out to the King. You could say that in uniting Navarre with Lorraine he is making more powerful a man who, he would know but for the wiles of Madame de Poitiers, could be his greatest enemy. Remind him of his father’s last words to him: “Beware of the House of Guise. The House of Guise and Lorraine is the enemy of the House of Valois.” You could ask him if he has forgotten that.’
‘You are right, Madame. But the King must already know this.’
‘You would do yourself good to remind him of something which he may have been willed to forget. I have your welfare at heart. I should like to see you married to the man of your choice. Why do you smile, Cousin?’
Jeanne said frankly: ‘I was thinking, Madame, how your desire coincides with my own. I do not want Francis of Guise for my husband. You do not wish it because Madame de Poitiers desires it.’
Catherine said coldly: ‘I was not thinking of Madame de Poitiers. I was thinking of you.’
‘I am grateful to you, Madame. I would like to say that, were I in your place, I should do the same as you do. I would do anything – anything to humiliate her.’
Catherine seemed to remember suddenly that she was the Queen of France and that Jeanne was her subject. She extended her hand.
‘You may go now,’ she said.
Jeanne realised too late that she had deeply offended the Queen. She had been tactless and extremely foolish; but how difficult it was to keep up such pretence in face of the obvious. She had only meant to convey that she understood and applauded Catherine’s desire to score over Diane.
Jeanne made good use of Catherine’s advice.
When next she was summoned to the King’s presence she was determined to point out to him what, according to Catherine, he had been willed to forget.
‘What a princely man is the Duke of Guise!’ said Henry. ‘There is no other like him in the whole of France. Ah! You should be proud to wed such a man.’
Jeanne lifted her head haughtily.
‘What, Monseigneur?’ she said. ‘Would you indeed permit that the Duchess d’Aumale, who now feels herself honoured in performing the office of my train-bearer, should become my sister-in-law?’
She saw the angry colour rising in the King’s face, for Madame d’Aumale was none other than the daughter of his beloved Diane.
But Jeanne, in her righteous indignation, swept on: ‘Would you consider it meet, Monseigneur, that this Duchess, the daughter of Madame de Valentinois, should, through this marriage which you advocate, acquire the right to walk by my side instead of bearing my train?’
Henry was completely taken off his guard, and when this happened he was always at a loss for words. He did not often have to face a direct attack upon his mistress.
Jeanne seized her opportunity. ‘Oh, Sire, Francis of Guise wants me for a wife – not my person so much as my royalty, my crown. Why, when his niece Mary of Scotland marries the Dauphin, and when he, through me, is King of Navarre, it would seem that there will be more than one King in France.’
Henry stared at his cousin incredulously. In his imagination he saw the dashing soldier; he heard the cries of the Parisians: ‘A Guise. A Guise.’ Francis of Guise was already the hero of Paris. Henry had some respect for the intelligence of his cousin. He himself was not intellectual, but that did not mean he could not admire those who were. He remembered that Jeanne’s mother had been one of the most brilliant women of her day.
Jeanne went on: ‘Have you forgotten the words of your father, those words he spoke on his deathbed? “Beware of the House of Guise …” Oh, Sire, your most gracious father understood the ambitions of this family.’
Henry was thinking that there was a good deal of truth in what she said, and although Diane wished for this marriage he would have to remind her of his father’s warning and the danger of putting too much power in the way of the Guises.
He dismissed Jeanne without anger; and very shortly afterwards he announced that he favoured the marriage of his cousin Jeanne d’Albret of Navarre with Antoine de Bourbon, the Duke of Vendôme.
He had found a way out. Francis of Guise should have a bride who would please him as much as Jeanne would have done. He himself would publicly sign the marriage contract between Francis and Anna d’Este, the daughter of the Duke of Ferrara and granddaughter of Louis XII. That was a good marriage, a royal marriage; but not nearly such a dangerous marriage as a union with Navarre.
So Francis of Guise agreed with as good a grace as he could; and Diane, on this occasion, bowed to the will of her lover; consequently, Jeanne of Navarre was betrothed to the man of her choice.
The happiest woman in France was being married. There had never been any, said her women, whom they had heard laugh so much. Jeanne explained: ‘You see, I am a Princess and I am to marry for love!’
It was five years since the christening of little Francis, when Jeanne had fallen in love with Antoine, but what were five years of waiting now?