Jeanne retorted: ‘If you mean, tell him that I am happy here and pleased with my state, that I like to be kept from my parents, then rest assured I shall not have a care. I shall tell no lies.’
In the magnificent hall, the King greeted his niece. This hall brought back memories to Francis; here he, as Duke of Valois, had been betrothed to Claude, the Princess of France; he had not been sure then that he would ever sit on the throne of France. His sister Marguerite, dearest of all women as far as he was concerned, had encouraged him in those days. What would his life have been without Marguerite? He thought of that always when he looked at Marguerite’s daughter; and that meant that he must be fond of the child. He could not help but be fond of her for her own sake, since, with those blunt manners, that directness of speech, she was not without charm; and one grew weary of sycophancy. He wished, though, that Jeanne had inherited a little more of her mother’s beauty. He wished that he did not see in her a resemblance to that sly old villain, her father, the King of Navarre.
She knelt before him and kissed his hand; and his lips twitched. He was remembering the tale Marguerite had told him of how this child had, in a fit of temper, once cut off the heads of the saints in her mother’s tapestry and substituted for them the heads of foxes. That was a crime which had amused both Francis and his sister.
‘Rise, child,’ he said. ‘You are looking well. The air of Plessis agrees with you.’
He watched the flush rise in her cheeks. He enjoyed teasing her.
‘Indeed, Sire, it does not agree with me!’
He was aware of Madame de Silly, trembling in the background, waiting in trepidation for what the child would say next.
‘You surprise me, niece. I was about to congratulate Madame de Silly on your healthy appearance.’
‘The air of Navarre – my native air – would suit me better, Sire.’
‘When you hear the good news I have brought you, you will cease to fret for the air of Navarre. I have ridden over from Amboise with the sole purpose of imparting this news to you. What would you say if I told you I had a husband for you?’
Jeanne caught her breath in horror. ‘A husband … for me, Sire?’
‘I see that you are enchanted. That is well. You are growing up, my darling, and it is time we thought about a match for you. How does it appeal to you – the married state?’
‘Not greatly, Sire. Unless, of course, it were with some great King.’
He frowned, and Aymée trembled. It would seem that Jeanne was daring to refer to the match her father wished for her – an alliance with the man who would one day be King of Spain.
‘You prize yourself highly,’ said Francis coldly.
‘Unless there were great honour in a marriage I should not care for it,’ said Jeanne. ‘Many husbands give honour to women not their wives, so it is necessary for a wife to make a marriage which brings her honour, since she may not receive it from her husband afterwards.’
The King was always pleased with those who amused him; and the precocity of the child reminded him of his sister. His momentary displeasure disappeared, and he laughed aloud.
‘My dearest niece, I have no fear that you will be unable to keep Monsieur le Duc de Clèves under control.’
‘The Duc de Clèves!’ she cried. ‘What … do you mean, Sire?’
‘That he is to be your husband.’
Jeanne forgot the homage she owed to the King, and her mouth hardened. ‘You would give me in marriage to a duke of some small kingdom?’
‘Oh come, child, the Duke of Clèves is not so insignificant as you appear to think. I can see that here in Plessis you do not learn things concerning the outside world. Now, on your knees and thank me for having your welfare so near my heart that I have arranged a match for you.’
‘I fear, Sire,’ she said haughtily, ‘that I cannot thank you for arranging such an alliance for me.’
Madame de Silly stepped forward; the noblemen who had accompanied the King waited in dismay for him to express his anger. But it did not come; instead, he turned to them smiling.
‘Leave me alone with my niece,’ he said. ‘I think it necessary for us two to have a talk together.’
They, with Aymée and Jeanne’s attendants, bowed and retired.
Jeanne – terrified, though nothing would have made her admit that this was the case, and humiliated by her uncle’s suggestion – tossed her head to convey that whatever the consequences of her boldness, she did not care.
When they were alone, the King said: ‘Sit at my feet. That is right. Lean your head against me.’
He caressed her hair and, as she smelt the faint perfume of musk and Russia leather which clung to his clothes, she thought she would hate those scents as long as she lived.
‘It grieves me, Jeanne,’ he said, ‘that I should be the cause of unhappiness to you. As you know, your mother is dearer to me than any living person; and because you are her daughter, I love you also. But, my child, it is not for us of royal blood to question the alliances which are made for us. As you are a sensible girl, you must know that. You are right to have your decided views and to show no fear in expressing them. I would not have it otherwise. But you know also that it is your duty to obey your King. You have nothing to fear. The Duke will be enchanted with you, and he is not without good looks.’
‘Sire, am I not too young for marriage?’
‘Nay. You are twelve years of age … old enough for a princess to marry.’
‘But could I not have some choice in the matter?’
‘Dear child, that is a privilege which is denied us, and you must console yourself that one husband is very like another. If you start with passion, you lose it quickly. And, dear Jeanne, marriage need not be an obstacle to the pursuit of passion. Moreover, happiness is sometimes found outside marriage, if it is not granted within. You are wise beyond your years, and I can see that I may talk to you as I do to your mother.’
‘But … the Duke of Clèves! You promised me your son Henry.’
‘Ah yes; but Henry has a little Italian for his wife … and you would not have liked Henry.’
‘I liked him well enough.’
‘As a cousin. Not as a husband. He is gauche and scarcely speaks. He is unfaithful to his wife. Poor Catherine! She is pleasant enough, but he spends all his time with Diane de Poitiers. You would not like Henry as a husband, my dear.’
‘It might be that if he had had a French princess for a wife instead of that Italian woman, he would have spent more time with her.’
‘You have been listening to gossip. So it reaches Plessis, then? Nay! Henry pledged himself to Madame Diane years ago; and he is faithful – dull and faithful. Do not regret Henry. And now, because I respect your courage, I am going to tell you why this marriage must be. There is trouble all about us, my little Jeanne. My Constable has been pursuing a policy which is not to my taste. I am sad to think that he works for Henry the Dauphin more than for Francis the King. You see, like you, I have my sorrows. The Emperor Charles has given the Milanese to his son Philip, and I am angry because the Milanese should be mine. You are too young for these politics, but you must try to understand. It is necessary for me to show my displeasure to Spain, and I want you to help me to do this through your marriage with this man of Clèves, who, in his rebellion against the Emperor, has become my friend. You see, we must keep a balance of power about us, and it is with the marriages of the young members of our family that we can do this. So you will be reasonable; you will agree to this marriage, and you will know that, in doing so, you are serving your King.’
‘Sire, I beg of you, do not use me in this way. You are mighty. You are all-powerful. You can subdue your enemies without my help’