And Margot herself? If Margot were my daughter, thought Jeanne, I would not spare the rod. For there was something about Margot, Jeanne was sure, which should be very closely watched. Margot was five years old now, and she would have been a lovely child but for the heavy Valois nose which she had inherited from her grandfather. Margot was clever, vivacious and precocious – far too precocious. It was rare for a child so young to betray such sensuality. Margot at five was, in some ways, like an experienced woman, with those sly glances at the boys, those gestures. Jeanne was thankful that Margot and her Henry had fought one another. She would not have liked to have seen her son attracted by this wicked little Margot as he was by lovely coquettish Mary Queen of Scots. It seemed, watching these children, that Margot at five years old was already deeply involved in a love affair with the Duke of Guise’s little boy – another Henry. They were continually creeping away together and returning flushed and excited.
Little Hercule was a pretty boy, though spoilt and utterly selfish. He was four years old – a few months younger than her own Henry.
Yes, there was something unpleasant about this family of children, for none of them seemed quite normal; and when Jeanne saw them with their mother she felt that the strangeness had its origin in her. She seemed to inspire them with awe and fascination, so that they wanted the approval of their mother more than anything, although they so greatly feared her displeasure. Jeanne realised that Queen Catherine was able to inspire strange feelings in those about her – feelings which were quite remote from affection.
Yet, when the children were with their father they seemed normal enough. The madness faded from Charles’s eyes; Henry seemed less foppish; Margot would climb on to her father’s knee and pull his beard as any little girl might. They were just happy children in the presence of their father.
The Dauphin’s wedding was heralded by ceremonies and feasting. Antoine declared his pleasure in being with his wife after their long separations; this, he said, when they watched tournaments, when they danced and feasted, was like a second honeymoon. And Jeanne, looking about her at the discord which existed between most other married people, told herself that she was foolish to criticise the little faults of her husband; she went on to her knees and thanked God for granting her the dearest possession she would ever have – her husband’s love.
She was sorry for Catherine, who must see her husband’s mistress take everything that should be hers. Indeed, everywhere one looked one saw the entwined initials D and H – Diane and Henry – not C and H, as custom and tradition demanded. What humiliation! And how patiently it was borne!
‘If you were to treat me like that,’ said Jeanne to Antoine, ‘I would have that woman banished from the kingdom. I would not endure such miserable slights.’
‘Ah, my sweet love,’ said the faithful Antoine, ‘but you are not Catherine de’ Medici and I am not Henry of France. You are your sweet self, and for that I am thankful. Why, were I married to the Italian woman, I doubt not that I should cease to be a faithful husband.’
There were occasions when Jeanne fancied she saw Catherine’s eyes upon her and that Catherine guessed how she was pitied; and when the prominent eyes met her own Jeanne could not, for some incomprehensible reason, suppress a shiver. There were times when she thought Catherine de’ Medici possessed strange powers which enabled her to read the thoughts of others.
The day before that of the wedding a long gallery was erected between the Palace of the Bishop of Paris, where the company had spent the night, to the west door of the Cathedral of Notre Dame; and the porch of the Cathedral was hung with scarlet tapestries embroidered with the fleurs-de-lis. Antoine walked in the procession in a place of honour among the Princes of the blood royal whose task it was to escort the Dauphin to the Cathedral. The King himself followed with Mary Queen of Scots; and Jeanne came after with Catherine and the other attendant Princesses.
At the ceremony few had eyes for any but the bride. Lovely she always was, but to-day her beauty seemed greater than ever. She was robed in white and her crown was studded with pearls, diamonds, sapphires, emeralds – in fact, it seemed that every precious stone that existed was represented among those in her crown.
But Antoine, Jeanne noticed, hardly looked at the bride, and Jeanne believed that for Antoine at least there was only one woman who interested him – his wife. Then she felt as though her heart would burst with its burden of pride and happiness. It was fifteen years ago when, at the christening of this Dauphin, Jeanne had fallen in love with the man who was now her husband.
Jeanne knew suddenly that she wished above all things to embrace her husband’s faith and the faith of his family; she wished to lead a good and serious life.
This was a solemn moment for Jeanne. She did not hear the Cardinal of Bourbon make Francis and Mary husband and wife; nor was she aware of the celebration of mass. Later at the wedding banquet she was absent-minded; and when the party left the episcopal palace for Les Tournelles she was still thoughtful.
Now came the climax of her content. The mummers had come into the great hall; and when their entertainment was over the royal children, with those of the family of Guise, rode on hobby horses with back-cloths of gold and silver, and they attached their horses to little coaches while they sang, in their sweet, piping voices, praise to the virtue and beauty of the married pair. Then came the joyful surprise. Into the ballroom were brought six galleons, rolled and tossed by means of ropes which were hidden from sight; and in each galleon sat a Prince, and each Prince sprang from his galleon to choose a lady to be his companion. The Dauphin, naturally enough, chose his bride; but to the delight of Jeanne and the astonishment of everyone, Antoine de Bourbon carried off none other than his own wife; and he was the only Prince, apart from the Dauphin, to do this.
This was a matter for comment, laughter and a little envy among the ladies of the court.
As for Jeanne, she sat in her galleon, with Antoine’s arms about her, laughing, reminding him that at this cynical court of France such an action was the last expected of any man who had been a husband for more than a few days.
This was a precious moment which she would remember as long as she lived. She was completely happy; but afterwards she was wont to connect that ride in the galleon with the end of that happy and contented life.
It was just over a year later when, in the château of Nérac, Antoine de Bourbon was making preparations for yet another visit to the court of France. Jeanne was disturbed; she was always disturbed when Antoine left her. She was becoming more and more involved in the Reformed Faith and was deeply concerned at the horrors which were being committed by Catholics and Protestants all over the country. The Prince of Condé, Antoine’s younger brother, and his wife Eléonore, with her relations, the Colignys, were looked upon as the leaders of the Reformed Party; they were powerful, but there were others more powerful than they. There were the Guises, the natural enemies and rivals of the Bourbons.
First there was Francis, the Duke of Guise – insolent, arrogant, brutal, the greatest soldier in France. If the nation in general feared this man, Paris adored him. He was attractive in person, and his successes in battle were admired by his friends and enemies alike. Le Balafré was the most discussed man in France.
Then there was his brother Charles, the Cardinal of Lorraine, who would, Jeanne had said, ‘like to set households by the ears all over France’. Duke Francis was often campaigning and therefore absent from court, and the other Guise brothers were insignificant when compared with the Cardinal of Lorraine. He was clever – the cleverest, the most sly member of his family; amorous in the extreme, he was the handsomest of the Guise brothers, and there was a certain nobility in his features, in spite of his lechery and excesses, which most women found irresistible. He was mean and acquisitive, surrounding himself with luxury and the good things of life, even more than did the English Cardinal Wolsey. He was vain and – extraordinary failing in a Guise – he was a coward.