He was therefore by no means displeased with the marriage that brought the Houses of Valois and Bourbon closer together. There was just a possibility that he and Jeanne might breed Kings of France. Young Francis now the Dauphin was a sickly little fellow. Catherine had another son, Louis, but it did not seem as if he were going to be long for this world. It would appear that King Henry and Queen Catherine were not going to have healthy children. Perhaps they suffered from the sins of the grandfathers, for both the paternal grandfather, Francis the First, and the maternal one, Lorenzo the usurping Duke of Urbino, had died of that disease which was called in France La Maladie Anglaise and in England The French Disease. Henry and Catherine appeared to be healthy enough; but it certainly seemed as though their children would not inherit that health; and if they did not ... well, when the House of Valois could not succeed it would be for the legitimate Bourbons to take over the crown. The Guises might make a bid for it; but the people of France would surely never allow that. The Bourbons next to the Valois were the rightful heirs to the throne of France, and the cousin-german of the reigning Valois would be in direct line to the throne. Yes, it was indeed a good marriage.

His little Jeanne adored him; and he adored her. It was a fact that he had ceased to be interested in other women for many weeks.

But when he remembered that other marriage of Jeanne's to the Duke of Cleves, Antoine was disturbed. The marriage had not been fully consummated, it was true, but the pair had been bedded; and that, King Francis had said at the time, was sufficient to make the marriage valid.

King Henry had been against the marriage of Antoine and Jeanne at first and then, suddenly, he had changed his mind. Why? Madame Diane was bound to the Guises by the marriage of her daughter and their common faith. What if this were a diabolical plot to marry him to Jeanne of Navarre and, when their sons were born, to declare them illegitimate?

Antoine paced up and down his apartments. He loved his little Jeanne; he adored his little Jeanne; but not enough to jeopardise the future of his house.

So, on the day before that fixed for the wedding, Antoine begged an audience of the King, and when it was granted he expressed his fears that, as Jeanne had once been married to the Duke of Cleves, her marriage to himself could not take place.

Jeanne never knew how near she came to losing her bridegroom.

By the time the ceremony was due to take place, however, the King and his ministers had succeeded in lulling Antoine's fears; and since this was so, Antoine was able to give himself up to love. This he did being well practised in that art much to Jeanne's delight and contentment.

'Let this happiness last,' she prayed; but she never really doubted that it would. She was completely happy; she could not stop reminding herself that she had been rescued from the husband she hated and given the man she loved. After such a miracle, she could not doubt that life would go on being wonderful.

Her father took her aside after the wedding. He smelt of garlic and there was wine spilt on his garments. His manners seemed rougher than they had before she had become so well acquainted with Bourbon elegance. Still, he was her father, and Jeanne had more of him in her than she had of her mother. He was a brave soldier, this King of Navarre; and if his ways were rough compared with those of the court of Paris, still, she understood him; and although she remembered the beatings she had received at his hands, she could not but honour her father.

He said: 'I want a grandson, girl. Nor do I expect to wait long for him. You've got a courtier for a husband a dainty, pretty man, I doubt not. See that he gives you his children and does not squander them on other women, for by all accounts he's a man who can't do without a woman, although he has done very well without a wife until this day.'

Jeanne's eyes flashed and her stubborn chin shot up. 'He has led the life of a court gallant that I know. But now he is a husband, Father; he is my husband. He has begun a new life with me.'

That made her father let out a guffaw and hiccup into his goblet.

'Don't ask for fidelity, girl. Ask for sons. Ventre de biche! Don't make me wait too long for a grandson, or, woman that you are and Bourbon that you may be, I'll take the rod to you.'

She smiled at him fondly. She honoured him for his bravery and, if he were crude and coa.r.s.e, and his light love-affairs with women were numerous, he was but a man and her mother had never loved him deeply. It was not, she must remember, given to all men and women to love as she and Antoine did for ever, most faithfully, ideally. Perhaps there had never been a perfect marriage before theirs.

Antoine agreed with her. 'I never dreamed,' he said, 'that the day would come when such happiness would be mine. Ah, sweet Jeanne, my dearest wife, how I wish I had led a life as pure as yours!'

Jeanne kissed him tenderly. 'The past is done with, Antoine. And the future is ours.'

Antoine went on lyrically: 'All women seem to have grown ugly in my eyes. Why is that, little Jeanne? There is no one else who has a trace of beauty. You have it all. Yes, all the beauty in the world is in that sweet face and form. I would barter all my fortune for one of your kisses.'

Jeanne believed him. As for Antoine, he had forgotten that a very short while ago he had had to be persuaded to continue with this marriage.

Jeanne was a happy wife of two years' standing. The love between herself and her husband had grown deeper, for Antoine could not be insensible to her sincerity, to her steadfast belief that they would live in happiness for the rest of their lives.

During those two years Antoine had often been away from home; there had been occasions when it had been possible to accompany him to camp, but when it was not she would wait patiently for his return, and each time he came back there was a renewal of their ecstatic days together.

There had been sorrows. Jeanne's mother, having no wish to live after the death of King Francis, had died within a year.

The second sorrow followed quickly on the first.

In the September after her marriage, Jeanne, to her great delight as well as that of her husband, gave birth to a son. She wished to accompany Antoine to camp, and, remembering the devotion of her old governess, Aymee de Silly, the Baillive of Caen, she had put her son into this lady's care. Madame de Silly was a conscientious woman, determined to be worthy of the honour done to her, and she forthwith set about doing her best for the child. But she had grown feeble during the last years and her joints were so stiff that she found the least cold breeze increased her pains; she therefore had all windows sealed, and her walls hung with thick Arras, while fires burned in all the rooms of her house night and day. Heat, she declared, was necessary to good health, and what was good for her was good for the baby Prince of Navarre. He was accordingly kept in this bad atmosphere, never allowed out into the fresh air, and tightly swaddled in garments which were never removed. Under this treatment the little Prince grew frail and began to waste away, until at length his condition became so precarious that Jeanne was informed; and when she came to see her son, she was so shocked by what she found that she bitterly reproached her old governess and took the child away from her. Alas, it was too late. The little Prince died when he was just over a year old.

This was heartbreaking, but already she was pregnant again, and this time Jeanne vowed that she would look after the child herself. To her great delight, the new baby was a healthy boy and, under her care so very different from that of the Baillive of Caen he began to thrive.

And so, on this happy day, with the country temporarily at peace, she, Antoine, the child and their attendants travelled down to her father's castle, where they intended to spend Christmas.

Antoine was happy too. His thoughts circled about his wife, for he had never known any woman like her. She was, in her directness and that almost naive frankness, enchanting; and she was, moreover, still wholeheartedly in love with him. Antoine was vain of his own personal charms; he was almost as fascinating to women as was his brother, the Prince of Conde, and of this fact he was keenly aware. Their high rank, their good looks, and the romantic lives they had led in the days before their marriages meant that they were subject to constant temptation. Antoine had written to Jeanne when he was away from her: 'I never dreamed that I could receive the courtship of ladies as I do now. I know not if it be the sweet winds that blow from Bearn which are the cause of this, or if it be that my eyesight has changed so much that it can no longer be deceived as it was before.'

The vanity of the little man! thought Jeanne fondly. So ... he still received the courtship of ladies! Ah well, his profligate past was over.

So Jeanne continued to be delighted with her marriage; she was growing fond of her husband's family in particular, her sister-in-law, Princess Eleonore, the wife of the Prince of Conde. And through Eleonore she came to be on familiar terms with Eleonore's relatives, the Colignys Gaspard, Odet and Andelot. Jeanne and Eleonore had much in common; they were both in love with their husbands, and their husbands were brothers. Eleonore, it seemed to Jeanne, was a saint; Jeanne knew herself to be no saint, for she had not changed so very much from that little girl who had cut the saints' heads from their bodies in her mother's tapestry and subst.i.tuted the heads of foxes; she was vehement and quick-tempered.

She was fired during those early years of her marriage by the religious devotion of her new friends. Her happiest days when she could not enjoy the society of her husband were spent at the Palais de Conde. Here came men and women of the new faith; some of them were refugees; there were rich and poor; some brought letters and others verbal messages too important to be trusted to paper. She met there Eleonore's uncles, Gaspard, Odet and Andelot; there was no one except Antoine whom Jeanne admired more than Uncle Gaspard de Coligny. He was a great man, a good man, a man who would die for what he believed to be right. Jeanne often felt that she would like to become closer to them, one of their community. But she realised that could not be as long as her father lived. She remembered the beating he had given her when she had joined with her mother in her prayers. She was not afraid of beatings; in any case, her father could not beat her now; but it was laid down that a woman should honour her father, so how could Jeanne go against his wishes in this matter of religion? No! She would not forget her duty to her parent; she would confine herself to discussion, to discovering all she could of the new faith; but she would not accept it ... yet.

Jeanne's father greeted them with pleasure. He was enchanted by his grandson, but he did not forget to reproach his daughter for the death of her firstborn. However, he was inclined to forgive her as she now had such a bonny boy to replace him.

He had arranged for a great hunting party to entertain his son-in-law and daughter, and he talked of little else. Of Antoine he was suspicious, noting the weakness of his handsome face, the dandyism of his clothes.

'Bearn is not Paris,' he reminded him grimly, 'but we Bearnais like things the way they are here.'

And Jeanne was amused to see how her father was just a little coa.r.s.er in his manners than usual, determined to make no concessions to the finicky Bourbon.

She was very happy to ride out to the hunt, her husband beside her, her father riding ahead.

After the hunt, when they returned to the castle, the first thing Jeanne heard was the crying of the little Prince, her son. She sent for his nurse and asked her what ailed him.

The nurse, trembling a little, said: 'He is a little peevish, Madame. Nothing more.'

But all through the night the baby cried.

In the state bedroom at Fontainebleau, Catherine de' Medici lay thinking of Jeanne, and wondering why it should be that her thoughts kept returning again and again to the woman. As soon as she had seen Jeanne d'Albret at court, she had felt a strong repulsion for her; it was a strange feeling, an occult sense, which told her to beware. Why so? Jeanne was a fool, far too outspoken, possessing no diplomatic sense at all. Yet how strong she had been when they had tried to marry her to the Duke of Cleves. That declaration in the Cathedral showed power, while it showed a lamentable lack of restraint. Jeanne had hated the marriage they had planned for her, and well she might. The niece of King Francis, the cousin of King Henry, to be fobbed off with a foreign Duke-ling! Catherine could smile, well pleased in that respect with her own marriage, in which she could have been very happy if Henry had only made a pretence of loving her as Antoine de Bourbon loved his wife.

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 Bearn.'

'From Bearn?' 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 G.o.d 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 a.s.sured her, he would leave all he possessed to his b.a.s.t.a.r.d 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 Bearnais 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 Bearnais!' 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 Bearnais.

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 G.o.d 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 Bearnais!' 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 doc.u.ments 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 pa.s.sed. 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 Bearnais!' 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 a.s.suring this was to put him in the care of a labourer's wife.

With great discrimination, Henry selected the woman for the job, a.s.suring 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 a.s.sured 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 st.u.r.dy and strong, coa.r.s.e 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.