She stifled the impulse to run to him, to remind him of the happiness they had enjoyed together, the joys of the simple life they had led in the despised courts at Nérac and Pau. Oh God! she thought. Then we were happy. I could have made him happy for ever if I had kept him with me, if they had not made him Lieutenant-General at the court of France, if he had never been important to these unscrupulous seekers after power. But how could this beautiful, elegant creature, who thought more of the line of his coat and the set of his hat than of high politics, how could he resist their flattery, which they would give him as long as they could use him?
She longed for him just as she had in the beginning. She remembered him as a young man at the christening of poor little King Francis. She remembered him in his Spanish galleon at the wedding of King Francis. And now … he had betrayed her, betrayed her both as a wife and as a Queen, betrayed her home and her kingdom.
She must not weaken because she loved him. She held him off.
‘Do not come near me,’ she said. ‘You are despicable. Weak and vain. Look at that hat! I should be ashamed of it if I were you. So that is the new fashion, is it? And so that you may preen yourself and mince about the court like a pretty man, a gallant courtier, you would deceive your wife, you would dare to exchange what is not yours for a worthless island. Let me remind you, Monsieur who call yourself King, let me remind you that you owe your crown to me!’
It was the final insult. Antoine would bear no more. He hated criticism. She had sneered at his elegance, his rank. He could deal with an angry wife, but not with a self-righteous Queen.
He said: ‘I see it is of no use trying to talk calmly to you. You are determined to quarrel, and I refuse to quarrel.’
He bowed elegantly and left her. He went straight to Louise and told her all that had happened. She soothed him, flattered him; and as she caressed him, Antoine’s thoughts went to Jeanne, and it seemed to him that the Spanish Ambassador was right when he had said that it was Jeanne who was standing in his way to greatness. His crown had come to him through her! Well, she should see what the King of Spain thought of her right to that crown.
He embraced Louise, delighting in her youth and beauty. Jeanne was plain in comparison. Louise – La Belle Rouet – one of the most beautiful women in France, adored him and had willingly borne his bastard. And Jeanne could do nothing but sneer at him, and all because he had followed that fashion which was surely perfectly natural to a French nobleman – he had taken a mistress.
Jeanne stayed at the Palais de Condé; Antoine kept to his apartments in the Louvre. He had become a Catholic now, and de Chantonnay was his great friend. The two were always together, and the Guises had warmed towards their old enemy. It was known that Antoine was considering divorcing his wife, for how could a good Catholic remain married to a heretic? Spain and Rome had denounced her as such, and together they had destined her for the stake; but this as yet was kept secret, for it was necessary to get possession of the person of the Queen of Navarre before she could be handed to the Inquisition; and she had many influential friends in France who would help her to avoid capture.
The Huguenots were outraged by Antoine’s conduct, and even the Catholics despised a man who changed his religion for those reasons which all knew to be behind Antoine’s conversion. He was named – slightingly – throughout the country ‘L’Échangeur.’ Condé, it was known, had been false to his wife; the French understood that, and it was only the more austere among the Huguenots who held it against him; but Condé had never denied his faith, nor, he declared, would he ever do so. He was in love with the beautiful Isabelle de Limeuil, but try as she might she could not persuade him to abjure his faith. Condé, like the rest of the Huguenots, was disgusted with his brother.
As for Catherine, she did not know which way to turn. Antoine had alarmed her by changing so easily, but she trusted Condé to remain firm, and while Condé did so he would be able to provide a mighty force to hold the Guises in check.
Jeanne had arrived too late; the Spanish schemes for Antoine had gone too far for her arrival to turn Antoine back to her. Antoine had been too dazzled by the flattering suggestions of de Chantonnay. All the same, Antoine was not unsentimental, and he still had a great affection for his wife; besides, he was a notorious turn-coat. Might it not be possible to reconcile him with Jeanne? The thought of having Mary Stuart in France again was more than Catherine could endure.
Catherine summoned Jeanne to her presence; she wished, she said, to talk of serious matters with her.
They faced each other, the two Queens, each mistrusting the other. Jeanne, her face pale, her eyes cold, successfully managed to hide most of her misery. Whenever she saw Antoine, on his occasional visits to the Palais de Condé, there were quarrels. He sought quarrels. He accused her of heresy and, worst of all, he threatened to take her children from her. She knew that she was in danger and that there were plots afoot concerning her; her friends advised her to leave Paris as soon as she could and make for her own dominions. She could not do this; she could not leave while this unsatisfactory state existed between herself and her husband. She was terrified that if she made preparations to depart he would insist on her leaving her children behind. She saw little of him, for most of his time was spent with his mistress and with his friends of the court. There were occasions when he would appear at the Condés’ home to quarrel with his wife; he would seem sleek, satisfied, smiling secretly as, so Jeanne imagined, he remembered incidents from the previous night’s love-making with his mistress. It was an intolerable position for a proud woman, for a Queen to whom – she never forbore to remind him – he owed his kingdom.
Catherine’s pale features were composed into lines of sympathy. Having herself suffered from the humiliation of watching a husband’s devotion to a mistress, she could guess something of Jeanne’s feelings. But how calm she had been! She had learned how to smile, to feign indifference. Jeanne’s was too frank a nature to be able to hide very successfully what she was feeling.
The foolish Queen of Navarre seemed to think there was some virtue in her frankness; to the Queen Mother of France it looked like sheer folly.
Catherine knew that Jeanne was in acute danger. Not only was she being closely watched by de Chantonnay, but by the Papal Legate, who had arrived in Paris to spy on her and to make plans for her capture if she continued in her heresy. These plans would have to be carefully made and carried out. Jeanne had too many friends for her arrest to be a simple matter. It would have to be carried out by stealth. Both Rome and Spain realised that this outspoken woman was a powerful leader; and one false move on the part of either might bring about much bloodshed and even war.
Catherine knew that Antoine’s chamberlain and his physician were spies of the Legate and that every single action, every word lightly spoken, were reported. But Antoine was not regarded with the respect which was accorded to his wife, and for this reason Jeanne of Navarre was in great peril. If she did not take care, in a short while she would be hearing the crackle of wood at her feet; she would be feeling the flames scorch her flesh before they consumed her.
Catherine was indifferent to Jeanne’s possible sufferings; but she wished to save her from Spain and Rome, for she was sure that a reconciliation between Jeanne and Antoine could help to counteract the power of the Guises as well as the power of Spain.